Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt (9 page)

“We aren’t poor.” Sylvia pulled the quilt up to her chin. “We’re a lot better off than most people, especially the families who live in town. We’ll always get by as long as we have the farm.”

“That’s true. Daddy can always sell some of the land.”

“That’s not what I meant. We have the farm and the orchards and our home. We’ll never starve and we’ll always have a roof over our heads. That’s all we need.”

“Everyone needs money, even if they own a farm. We have to pay taxes and buy the things we can’t make or grow.” Claudia spread her glossy brown curls in a fan on her pillow to keep her hair free of snarls, as she did every night. She slept on her back and in the morning her hair would still be spread out obediently, without the smallest tangle. Sylvia could never figure out how Claudia managed to keep still all night, while Sylvia always woke tangled in the bed sheets.

“I don’t mean sell all of the land,” Claudia added. “We would never sell the manor and leave us without a home. But Daddy will sell the land if he has to. I know I would.”

Anger stirred within Sylvia. “It’s a good thing Elm Creek Manor will never be yours to sell.”

She rolled over on her side and folded her pillow around her head, her back to her sister. Claudia was a fool, a silly little fool. The farm sustained their family. The land took care of the Bergstroms as much as they took care of the land. Their father knew this. Every Bergstrom with an ounce of sense understood that implicitly, just as they understood the necessity of air to breathe and food to eat. How Claudia could so blithely contemplate selling off Bergstrom land filled Sylvia with equal parts astonishment and anger.

Christmas morning dawned gray and cold. Snow had fallen overnight, and the dense clouds gave a twilight cast to the morning air, but the weather had not prevented Santa from coming. Sylvia forgot her frustration with her sister and her worries about their neighbors in the particular happiness that was Christmas morning. Santa had come. He had forgiven her the innumerable acts of naughtiness she had committed throughout the year and had placed her on his good list, a surer sign of his love and his faith in her potential than an accurate evaluation of her behavior. She could even be happy for Claudia, who had received the china doll she had longed for. Little Richard had found a wooden train beneath the tree and was happily pushing it around in circles on the floor. Sylvia received a sewing basket of her very own, exactly like her mother’s except for the color—a cheerful pine instead of dark cherry wood.

“Santa must have seen you helping me with the Christmas Quilt,” her mother remarked. “He must have decided you needed scissors and needles of your own.”

Sylvia would have been content with that one gift, but just then her father peered curiously into the branches of the tree. “What’s that?” he asked, gesturing.

“I don’t see anything,” said Claudia, “just a bit of paper. Maybe it fell from Sylvia’s angel. The wings have always been loose. She didn’t use enough paste.”

Sylvia glared at Claudia before remembering that Santa might already be watching and taking notes for next year.

Her father shook his head, puzzled. “It’s a bit of paper, all right, but look up to the higher branches. The wings of Sylvia’s angel are right where they belong. Sylvia, will you see what it is?”

Sylvia closed her sewing basket and set it aside. She rose on tiptoe and reached into the tree where a small bit of white was visible through the branches and needles. It was a piece of heavy writing paper, folded over and sealed with a spot of red wax. Her own name was written in fancy script upon it.

“It’s a letter, I think,” she said. “To me.”

“A letter?” Sylvia’s mother glanced at her father, surprised. “Who is it from?”

“Santa?” joked Uncle William.

“Who else would have left a surprise in our Christmas tree?” said Sylvia’s father. “Read it aloud, Sylvia. Tell us what old St. Nick has to say for himself.”

Quickly Sylvia broke the seal and unfolded the paper. “‘Dear Sylvia,’” she read. “‘I hope you like the sewing basket I left for you. I trust you weren’t too disappointed that I could not bring you all the toys you wanted. I’m sure you know that folks have fallen on hard times in your part of the world. This year I had to fill up my sleigh with food and clothes as well as toys for all those good little children who don’t have warm homes and plenty to eat, like you and your sister and brother do. Unfortunately, my sleigh was too heavy for my reindeer to pull, so I had to leave a few bags of toys back at the North Pole. I will do my best to bring them next year, but you’re such a generous, kind little girl that I know you’ll understand.’”

“He can’t be talking about Sylvia,” interrupted Claudia. “I think he put her name on there by mistake.”

“Claudia,” admonished their mother.

Sylvia ignored her sister and read on. “‘I know you won’t miss those toys when you find out what a special present I’ve planned for you to receive soon. I couldn’t bring it on my sleigh and it wouldn’t fit under the tree. I know you’ll take very good care of it because you’re so helpful to your mother and your great-aunts, and because you take such loving care of your little brother.’”

“Now I know he got our names mixed up,” declared Claudia.

“Claudia, hush,” said their father.

“What present wouldn’t fit under a tree?” asked Uncle William, scratching his head. “What’s that jolly old elf talking about? Maybe he’s been sipping too much eggnog.”

Claudia giggled, but Sylvia kept reading. “‘I’m sure you know Blossom is due to have her foal soon. You tell your father that I said you get to have that foal for your very own horse.’” Sylvia stopped reading and looked up at her father.

“Go on,” her mother prompted. “This has suddenly become quite interesting.”

“I’ll say,” said Uncle William.

Sylvia took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “‘I know you’ll take very good care of your horse and that you will make me very proud. Until next year, I remain very truly yours, Santa Claus. P.S.: Merry Christmas!’” She gulped and looked from her mother to her father. “Can he do that? Can he make you give me one of the horses for my very own?”

Her father shrugged. “Who am I to argue with Santa Claus? If he thinks you’re ready to join the family business, I’m going to trust his judgment.”

“Why is Sylvia the only one who gets a horse?” protested Claudia.

Their mother turned to her. “Why, Claudia, do you want a horse?”

Claudia’s mouth worked in a scowl. “No,” she grumbled.

“Santa probably knows you’re scared of horses,” reasoned Sylvia. “And you got the doll and all those clothes. And Richard’s too little to take care of a horse. So it’s just me. Daddy, can we go see Blossom right now?”

“After breakfast,” her father promised.

Sylvia had almost forgotten that breakfast would include the strudel she and Claudia had helped her mother make. She knew it was the same one because she had pinched an edge of the pastry just so, wanting to be sure she would recognize it later. To her relief, it was as flavorful and flaky as those her grandmother had made. Everyone around the table said so.

After breakfast, Sylvia went with her father and uncle to the stables. She greeted Blossom gently, fed her a special Christmas treat of oats and apples, and promised always to take very good care of her little foal.

The snow fell heavily throughout the day, keeping away visitors who had not arrived on Christmas Eve. It was a smaller, quieter Christmas than in years past, and the older members of the family spoke wistfully of loved ones who had passed on, how they would have admired the tree, enjoyed the girls’ first strudel, and marveled at the letter from Santa Claus. Later that day, Sylvia’s mother sent the girls off to collect clothing and toys in good repair to give to the less fortunate. This became another Bergstrom tradition, and when prosperity returned, their gifts became more generous—new clothes and toys instead of old, sacks of groceries for the food pantry, checks to the soup kitchen the students of Waterford College established near campus. In years to come, Sylvia was pleased to think that so much had come from her mother’s compassionate insistence that they must give more than what they thought they could afford, and if they did, they would surprise themselves with the unsuspected depths of their good fortune.

A few months later, when Blossom’s foal was born, Sylvia named her Dresden Rose after one of her mother’s favorite quilt blocks. The gentle horse provided Sylvia with the comfort of a loyal friend as her mother’s health waned. A day arrived when Eleanor no longer had the strength to come downstairs to the parlor to sit and quilt and fondly watch over her children. Then she no longer left her bedroom at all.

Once, in the night, Sylvia heard her mother weeping. She stole from bed and listened at her parents’ door, and as she listened she learned that her mother wept not because she could not bear the physical pain, but because she did not believe she would live to see her children grow up. What grieved her most of all was that Richard was so young, he was not likely to remember her, to remember how dearly she had loved him.

For once, Sylvia regretted eavesdropping on her elders. She crept back to bed and cried into her pillow until she fell asleep.

Eleanor Bergstrom died before the end of summer. She was laid to rest in the Bergstrom plot of their church’s small cemetery. Her father dug up a lilac bush from Eleanor’s favorite place on the estate and replanted it near her grave, so that in springtime she would once again be near the fragrant blossoms that had brought her so much pleasure.

The first Christmas of what came to be known as the Great Depression was Eleanor’s last. For Sylvia, no Christmas that followed was ever as joyful or as blessed as those that lived on in her memory, when her family was whole, when she was a child loved by a mother.

“If I could have just one more day with my mother,” said Sylvia. “Just one more day to quilt with her, to taste the meals she prepared with such love, to tell her-oh, I would have so much to tell her. And your mother is just a few hours’ drive away, and you cannot even pick up the phone and invite her to come for Christmas. I tell you, Sarah, someday you are going to regret not making that call.”

Sarah gaped at her, her hand frozen in the act of shelving a box of dehydrated potatoes in the pantry. “I’ll call her,” she said when she found her voice. “If I had known how much it meant to you, I would have done it earlier.”

“Don’t do it for my sake but for your own,” said Sylvia, an ache of longing catching in her throat.

S
YLVIA LEFT
S
ARAH
alone in the kitchen. On her way out, she passed Matt carrying the CD player back to the kitchen. “Tell Sarah not to disappoint me,” she told him firmly. She would leave it up to Sarah whether to explain what she meant.

Sylvia crossed the marble foyer, still gaily strewn with Christmas decorations, and climbed the grand oak staircase to her bedroom on the second floor. If Carol accepted her daughter’s invitation—and why would she not?-they would need to finish decking the manor’s halls at record speed. Now Sylvia regretted her earlier strategic interference in Sarah’s decorating, and she had half a mind to hurry back downstairs and send the young couple out for a tree that minute—but rather than risk interrupting Sarah’s phone call, she would wait.

They would have a tree up soon enough, and it would be fitting to have a present for Carol beneath it. Sarah and Matt had likely mailed her gifts already. Carol would not be expecting anything else, and certainly, the hope and joy of the season manifest in her daughter’s invitation would be gift enough. But even so, Sylvia would like to give Carol something herself. She had recently finished a blue-and-white Hunter’s Star quilt that she had intended to sell on commission at Grandma’s Attic, Waterford’s only quilt shop; it would make a lovely gift. If Sarah kept to her promise to call her mother, with any luck, Carol would be there to unwrap it Christmas morning.

Sylvia found a box for the Hunter’s Star quilt and wrapped it in cheerful red-and-white striped paper, and then attended to Sarah and Matt’s gifts. For Matt she had purchased a set of gardener’s tools he had admired in a catalog; for Sarah, she had chosen a wheeled art cart with three drawers full of notions and gadgets guaranteed to thrill the heart of any quilter. Matt had helped her assemble it, but Sylvia had packed the drawers herself, arranging the acrylic rulers and rotary cutters just so. It was no mean feat to wrap the contraption, and after some early thwarted attempts to conceal the entire cart, she decided to cover only the sides and the top and to leave the wheeled underside alone. Sarah would not mind.

Sylvia was nearly finished when she heard the phone ring down the hall in the library.
Carol
, she thought. She must have been away from the phone when Sarah called and was returning her message. Sylvia continued wrapping gifts, allowing Sarah the opportunity to answer. But the ringing continued uninterrupted until it was abruptly silenced when the answering machine picked up. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” grumbled Sylvia, hurrying to the library while the outgoing message played. She snatched up the phone just before the beep. “Good morning. Elm Creek Quilts.”

“Good morning, Sylvia.” The caller’s voice was difficult to make out over the background of children’s shrieks and laughter. “It’s Agnes.”

“Why, hello, dear.” Sylvia sat down behind the large oak desk. “It sounds like you have a houseful.”

“That’s an understatement. I don’t know who’s causing more commotion, the five grandchildren or the four parents trying to settle them down.”

“At least with you there the children don’t have the adults outnumbered.” Sylvia winced at the sound of glass shattering. “What was that?”

“Nothing, just a bowl.” Agnes’s voice became muffled, as if she had covered the mouthpiece. “Sweetie, stay off the kitchen floor until Grandma cleans that up. You have bare feet.”

“Is there anything I can do? Do you need some spare quilts or pillows? Or perhaps a rescue squad?”

“No, we’re all fine here. A little cramped, but we’ll manage. I’d rather be crowded than alone on Christmas, wouldn’t you?”

“That depends,” said Sylvia. She would be happier alone if it meant Sarah was en route to her mother’s.

“Oh, Sylvia. I don’t buy that for a minute. Even you want company at Christmas. Which brings me to the point. Are you going to be home later this afternoon? I wanted to stop by and wish you a Merry Christmas in person.”

Sylvia smiled at her sister-in-law’s poorly disguised hint that she wanted to drop off Sylvia’s Christmas present. “I don’t have any plans to go out. Stop by anytime. Bring the grandkids.”

“Thanks, but we’re trying to contain this hurricane. It will just be me and one of my girls.”

They made plans for her visit, and Sylvia hung up the phone, disappointed. Her invitation to the children was sincere, as much for herself as for Agnes. She missed the sounds of children playing in Elm Creek Manor, running through the halls and thundering up and down the stairs the way she and her siblings and cousins had done.

Perhaps next year.

Sylvia returned to her room. After wrapping her gifts and fixing the bows and tags in place, Sylvia went downstairs to the foyer, where the decorating had apparently made little progress since the last time she had passed through. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Sarah was finally on the phone with her mother, making arrangements for her visit, offering driving directions, assuring her she did not need to bring anything for Christmas dinner the next day. Smiling, Sylvia found herself humming carols as she unpacked a box of red velvet ribbons of varying widths. She and Claudia had used them to tie up boughs of greenery they gathered from the strand of pines beyond the orchard. Perhaps she could send Matthew out to cut some before he and Sarah went searching for a tree. The Bergstroms had loved to put evergreen branches throughout the manor—on fireplace mantels, above mirrors and picture frames, everywhere that a touch of green and the scent of pine would make a room more festive. Claudia had liked to set candles among them; the effect was lovely, especially on a snowy night.

Sylvia added a few last touches to the foyer and decided that fresh greenery was all she needed to make the room complete. She went to the front parlor and rapped softly on the door before entering, but Sarah was not on the phone. Sylvia headed for the kitchen, quickening her pace. It was not necessarily a bad sign that the phone call had ended so soon. Perhaps they had needed only a few minutes to make Carol’s arrangements.

From the hallway outside the kitchen, Sylvia heard the familiar clatter of a sewing machine. Frowning, she strode into the west sitting room and discovered Sarah bent over Sylvia’s Featherweight sewing machine, stitching Eleanor’s holly sprays to a row of Lucinda’s Feathered Stars. Matthew was nowhere to be seen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” exclaimed Sylvia.

Sarah looked up, startled. “I’m working on the Christmas Quilt. What’s wrong? Did you want me to sew by hand in-stead?”

“What I wanted was for you to call your mother.”

“I did call her,” said Sarah, indignant. “I told you I would, and I did.”

“And?”

“And we talked. She received the gifts Matt and I sent. The sweater fits but she doesn’t like the color, so she’s going to exchange it.”

Exasperated, Sylvia nearly shouted, “Is she coming to visit or isn’t she?”

“No.” Sarah busied herself with pinning a seam. “She thanked you for the invitation, but she had already made other plans. The neighbors across the street invited her to celebrate with their family. They always have a big crowd, and my mom’s known them for years. She’ll have a good time.”

Sylvia raised a hand to her brow and sighed, defeated. If only she had thought to ask Sarah to invite her mother weeks ago. Next year, she would remember. Or better yet, she would ask Carol and make all the arrangements herself. Sarah needn’t know of it until her mother walked through the front door, suitcase in hand. Let Sarah try to wriggle out of talking to her mother then!

Sarah studied her, curious. “Just this morning you insisted you wanted a quiet Christmas all alone, and now you’re the picture of despair because my mother turned down a last-minute invitation. I don’t get it, Sylvia.”

Wasn’t it obvious? All Sylvia wanted for Christmas was a peaceful exchange between two stubborn women, a few cautious but determined steps toward reconciliation. Carol had reached out by inviting Sarah home, but Sarah had rebuffed her, and now she seemed relieved—cheerful, even—that her mother was not coming.

“At least you tried,” said Sylvia, doubting her young friend had extended the invitation graciously. “Maybe next year.”

“No, next year it’s Matt’s father’s turn.”

“But you skipped your mother’s turn.”

“No,
she
skipped it. She doesn’t get a do-over.”

“My goodness, Sarah, this is your relationship with your mother we’re talking about, not a game of Parcheesi. No wonder your mother declined, if you invited her this grudgingly.”

Sarah’s cheeks flushed. “If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t side with my mother. If you could see for yourself how she treats Matt, you’d understand why I don’t want to force him to endure her company.”

“It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“You’re right. It’s worse. Matt is a wonderful man and he loves me, but my mother thinks I’ve married beneath myself because he’s not some white collar professional. She refuses to believe he’s anything more than a maintenance man. And even if he were, what’s wrong with that? Having a blue collar job doesn’t make you a bad husband any more than working in an office cubicle guarantees you’ll be a good one.”

Though her loyalties were to Sarah and Matt, Sylvia tried to look at the situation from Carol’s point of view. Sarah and Matt had met as students at Penn State, where Sarah earned a bachelor’s degree in accounting and Matt in landscape architecture. Upon graduating, Sarah found a position as a cost accountant for a local convenience store chain in State College, while Matt was promoted to a full-time position from his former part-time job working on the Penn State campus. Unfortunately, Matt lost his job when the state legislature slashed the university’s budget, and when his search for another position in State College proved fruitless, he looked farther afield, to Waterford. In agreeing to the move for Matt’s sake, Sarah had admittedly taken a risk in sacrificing her secure position and steady income, but it was a tedious and uninspiring job, and she had been glad to be free of it. Their gamble had paid off in a multitude of ways, but parents tended to be cautious where their children were concerned, and perhaps Sarah and Matt had taken too many risks with their careers for Carol’s taste.

Sylvia tried to shed a positive light on Carol’s concerns. “She probably only needs reassurance that he will be a good provider. Many parents believe that no one is good enough to marry their children.”

“I’m not going to forward copies of his pay stubs just to appease her,” Sarah declared. “It wouldn’t help anyway. She’s so convinced he’ll never amount to anything that she twists his every achievement into a sign of his imminent failure. When he received his degree at Penn State, she started calling him ‘that gardener.’ When he accepted the job that brought us to Waterford, she carried on about how he was dragging me off to the middle of nowhere and ruining my career. When he switched jobs to work as your caretaker, she sent me a three page letter warning me about the dangers of allowing our incomes to be dependent upon the whims of an old woman.”

Sylvia sucked in a breath. “She said that?”

“And much more, from the day I first told her we were dating. Sylvia, I know you think I’ve stayed away out of petulance or spite, but that’s not it. I can’t forgive my mother for the cruel things she’s said about the man I love, and I’m keeping them apart so she can’t hurt him.” Sarah frowned and fingered one of the Feathered Stars. “Until she can promise to treat my husband with respect, I don’t want to share the same room with her.”

Sylvia sat down heavily on her chair—then rose quickly and moved the forgotten book to the side table. “I had no idea it was as bad as all that. I thought you were—”

“Exaggerating?”

Sylvia nodded.

Sarah let out a short laugh, empty of humor. “I knew it. Believe me, the opposite is true. I could tell you stories—Okay. Here’s one, just to give you a taste. Matt and I had been married for about two years when we spent Christmas with my mother for the first time. Do you know what she had under the tree? Season tickets to the Pittsburgh Steelers for her then-boyfriend, a gorgeous Italian leather briefcase for me, and do you know what she had for Matt?”

Sylvia muffled a sigh. “I dare not hazard a guess.”

“A fruitcake.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“It’s true! A fruitcake in a tin shaped like Santa’s work-shop.”

“Well—” Sylvia struggled for a positive interpretation. “Why not? It’s a holiday favorite. I bet it was a very good fruit-cake.”

“That’s a bet you would lose. It was the exact same fruitcake she had received as a gift from the hospital board of directors five years before. All of the nurses get something from the same mail order company each year. She probably thought I forgot, but I didn’t.”

“It seems odd that she would save a fruitcake so long,” said Sylvia. “How can you be certain she didn’t buy it for Matt that year because the one she had received from the hospital was so delicious?”

Sarah gave her a look that said,
because I’m not stupid
. “It came sealed in plastic with a very visible ‘Use Before’ date stamped on it.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I was so proud of Matt. He thanked my mom and actually looked pleased that she had given him something. I think maybe he really was.”

“Well,” said Sylvia weakly, “it is the thought that counts.”

“Exactly! What was she thinking, giving him stale fruitcake? It wasn’t even edible. Compare that to the expensive gifts she bought for me and her then-boyfriend. It would have been better if she had given us nothing.”

“Well—” Sylvia did not know how to defend Carol, and she was no longer sure she wanted to. “I imagine you confronted your mother.”

“Not really. I merely trapped her in her own deceit. On Christmas Day, with all the relatives present, I suggested that we serve the fruitcake with coffee for dessert. I took it into the kitchen and sawed off a few slices and set them on a nice serving plate. My mother hovered over me the entire time making a fuss about how she had already made a pecan pie and she didn’t want it to go to waste and how I really should have let Matt take the fruitcake home. Later, when her then-boyfriend took a piece from the buffet, she swooped in and snatched his plate before he could break a tooth. Fortunately, no one else took a piece or she would have been grabbing plates left and right for the rest of the day. I don’t know what happened to the tin. Before we left the next morning, I asked my mother for it, saying that I wanted to use it to store Christmas cards. She said it was in the dishwasher but she couldn’t open the door in the middle of the cycle, so she would mail it to us. Of course she never did.”