Round Robin (6 page)

“Elm Creek Manor is full of stories,” she told them. “Everyone who has ever lived here has added to those stories. Now your stories will join them, and those of us who call this place home will be richer for it.”

She explained the ceremony. She would hand the candle to the first woman in the circle, who would tell the others why she had come to Elm Creek Manor and what she hoped the week would bring her. When she finished, she would pass the candle to the woman on her left, who would tell her story.

There was a moment's silence broken only by nervous laughter when Sylvia asked for a volunteer to begin.

Finally, Renée, one of the women Carol had befriended, raised her hand. “I will.”

Sylvia gave her the candle and sat down beside Sarah.

Renée studied the flame in her hands for a long moment without speaking. Around them, unseen, crickets chirped in the gradually deepening darkness. “My name is Renée Hoffman,” she finally said, looking up. “I'm a cardiac specialist at Hershey Medical Center. I was married for a while, but not anymore. I have no children.” She paused. “I've never quilted before. I came to Elm Creek Manor because I want to learn how. Two years ago—” She took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “Two years
ago my brother died of AIDS. Two years ago this month. I came to Elm Creek Manor so that I could learn how to make a panel for him for the AIDS quilt.” She shook her head and lowered her gaze to the flickering candle. “But that's why I want to learn to quilt, not why I came here. I guess I could have taken lessons in Hershey, but I didn't want any distractions. I want to be able to focus on what my brother meant to me, and for some reason I couldn't do that at home.”

The woman beside her put an arm around Renée's shoulders. Renée gave her the briefest flicker of a smile. “When I walked around the gardens earlier today, I thought I could feel him there with me. I started thinking about the time when we were kids, when he taught me how to ride a two-wheeled bike.” Her expression grew distant. “I told him once, near the end, that I wished I had gone into AIDS research instead of cardiac surgery so that I could fight against this thing that was killing him. He took my hand and said, ‘You save lives. Don't ever regret the choices that brought you to the place you are now.'” She stared straight ahead for a long, silent moment. “Anyway, that's why I'm here.” She passed the candle to the woman on her left.

The candle went around the circle, to a woman who was going through a painful divorce and needed to get away from it all, to the young mother whose husband had given her the week at quilt camp as a birthday present, to the elderly sisters who spent every year vacationing together while their husbands went on a fishing trip—“Separate vacations, that's why we've been able to stay married so long,” the eldest declared, evoking laughter from the others—to the woman who had come with two of her friends to celebrate her doctor's confirmation that her breast cancer was in remission.

Sarah had heard stories like these in other weeks, from other women, and yet each story was unique. One common thread joined all the women who came to Elm Creek Manor. Those who had given so much of themselves and their lives caring for others—children, husbands, aging parents—were now taking time to care for themselves, to nourish their own souls. As the night darkened around them, the cornerstone patio was silent but for the murmuring of quiet voices and the song of crickets,
the only illumination the flickering candle and the light of stars burning above them, so brilliant but so far away.

Carol was one of the last to speak, and she kept her story brief. “I came to Elm Creek Manor because of my daughter.” Her eyes met Sarah's. “I want to be a part of her life again. For too long we've let our differences divide us. I don't want us to be that way anymore. I don't want either of us to have regrets someday, when it's too late to reconcile.” She ducked her head as if embarrassed, then quickly passed the candle as if it had burned her hands.

Sarah's heart softened as she watched her mother accept a quick hug from the woman at her side. They exchanged a few words Sarah couldn't make out, then listened as the next woman told her story.

I will try harder, Sarah resolved. They would have a week together to sort things out. She wouldn't let the time go to waste.

But as the days went by, she learned that promises were more easily made than kept.

The quilt camp schedule was designed to give the guests as much independence as possible to work on their own projects or do as they pleased. After an early breakfast, Sylvia led an introductory piecing class, lectured on the history of quilting, or displayed the many antique quilts in Elm Creek Manor's collection. After some free time, the quilters gathered at noon for lunch. On rainy days they met in the banquet hall, but when the sun shone they picnicked outdoors, in the north gardens, near the orchard, on blankets spread on the sweeping front lawn, or on the veranda. Requests to lunch on the cornerstone patio received polite refusals and the promise that they would gather there once more before camp ended. No other explanation was given, no matter how the guests wheedled and teased.

After lunch one of the other Elm Creek Quilters would teach a class—Gwen on Monday, Judy on Tuesday, Summer on Wednesday, Bonnie on Thursday, and Agnes on Friday. Diane didn't feel ready to lead a class of her own, so instead she assisted at each class. The arrangement pleased everyone. Sylvia was spared the task of teaching two classes a day,
the other Elm Creek Quilters could keep their involvement at a level that didn't interfere with their jobs and other responsibilities, and the guests could enjoy a variety of teaching styles and techniques.

More free time followed the afternoon classes until the evening meal. Afterward, Sylvia and Sarah usually planned some sort of entertainment, a talent show or a game or an outing. All activities were voluntary, at Sylvia's insistence. “Our guests are here to enjoy themselves,” she said. “This is their time. If they want to do cartwheels on the veranda all morning instead of taking a class, more power to them.”

Despite all the free time available to the quilters, Sarah rarely found any for herself. She spent the days working behind the scenes—balancing accounts, designing marketing plans, ordering supplies, making schedules—to keep Elm Creek Quilts operating smoothly. Her hours were busy and productive, and she had never been happier in her work, perhaps because could see the result of her labors in the smiling faces of their guests, feel it in the quilts created there, hear it in the laughter that rang through the halls.

Elm Creek Manor was alive once more, just as Sarah had predicted, just as Sylvia had wished.

This week Sarah's work load kept her even busier than usual. Each day she promised herself she would spend time with her mother, but she always found more work to do, more tasks that simply couldn't wait. Sarah felt guilty for repeatedly turning down her mother's invitations to go for a walk or sit on the veranda and chat during free time, so she was relieved when her mother stopped asking. They did spend some time together, at meals and in the evenings, but always in the company of the other guests.

“I was hoping we'd have some nice quiet time together,” Carol told her on Thursday evening as they went out the back door to the parking lot. That evening Gwen had arranged for everyone to attend a play on the Waterford College campus.

“We will,” Sarah promised. “We still have another whole day left, and half of Saturday.” As if to apologize for her absence, she made sure they
rode in the same car and sat next to each other in the theater. She knew it wasn't what her mother had hoped for, but she couldn't ignore her responsibilities.

Later that night, as the quilters went off to their separate rooms to prepare for bed, Sylvia asked Sarah to join her in the library. “You haven't been spending as much time with your mother as I had hoped,” she said, easing herself into a chair by the fireplace. No fire burned there now, and probably none would until autumn.

Sarah shrugged helplessly. “I know. I've been swamped with work.”

Sylvia folded her arms and regarded her. “Is that so?”

“Well, yes.” Sarah ran through the list of tasks she'd accomplished over the past three days.

Sylvia shook her head as she listened. “You know very well that most of that work could have been put off for at least another week. You had no pressing deadlines preventing you from enjoying your mother's visit.”

“But—”

“But nothing. You went looking for all that extra work, and so naturally you found it. You piled it up all around yourself—big, solid stacks of paperwork to keep your mother from coming near. I know you, Sarah McClure, and I know what you're doing, even if you don't.”

Sarah stared at her. “Is that really what I've been doing?” As Sylvia's words sank in, she recognized the truth in them. “I didn't mean to. At least I don't think so.”

“Why are you distancing yourself from her, and after she said such nice things about you at the Candlelight?”

“But that's precisely why it's so difficult to talk to her.” Sarah went to the window and drew back the curtain. Through the diamond-shaped panes of glass she could see the roof of the barn on the other side of Elm Creek. “Every time we're together, we bicker. That's been our way for years. Right now we've left things on a good note. I wouldn't want another silly argument to spoil that.”

“Perhaps I should have told you about her visit after all, so that you could have planned what to say to her.” Sylvia sighed. “It seems the element
of surprise didn't work as well for you and your mother as it did for me and Agnes.”

Sarah whirled around to face her. “Is that what you were trying to do?”

Sylvia nodded, no doubt thinking, as Sarah was, about that day almost two years before when Sarah had arranged for Sylvia to meet her long-estranged sister-in-law in the north gardens. Their reconciliation had encouraged Sylvia to remain at Elm Creek Manor instead of continuing her search for a buyer; if not for that, Elm Creek Quilts never would have existed.

“But that day in the garden was only the beginning,” Sarah said. “You and Agnes didn't rebuild your relationship all in that one day. You grew closer over time, over all those months planning Elm Creek Quilts.”

Sylvia nodded. “You're right, of course. I was foolish to believe your difficulties with your mother could be sorted out in a single week.”

“Not foolish.” Sarah tried to smile. “Overly optimistic, maybe, but not foolish.”

“Hmph.” Sylvia returned Sarah's smile, but her heart didn't seem to be in it.

Matt was already asleep when Sarah climbed into bed beside him. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Sylvia was so disappointed that she had not been able to return Sarah's gift in kind. She shouldn't be. Sylvia and Agnes had been ready to reconcile. So many years of loss and regret had cleared their vision, had taught them how foolish the old squabbles were. In hindsight, it had been easy to bring them together, since they both ached for a reunion.

If Sarah felt anything of that longing, it was buried deep enough to ignore. How many decades of estrangement would pass before she cared enough about reconciliation to give her whole heart to it?

To those troubling thoughts, Sarah finally drifted off to sleep.

The next day she forced herself to avoid the office. She sat by her mother's side at breakfast, walked with her and Matt in the gardens during free time, and pushed two Adirondack chairs together on the veranda
so that they could chat undisturbed during lunch. The time passed pleasantly enough, but Sarah felt restrained, as if at any moment she might say the words that would dredge up all those old animosities. Once, fleetingly, she wondered if that wasn't exactly what they ought to do—bring out all those old hurts and subject them to unflinching scrutiny. But just as quickly Sarah decided against it. She couldn't risk an enormous blow-up that could take a long time to settle, not when Carol would be leaving the next day.

To make the most of their time together, Sarah joined her mother for Agnes's workshop that afternoon. At first Carol struggled to learn the appliqué techniques, but Sarah and Diane helped her. “I'm the expert on finding an easier way to do things,” Diane said as she demonstrated a different way to hold the needle. “I've never met a shortcut I didn't like.”

Carol laughed and assured Diane that she understood what to do now.

As they worked, Agnes strolled through the room checking on her students' progress and offering advice. When she reached Sarah's table, she took Diane and Sarah aside to talk to them about the round robin quilt. So much had happened since Sunday's registration that Sarah had nearly forgotten it.

“The center motif will take me a while to complete,” Agnes said. “I think the rest of you should get started on the borders.”

Diane looked dubious. “How can we add borders to something that isn't there?”

Agnes laughed and patted her arm. “Sarah can cut a piece of background fabric eighteen inches square and add her border to that. The rest of you can proceed as usual. When I'm finished, I'll appliqué my section onto the center square.”

Sarah nodded, but she was still uncertain. “But what about colors? We won't want the borders to clash with the center. How can we pick coordinating colors if we can't see what fabric you're going to use?”

A quilter on the other side of the room signaled to Agnes for help. “Use the colors of Elm Creek Manor,” Agnes called over her shoulder as she went to assist the student. “That's what I'm going to do.”

Diane made a face. “She could have been a little more specific.”

Sarah laughed in agreement, but she thought she understood what Agnes meant.

That evening the mood at Elm Creek Manor was nostalgic and subdued. It had been a special week for all, and though they had arrived mostly strangers, the quilters now felt they would be friends for life. In the midst of the many tearful hugs and promises to keep in touch, Sylvia whispered to Sarah that they ought to consider hiring a comedian to entertain them on future closing nights. “Anything to prevent such melancholy,” she said, hugging her arms to her chest as if to ward off a draft.