Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (14 page)

“Then I agree.”

Elizabeth pulled the worn quilt over herself and sank into a sleep of pure exhaustion, knowing that she had bought herself only a few months at best. As relieved as she was to know the haven of Two Bears Farm and Elm Creek Manor awaited them and that she would only have to endure the ramshackle cabin for a little while, she refused to set one foot on an eastbound train without Henry at her side.

1898

Rosa was born within a week of Isabel and Miguel’s first anniversary. Carlos followed two years later. Money was tight, but Isabel was used to that. Miguel was so kind and good-natured that even the worst days, when the children were tired and cranky and she felt that it was all she could do to keep the house clean and get food on the table, she was happy.

But as the children grew, Miguel’s wages stretched thinner and thinner over the costs of raising a family. Sometimes Isabel’s father gave them money, but she did not tell Miguel, who would have been too proud to accept it. Sometimes they stayed up late talking about how to get ahead, how to save up enough money to set aside for the future, but they already lived as frugally as they could.

In the summer when Rosa turned eight, Miguel came home for supper and announced that he had taken a second job. Isabel was torn. She would be grateful for the extra money when it came time to buy school clothes for the children, but she remembered how her father had worked such long hours that he hardly came home except to eat and sleep. She did not want that for her family.

Miguel quickly assured her that this would be only a short-term job, three weeks or so, just long enough to earn something to put away for a rainy day. “As soon as the apricot harvest is over, I’ll be back to my usual hours.”

Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. “You signed on to help with the apricot harvest? At the Jorgensen farm?”

She could not bear to call it El Rancho Triunfo anymore, even though her father still did. Every other Rodriguez did, but not Isabel. El Rancho Triunfo was gone. It has ceased to exist the day her family had been forced to leave the land.

“It’s good money, Isabel.”

“I don’t care if it’s good money. It’s
their
money, and I want no part of it.”

“Isabel—” Miguel spread his hands, half smiling, half pleading, as if he could not quite believe that she meant it. “Think of what we could do with those wages.

Isabel had thought of it. It would be so easy to tell him to take the job, take their money, and pretend she was not betraying her family, betraying every ancestor back to the great-great-grandfather whose courage and service to a king had earned him that land. But she hardened her heart against temptation and thought of her mother, on her deathbed, refusing the medicines that would have saved her life. Isabel had not understood her mother’s choice then, but time had taught her well.

She took a deep breath and locked her gaze with Miguel’s. “I will not have you going to them, hat in hand.”

Her appeal to his pride failed. “It’s a job, not charity. You’re making our children pay for a feud that should have ended long ago.”

“This is no simple grudge,” snapped Isabel. “The Jorgensens cost my family our dignity and our livelihood. They cost my mother her life.”

“Your father tells me the Jorgensens bought the ranch fairly,” said Miguel. “Your family did not have to sell. The Jorgensens bought drought-stricken land at the best price they could get. They didn’t know the rains would fall two months later any more than your family did. They took a chance and won.”

“They took advantage of us when we were desperate. My father and grandfather only sold the land because they thought they could earn enough to buy it back someday, when the land value dropped lower.”

She could not continue. Miguel already knew how the family had struggled for so long just to make ends meet. Saving enough money to buy back the ranch had been nothing but a wistful dream, an impossible promise they had made to themselves to ease their parting. Once they had sold the land, they had lost any chance of ever again calling El Rancho Triunfo their home.

Unlike the Jorgensens, the Rodriguezes had taken a chance and lost.

As Miguel watched her soberly, Isabel struggled to regain her composure. “I don’t make demands of you, but in this matter, I must have my way. If you want to take on a second job, do so, but not this job. Not this job. Not for them. Not ever.”

After a long moment, Miguel sighed. “I’ll do as you ask. I’ll find another job. But I want you to remember something,
querida.
Bitterness and hatred can kill you as surely as cancer does. Think of your mother and remember that.”

1925

E
lizabeth dreamed she was on safari on the African savannah, armed only with a pair of sewing shears and a broom. She had lost sight of Henry. Calling out his name as she pushed her way through the long grasses, she stopped short at the sound of a low growl. Heart pounding, she whirled around but saw nothing. When the grass rustled on her left, she broke into a run. Suddenly a roar sounded in her ear, she felt hot, moist breath upon her neck—

She bolted awake, clutching the worn quilt and gasping. Beyond the filthy window, dawn had not yet broken and mists hung over the yard in an eerie calm. She shook Henry awake. “Did you hear that?” she said.

“Hear what?” he mumbled, rolling over onto his side.

“That roar. It sounded like a lion. It woke me up.” Elizabeth took a deep breath to clear her head. “Are there lions in California?”

“No, sweetheart.” Henry yawned and sat up. “You must have been dreaming.”

“What about mountain lions? Maybe it was a mountain lion. Or a bobcat.”

“It was a dream.” Henry bent down to pick up his watch from the floor beside his shoes. “It’s ten minutes after five. I’ll have to hurry or I’ll be late.”

Elizabeth’s visions of Africa fled and she flung back the covers with a moan of dismay. She washed and dressed as well as she could manage at the kitchen pump, the cold water shocking her awake. She and Henry hurried to the yellow farmhouse together but parted at the door with a quick kiss, Henry striding off to the barn, Elizabeth darting into the kitchen, where Mrs. Jorgensen and Mary Katherine had already begun breakfast.

“You’re late,” said Mrs. Jorgensen. “Didn’t the rooster wake you?”

“Something woke me, but it was no rooster.” Elizabeth snatched from its hook the apron Mrs. Jorgensen had lent her the previous day. “Are there mountain lions living in the hills?”

“I doubt you heard a mountain lion,” said Mary Katherine cheerfully, setting the table. “That was probably Charlie.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“Charlie is a fourteen-year-old African lion.” Mrs. Jorgensen motioned for Elizabeth to take her place at the stove. “Fry these potato pancakes until they’re golden brown, no more.”

Dumbfounded, Elizabeth took the spatula. “An African lion is stalking the Arboles Valley?”

“Of course not,” said Mary Katherine. “He’s in a pen. Except when his trainer brings him into the ring for a performance.”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, relieved. “You mean he’s a circus lion.”

“Not at all. Charlie’s a movie star.”

“Retired movie star,” Mrs. Jorgensen corrected. “A few years ago, an animal trainer from Hollywood bought land in the Arboles Valley for a lion farm, where he could raise lions and other wild animals and train them to be in the pictures. I believe they have six lions now, as well as other big cats, some camels, and bears. George Hanneman and his family put on shows on the weekends. I’ve never gone, but it’s become quite a popular tourist attraction. Until those housing developments came, Safari World was the only reason anyone from Los Angeles visited the Arboles Valley.”

Her tone suggested that, unlike Mrs. Diegel, she did not approve of the new construction. “I’ve heard that the developments will bring greater prosperity to the valley,” Elizabeth offered.

“I can’t imagine where you heard that,” scoffed Mrs. Jorgensen. “The only folks who will prosper from these developments are the developers. They name those rows and rows of identical houses after the things they tear down and dig up to build them. In a decade, we’ll look just like every other valley between here and Los Angeles: acres of cement and stucco where green growing things once flourished. Meadowbrook Hills and Oakwood Glen, indeed.”

Mary Katherine sighed. “Now, Mother Jorgensen—”

“Don’t ‘Mother Jorgensen’ me. I know you have your heart set on more neighbors so you can widen your social circle, but you should not put your own interests above those of future generations.”

Mary Katherine planted a fist on her hip. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Water. There won’t be enough for all of those newcomers.”

“But they aren’t farmers. They aren’t dependent upon rain for their livelihoods. We’ve always had enough water before.”

“Not in drought years,” said Mrs. Jorgensen. “We’ve had enough for the family and livestock, true, but that’s because we have one well for one hundred twenty acres. What if we had one well for each acre?”

Mary Katherine considered that, then shrugged and turned back to her work. “I don’t think it will be as bad as you say.”

“Maybe you’re right, but if I had my choice, I’d rather have lions and panthers for neighbors.”

Elizabeth wished she had not brought up the subject. She flipped the potato pancakes, which sizzled in the skillet and gave off an aroma that made her mouth water. “Are you ever afraid, with so many dangerous animals so near?”

“Charlie’s loud voice is deceiving,” said Mrs. Jorgensen. “Safari World is about four miles to the southwest.”

“None of the animals has ever gotten loose,” Mary Katherine reassured her. “Although there are rumors that a panther escaped years ago and now lives in the hills on the eastern edge of our farm. Whenever sheep or calves go missing, the rumors fly.”

“Stirred up by the boys who were supposed to be watching the livestock, no doubt.” Mrs. Jorgensen bustled between the oven and the table with platters of food as the men came in to eat. “It’s more likely that the missing sheep and calves fell into the canyon when the boys weren’t paying attention.”

Mary Katherine touched Elizabeth on the arm in passing. “The shows at Safari World are lots of fun. The girls and I will take you someday, all right?”

Elizabeth agreed with a quick smile and carried the platter of steaming potato pancakes to the table as Oscar Jorgensen sat down. He and the men were more talkative than the previous day, planning the day’s work as they ate. When they had nearly finished, Mrs. Jorgensen said that she had some letters to mail and wondered if Oscar could spare someone to take them to the post office.

“I’ll let you know after lunch,” Oscar promised his mother. “We’ll see how the day goes.”

“Lars could take your letters for you,” remarked Mary Katherine.

“I’m sure Lars is too busy,” said Mrs. Jorgensen.

Lars continued eating, apparently unconcerned. “I’m not too busy.”

“Why shouldn’t Lars go?” asked Oscar.

Mrs. Jorgensen looked at him as if surprised he would ask such a question. “He’s your foreman. You need him here.”

“This time of year, I need everyone.”

Mrs. Jorgensen waved a hand dismissively. “You’re right, of course. My letters can wait for another day, when I can take them myself.”

“I’d be happy to take them for you, Mother,” said Lars mildly.

“Well, you’re not going alone,” said Mrs. Jorgensen, a fine, sharp edge to her voice.

“I’ll go,” said Mary Katherine. “I could use an outing.”

Her mother-in-law shook her head. “Not you. I can’t spare you today.”

“Can you spare her?” asked Lars, nodding to Elizabeth. “We could leave your letters at the post office and then go by the Grand Union to pick up the Nelsons’ things. They stored most of their luggage with Mrs. Diegel.”

Annalise looked up at Elizabeth in awe. “You stayed at the Grand Union Hotel?”

Elizabeth nodded, aware of everyone’s eyes upon her.

“Was it pretty?” asked Annalise. “Daddy took me to lunch in the dining room on my last birthday but I’ve never been upstairs.”

“It was lovely.” Elizabeth felt a tug of longing for the clean, soft bed she had considered too narrow, the china pitcher and wash-bowl, the crisp, fresh sheets. What she wouldn’t give for them now.

Mrs. Jorgensen gave her a speculative look, then nodded to Lars. “Very well. After lunch, if Oscar doesn’t need you elsewhere, you and Elizabeth may go. Elizabeth, I hope you packed an alarm clock with your things. When I say be here at five o’clock sharp, I mean not a minute later.”

Elizabeth pretended not to notice how Henry bristled at Mrs. Jorgensen’s tone. “I do have an alarm clock, actually. It was a wedding present from my sister.”

“Odd sort of wedding present,” one of the hired hands said.

“Not from a concerned older sister,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “This isn’t the first time I’ve overslept.”

Several of the men chuckled. Elizabeth glanced at Henry and was dismayed to see him frowning at Mrs. Jorgensen. Fortunately, the older woman’s attention was still on her sons, and she did not notice the dark looks the newest hired hand shot her way.

After breakfast, Elizabeth and Annalise tidied the kitchen together. Annalise kept up a cheerful patter as they worked, telling Elizabeth about the farm, her many pets, and so many cousins and aunts and uncles that Elizabeth had no hope of keeping them straight.

“I can tell you have a close family,” said Elizabeth when Annalise paused for breath. She thought wistfully of the family she had left behind in Pennsylvania. “Your grandmother likes to keep you near, doesn’t she?”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t even want your uncle Lars to leave the farm for a simple errand.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that.” Annalise carefully swept the kitchen floor.

“He goes on errands all the time. Nana just doesn’t like him to go to the post office.”

Elizabeth smothered a laugh. “Why not? What’s wrong with the post office?” Then she remembered the curt postmaster. “Or doesn’t your uncle Lars get along with Mr. Barclay?”

“No one really gets along with Mr. Barclay,” Annalise pointed out. “I don’t think that’s it, but I don’t know. I’ve never been to the Barclay farm, either.”

“Never? But they have a girl right around your age.”

“I know. She’s in my class at school. I see her and her sisters there but Nana says I’m not allowed to play with them.”

Elizabeth paused in wiping up a spill on the counter. “Did your grandmother give you a reason?”

“Maybe she thinks we’ll get sick like the Barclay kids.” Annalise opened the kitchen door to sweep the dirt outside. “Did you know that Mrs. Barclay had eight babies and four of them died? They start out okay but they all get sick. Well, not all of them. Marta, the girl my age, she’s never gotten sick. Neither has her little sister, Lupita. But the rest of them all do sooner or later. Don’t you think that’s sad?”

“I can’t imagine anything sadder,” said Elizabeth. Her heart ached for the poor woman with haunted eyes she had met the day before, for the limp child exhausted from illness in her arms. To lose one child must bring such unimaginable pain, but to lose four, and then to watch as the other children succumbed—

At the sound of footsteps approaching, Elizabeth quickly resumed wiping down the counter. Mrs. Jorgensen entered, took the broom from her granddaughter, and sent her off to help her mother. She and Elizabeth finished cleaning the kitchen in silence, and despite her concern for the Barclay children, Elizabeth decided not to ask Mrs. Jorgensen about their tragic illnesses. Even if Mrs. Jorgensen had forbidden her grandchildren to play with the Barclay children out of concern for their own health, shunning them struck Elizabeth as so unfair, so cruel, that she doubted she could rely upon Mrs. Jorgensen for an accurate account of their circumstances.

After the kitchen was tidy once more, Mrs. Jorgensen instructed Elizabeth to clean the upstairs bedrooms. Elizabeth did as she was told, unsure whether to interpret her employer’s silence in the kitchen to mean that she had overheard the conversation and disapproved, or if it was merely her customary reticence.

At least Mrs. Jorgensen hadn’t scolded her—this time. Worry pricked Elizabeth when she remembered how Henry had glowered as Mrs. Jorgensen rebuked her for her tardiness. She knew he was likely to rush to her defense rather than allow Mrs. Jorgensen to reprimand her a second time, however deservedly—and get them both fired in the process. This was not Elm Creek Manor, where she was surrounded by loving aunts who doted upon her, who laughed off her mistakes and encouraged her to do better next time. It was not her parents’ hotel, where she charmed the customers and her father thought she could do no wrong. She had never known how much her family had tolerated out of love for her. She had always felt so trapped in Harrisburg, bound by her mother’s propriety and her father’s expectations. Only from a distance did she see how much freedom she had truly enjoyed within the circle of her family’s affection.

She worked alone upstairs until Mrs. Jorgensen called her to the kitchen to help prepare lunch. As the men came to the table, Elizabeth managed to pull Henry aside for a kiss, but he only shrugged and pulled away when she asked how his morning had gone. She pressed her lips together and busied herself with serving the corn fritters and ham so that no one would notice her disappointment. Henry was tired and hungry, and he had never been one to kiss her with other people watching, even in his best moods. Once he had eaten and rested, he would regret being so abrupt with her. When he apologized, she would forgive him—although he had better not let it become a habit.

When lunch ended, Lars reminded Oscar about their mother’s letters, and the two brothers quickly concluded that Lars could be spared long enough to run the errands to the post office and the Grand Union Hotel.