The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (2 page)

Sylvia hoped to spare Amy and Bob regrets they were too young to know lay ahead of them.

“Though it’s not our wedding quilt,” Andrew said, “it still must be important or you wouldn’t have brought it along on our honeymoon.”

“It is, indeed.” Sylvia spread it open on her lap so he could glimpse more of the colorful patchwork, although he would not truly be able to appreciate the quilt’s loveliness in such cramped quarters. “It’s a quilt for the season. I call it New Year’s Reflections.”

“Reflections, not resolutions?”

“Reflections should precede resolutions, or so I’ve always thought.”

Andrew shook his head. “I don’t believe in making New Year’s resolutions. If someone needs to change, they should change, and not wait for the New Year to do it.”

“Some people don’t have your self-discipline,” said Sylvia, smiling. “Some people need an important occasion to herald a time for change.”

“Some people, meaning yourself?”

“Perhaps. I’m very much in favor of New Year’s resolutions, and I support anyone who chooses to make one. They are a sign of optimism and hope in an increasingly cynical world. Someone who makes a New Year’s resolution is declaring that they have hope, that they believe they can improve their lives, that we can change our world for the better.”

“You don’t need to change. I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

“Spoken like a true newlywed,” teased Sylvia. “It’s very good that you don’t want to change me, because you can’t, you know. And it’s not because women of a certain age are set in their ways or any such nonsense. No one can make another person change. One has to change oneself.”

But that did not mean a caring friend couldn’t point out a new direction to someone headed down the wrong road, and hope they took heed. The New Year’s Reflections quilt never failed to remind her of that, or that a new path chosen without careful reflection would lead even the most resolute traveler in a broad circle, back to where she had begun, and no better off than when she had set out on her journey.

Andrew fell silent while Sylvia methodically sewed down the binding, each stitch bringing her closer to the completion of an on-again, off-again quilt nearly six years in the making. Out of the corner of one eye, she observed Andrew frowning slightly as he pondered the mystery of her quilt’s presence on their honeymoon. “Did you bring the quilt because last year you resolved to finish it before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and you’re running out of time?”

“No,” said Sylvia with a little laugh. “I brought it along because it’s a gift for Amy.”

“But we sent the kids their Christmas presents weeks ago.”

“It’s not a Christmas gift. It’s a New Year’s gift.” Sylvia hesitated before deciding to tell him the whole truth. He was, after all, her husband now. “It’s a gift to thank her for accepting my marriage to her father.”

Andrew shot her a look of utter bewilderment. “But she didn’t,” he said, quickly returning his gaze to the road ahead. “She doesn’t. She made that perfectly clear when I told her I was going to marry you whether she liked it or not. Sylvia, I think you should prepare yourself. This peace offering of yours—it’s a pretty quilt and a nice gesture, but it might not be enough. This whole trip might be a waste of time.”

“I refuse to believe that,” said Sylvia. This attempt at reconciliation was for the newlyweds as much as it was for Amy. It would do them some small good to know they had tried, even if Amy rebuffed them.

And while it was true that Amy had not accepted her father’s engagement and almost certainly would not welcome news of his marriage, perhaps by the time the New Year dawned, she would have a change of heart. Sylvia would put her trust in the power of the season to inspire new beginnings, even if Andrew did not.

A
S THEY DROVE
through eastern Pennsylvania on their way to New York, Sylvia chatted with Andrew and worked on the New Year’s Reflections quilt, every stitch a silent prayer that Andrew and his daughter would reconcile. She could not bear to be the cause of their estrangement. She knew all too well the ache of loneliness that filled a heart that learned forgiveness too late.

For more than fifty years, bitterness and grief had separated Sylvia from the home she loved—and the sister whom she blamed unfairly as the cause of all her sorrow. Every New Year had offered her an opportunity to start over, but she had stubbornly awaited an apology that never came, an apology she perhaps did not deserve. Only after Claudia’s death did Sylvia return to Elm Creek Manor and discover that her sister had missed her and had longed for her return. If only Sylvia had not cut off her ties so completely, Claudia might have been able to find her, to send word to her, to offer the apology Sylvia had resolutely awaited. If only Sylvia had not allowed obstinate pride to prevent her from reaching out to Claudia first.

Sylvia would not allow Andrew and Amy to repeat her mistakes. Some good had to come of her hard-earned lessons. Their disagreement was not longstanding; surely the wound would heal if they tended it quickly and did not allow the infection of anger to take deeper root.

Sylvia tucked the needle into the edge of the binding and held up the quilt to inspect her work. The double-fold bias strip of dark blue cotton lay smooth and straight, without a single pucker, a perfect frame for the twelve blue-and-gold patchwork blocks of her own invention, twelve variations of the traditional Mother’s Favorite block.

Claudia probably would have had something to say about Sylvia’s choice. Each daughter had longed to be their mother’s favorite, and as a child, Sylvia had wavered between fear and certainty that she wasn’t it. Claudia probably would not have believed that Sylvia had chosen the pattern despite its name, not because of it. It was visually striking, with a four-inch central square set on point by white triangles and framed by narrow strips of blue. Triangles pieced from lighter blue trapezoids and white triangles made up the corners of the block, creating a distant resemblance to the better-known Pineapple block. But Sylvia had complicated an already difficult pattern by substituting miniature patchwork blocks for the solid, four-inch squares in the centers. These blocks she had indeed chosen for their names, for their symbolism, for the memories of long-ago New Year’s celebrations that came to mind whenever she worked upon the quilt.

Sylvia ran a hand over the patchwork surface, wishing the pieces of her life fit together with such precision. It was difficult to look to the year ahead with anticipation and hope when she could not help glancing over her shoulder with regret at the mistakes of the past. Throughout her long, lonely exile from Elm Creek Manor, picking out the threads of her past mistakes had become a New Year’s Eve tradition for her, as much a part of the holiday as the countdown to midnight and “Auld Lang Syne.”

It had not always been that way. She had not learned that melancholy habit at her mother’s knee, or from any of the other Bergstrom women who passed down family traditions through the generations. When Sylvia was a girl, the Bergstrom family ushered in the New Year with joy and merriment whether the world beyond the gray stone walls of the family home was at peace or at war, enjoying prosperity or enduring hardship.

A lifetime ago, as 1925 approached, the Bergstrom family had had much to be thankful for: the comfortable manor large enough to accommodate their extended family, the sustenance their farm provided, the company of those they loved, and unprecedented success and prosperity mirroring the nation’s rise in fortune. During the few years before, newly wealthy businessmen from as far away as Chicago and New York City had flocked to Elm Creek Manor, eager to add prized Bergstrom Thoroughbreds to their growing lists of possessions. Even little Sylvia understood that they wanted to impress friends and rivals and to prove themselves the equals of the “old money” families who had kept Bergstrom Thoroughbreds in their stables almost from the time Sylvia’s great-grandfather had founded the business before the Civil War. Although Sylvia mourned the departure of each elegant mare or proud stallion, she did not complain. She knew the family owed their livelihood to these stout businessmen in fine suits who spoke in brash accents as they puffed their cigars and watched her father and uncles put the horses through their paces. She was old enough to understand that each horse the men bought meant food on their table, new dresses and shoes to wear to school, and money to pay her mother’s doctor bills.

Sylvia’s favorite cousin, Elizabeth, had more reason than any Bergstrom for happiness that season, as she had recently become engaged to her longtime sweetheart, Henry Nelson, a young man from a neighboring farm. The wedding plans had already begun in earnest despite the holiday because, much to Sylvia’s dismay, Henry and Elizabeth planned to marry at the end of March and move to California, where Henry had purchased a cattle ranch.

Sylvia had never liked Henry. Whenever he came around, Elizabeth forgot her favorite little cousin and went off riding or walking or picking apples with Henry instead. When he stayed for supper, he took Sylvia’s chair at the table without even asking permission, as if he had more right to sit at Elizabeth’s side than Sylvia. No matter how often Sylvia scowled at him or spoke impertinently or squeezed herself between Henry and Elizabeth when they sat by the fire turning pages of a book, Henry seemed stupidly unaware of how unwelcome he was. Whenever Elizabeth visited from Harrisburg, Henry included himself in every holiday gathering at Elm Creek Manor, and he wasn’t even family.

But he would be, soon. Sylvia felt sick at heart as she realized that when Henry and Elizabeth married, she would lose her favorite playmate and confidante forever.

Even Elizabeth’s promise that Sylvia and Claudia could be flower girls at the wedding did nothing to console her. Instead, Sylvia strengthened her resolve to persuade Henry to go away and never come back. If he went to California without Elizabeth, that would be best of all, but Sylvia would be satisfied if he stayed on the other side of the fence separating the Nelson farm from the Bergstroms’.

Sylvia tried her best, but she was not naturally devious and she had to be careful not to raise the ire of her parents, aunts, and uncles, who did not seem to realize that Henry had to be stopped. One day, inspiration struck as she came upon Henry waiting in the parlor while Elizabeth finished a wedding gown fitting upstairs with Sylvia’s mother and aunts. “Is Elizabeth still crying?” she asked him, strolling into the room and plopping down on her grandma’s favorite upholstered chair.

Henry regarded her warily. “What do you mean?”

Sylvia fingered a loose thread on the ottoman and did her best to look nonchalant. “Oh, you know. She’s always crying these days. Grandpa says she’s ‘turning on the waterworks.’ ”

“Is that so?” Henry’s brow furrowed. “Do you know what she’s crying about?”

“I’m not sure. She never cries when she’s with me.” Sylvia felt a thrill of delight when Henry’s frown deepened. “But I heard her tell my mama…”

“What?” Henry prompted.

“I’m not supposed to listen at doors.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Promise?”

Henry nodded, barely containing his impatience. “Of course. Go on. What did Elizabeth say?”

“She told my mama that it would break her heart to go to California and never see her family again.”

Henry sat back in his chair. “She said that?”

Sylvia nodded. What Elizabeth had really said was that she would miss Elm Creek Manor terribly and she dreaded the moment of her departure, but she loved Henry and it would break her heart to stay behind and let him go to California without her. That was what Elizabeth had said, but Sylvia knew Elizabeth and she understood the real meaning hidden behind her words. Henry was wrong to take her away, and since Elizabeth was too afraid to hurt his feelings, it was up to Sylvia to tell him the truth.

Henry rose and strode from the room. Sylvia jumped up and peered through the doorway after him, but her heart sank in dismay when she spied him crossing the black marble floor of the front foyer on his way to the grand oak staircase instead of slinking off down the west wing hallway to the back door. Jolted by guilty alarm, she hurried off the way Henry should have chosen, barely pausing to pull on her boots and coat before racing outside into the snow.

She hid out in the barn, keeping warm in the hayloft while the cows scuffed their hooves and lowed complaints below. She had missed lunch, and her stomach growled. When her mittened fingers grew numb, she had no choice but to return indoors. Henry’s boots no longer stood in a puddle of melted snow just inside the back door. She tried to find encouragement in his absence, but her stomach was a knot of worry.

She tiptoed upstairs to the nursery to find her mother and Claudia sitting on the window seat reading a book. Claudia glared, accusatory and triumphant. Sylvia could not bear to meet her mother’s gaze.

“Claudia, darling, would you please wait for me downstairs?” Sylvia’s mother asked.

“Now you’re going to get it,” Claudia whispered, brushing past Sylvia on the way out the door.

“Sylvia, come here.” Her mother patted the window seat.

Sylvia obeyed, dragging her feet across the nursery floor. She sat beside her mother, eyes downcast, and did not resist when her mother took her hands. “Goodness, Sylvia,” she exclaimed, chafing her daughter’s hands with her own. “You’re half frozen. Where have you been hiding?”

“In the barn.”