Their eyes met, and for a moment, Karen thought the woman was going to offer to help. Instead she said, “Watch out for the blonde,” and hurried past. Surprised, Karen turned to watch her go, but the boys and the stroller needed her attention. What blonde? Lucas? She was watching out for him, although from the sound he was making, an outsider might think he was neglected. Why did everyone feel obliged to comment on her parenting?
On the veranda, she set down the stroller and dashed back downstairs for the boys. Carrying Lucas, holding Ethan’s hand, and propelling the stroller along with her hip, she crossed the veranda and paused at the entrance. “Okay, boys,” she said, catching her breath. “This is very important to Mommy. I need you to be on your absolute best behavior. Understand?”
Lucas didn’t, of course, but Ethan nodded solemnly. Karen took a deep breath to steady herself and pulled a funny face to make Ethan grin. Then she pushed the door open and went inside.
She had remembered the grand foyer, with its ceiling open to the third story and the balconies adorned with quilts, but she had forgotten the steps dividing the black marble floor into the entranceway and the foyer proper. This was as far as the stroller would go. She nudged it out of the way against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, released Ethan’s hand, and picked up her briefcase and the diaper bag. Ethan seized as much of her hand as he could reclaim, clinging to her fingertips and shoving the handle of the briefcase over her knuckles.
“Do you need a hand?” a woman called.
Karen wished that she had been able to find a moment to freshen up first, wished that she had been able to make a more graceful entrance, but it was too late now. She fixed a confident smile in place and turned to find a white-haired woman in pink-tinted glasses gazing down at her from the top of the stairs. She held a sewing basket in one hand and a small bundle of fabric in the other.
“Hi. I’m Karen Wise. I’m here for an interview.” Karen studied the woman, certain she had seen her before. “You’re one of the Elm Creek Quilters, aren’t you?”
The woman let out a tinkle of a laugh. “Oh, aren’t we all Elm Creek Quilters at heart? Camp’s in session, you know. I’m just on my way outside to work on my quilt block in the fresh air.” She nodded to a row of chairs lining the wall just outside the hallway leading to the west wing of the manor. “I saw Sylvia Compson and some of the others go into that parlor just around the corner. I believe if you wait outside in one of those chairs, someone will come out for you soon.”
“The thing is … I’m a little late.”
The woman shrugged cheerfully. “Seems to me they are, too, or someone would be standing here waiting for you.” She came down the stairs and smiled at the boys on her way to the door. “Adorable.”
“Thank you,” said Karen. She hoped the Elm Creek Quilters agreed.
“Mommy?” asked Ethan after the white-haired woman went outside. “Can we go home now?”
“Not yet, honey. We just got here.” She took the boys up the marble stairs and stood for a moment in the center of the foyer. Through the doors in front of her, she heard the murmur of voices and sewing machines coming from the ballroom turned classroom. She seemed to recall that the administrative office was in the second floor library, but the thought of hauling the boys, diaper bag, and briefcase up that grand oak staircase was too daunting. “Let’s wait over here,” she said to the boys instead, hoping for the best, and she led them to the chairs the woman had indicated.
Ethan had no interest in sitting after the long drive, but Lucas cuddled in her lap while his older brother invented a game involving jumping from one marble square to another in a pattern only he could discern. “Muk,” said Lucas insistently, wriggling into position. Karen unbuttoned the three lowest buttons on her suit jacket, untucked her blouse from her skirt, and felt him latch on.
Ethan stopped leaping from square to square to observe them. “Aww. He’s so cute. He looks just like a little caterpillar.”
Curious, Karen asked, “How so?”
“You know. Because he’s nursing.”
“Caterpillars are insects, honey. They don’t drink milk.”
“Oh.” Ethan reconsidered. “I mean, he’s just like a little baby calf, and you’re the big mommy cow!”
“That’s exactly right.” She managed a wan smile. “Thanks for that, honey.”
Perplexed, he regarded her for a moment before the sound of an opening door drew their attention. A woman in a tan pantsuit entered the manor and glanced around before climbing the marble stairs. She carried a quilted tote bag on her shoulder and a plastic container in her other hand. She looked to be a year or two older than Karen, a few inches shorter, and more than a few pounds heavier. Her dark brown hair was gathered into a thick French braid that hung to the middle of her back.
“Hi,” Ethan called out enthusiastically.
“Hello,” the woman said, sounding equally delighted. She glanced questioningly at Karen. “I’m here for the job interview?”
“I think this is the line,” Karen said, gesturing to the chairs beside her.
“Oh.” The woman flashed an apologetic smile. “I guess I’m early.”
“And I’m late,” said Karen ruefully, realizing too late that it might not have been wise to acknowledge that point to the competition.
The woman seated herself two chairs down from Karen, set her bag at her feet, and politely averted her eyes from Lucas as he enjoyed his snack. “Baby-sitter cancel?”
“Husband had other priorities.”
The woman tsked and shook her head. “Men.”
Karen nodded emphatically. Lucas chose that moment to pop off the breast and beam at the newcomer. Milk spurted on his face and on Karen’s skirt.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. She would have brushed off the droplets before they soaked in, but her arms were full of Lucas. When she tried to set him down, he drew his knees up to his chest and refused to put his feet on the floor.
“Here. Let me take the little guy.” The woman reached for Lucas, and Karen, red-faced with embarrassment, automatically handed him over. She restored bra, blouse, and jacket, then found a cloth diaper in the diaper bag and began blotting the dark spots on her skirt.
Just then, the door to the ballroom opened and a stout woman with long, gray-streaked auburn hair rushed past. “Sorry, sorry, it’s my fault,” she told them, then disappeared into the parlor with a bang of the door.
“Who was that whirlwind?” the woman asked Lucas in the musical, cheerful voice adults use when they address children but are really speaking to the other adults in the room.
“She’s Gwen Sullivan, one of the teachers here. I took one of her classes a few years ago.” Karen stood and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt with her hands. Why did she bother? She was a mess. She never should have come.
Lucas reached for her, and when she took him, he regarded her solemnly and patted her cheeks. “Mama. Sor-sor, Mama.”
“It’s all right, honey.” She kissed him and closed her eyes as he rested his head on her shoulder. She was the one who should apologize. She never should have applied for this job. She was underqualified and overextended. The boys would miss her and she would worry about them. If she left now, the Elm Creek Quilters would forget about her canceled interview and by next summer she could face them again—as a camper.
“Would you like a cookie?”
Karen’s eyes flew open. “Beg your pardon?”
“Would you like a cookie?” The woman opened the plastic container to reveal three dozen beautifully frosted sugar cookies, decorated to resemble quilt blocks. “I made more than enough. If you don’t take some I’ll eat them all myself, and I really can’t afford to.”
“I’ll help,” Ethan piped up.
The woman smiled at him. “Ask your mommy first.”
Karen agreed, reminding him to say thank you. The woman insisted she take two cookies for each of them, so Karen did, tucking the extras into the diaper bag for the ride
home, or for bribes during the interview should bribes become necessary. Her own cookie, a Double Nine-Patch, was the best sugar cookie she had ever tasted.
If she had any sense, she would take the boys and leave right then. She was no match for a woman who arrived early and brought homemade cookies.
The door to the parlor swung open. A woman who looked to be in her midthirties smiled at them, her eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of the children. “Hi,” she greeted the two women. “I’m Sarah McClure. Thanks for coming. Sorry for the delay.” She glanced down at the file folder in her hand and back to Karen. “Karen Wise?”
“That’s me.” Karen rose, surreptitiously brushing crumbs from her lap, and gathered up baby, diaper bag, and briefcase. “Ethan?”
He ended his game with one last, emphatic leap and joined her at the parlor door. “Hi,” he said, beaming up at Sarah. “I’m Efan and this is my baby brother Lucas and this is my mommy Karen.”
Sarah’s smile widened. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. It’s nice to meet you in person, Efan.”
“Not Efan. E-Fan.”
“I’m so sorry about this,” Karen interjected. “My husband was supposed to come home in time to care for them—I promise this would never happen on a regular work day, but—”
Sarah guided them into the parlor. “Don’t worry about it. Stranger things than this happen around here all the time. Trust me.”
Karen managed a smile as Sarah shut the door behind them and indicated a high-backed, upholstered chair facing six women seated on sofas and chairs on the other side of a low coffee table. With its sharp corners and gleaming polished surface, it was naturally a magnet for the boys. With a quick, apologetic shrug for the Elm Creek Quilters, Karen settled her sons in a corner, pulled out soft toys, crackers, and sippy cups from the diaper bag, and quietly begged Ethan to keep Lucas amused while Mommy talked to the nice ladies. Then she took her seat as Sarah McClure made introductions. Most of the women looked at least vaguely familiar from her week at quilt camp. The silver-haired woman seated in an armchair much like her own was unmistakable—Sylvia Compson, award-winning Master Quilter, teacher, and member of the Quilters’ Hall of Fame.
Sylvia peered at Karen over her glasses, and she was not smiling. “Well. What’s this?”
“Karen had some child-care issues this morning,” said Sarah. The woman on one end of the sofaJudycaught her eye and nodded understandingly.
“They’re wonderful boys and they won’t be any distraction,” Karen promised.
“I can see that,” said Sylvia dryly as Lucas toddled over to Karen and rested his head on her knee.
Karen smiled weakly and stroked his hair. “I know these are unusual circumstances for an interview, but I’m delighted to be here. It’s an honor just to be considered for this position.”
“I wonder …” Sylvia’s gaze was piercing. “Did you feed your children directly before coming here?”
“Well …” Did she look like the kind of mother who forgot to feed her children? Forget to leave them at home, yes, but forget to feed them? Never. “They’ve eaten, thanks. If they get hungry, I brought snacks.”
“Anything good?” asked Gwen, peering at the diaper bag. Karen, grateful for the levity, smiled at her.
“Your résumé is very strong,” remarked Sarah. “You have impressive marketing and teaching experience.”
“Have you ever actually taught quilting, though?” asked an attractive woman with blonde curls.
Karen considered her failed attempt to teach Janice and decided not to mention it. “No, but I’m confident my teaching skills will serve me well with any curriculum. Once you’ve taught required core courses to reluctant college freshmen, you can thrive in any classroom.”
To her relief, most of the women smiled, but not Diane, and not Sylvia Compson. Karen felt her courage falter. She had admired Sylvia as long as she had been a quilter. Karen had been too shy to introduce herself during her week at quilt camp, but she had observed Sylvia at mealtimes and during the evening programs. Why was she frowning? And what was with that odd, impatient gesture she kept making, as if she were brushing loose strands of hair off her forehead?
Lucas struggled to climb onto her lap. Automatically Karen reached for him as the youngest of the women, Gwen Sullivan’s beautiful auburn-haired daughter, asked her how she began quilting.
“I began here,” Karen said. As she told them how she had longed to learn to make a baby quilt, Lucas tugged at her lapels and struggled with the buttons of her suit. Then Sarah McClure posed a question to her, and one from Gwen followed. All the while Lucas peppered the conversation with demands for “Muk!” ever increasing in volume and insistence.
At last she gave up and pleaded, “Lucas, honey, wouldn’t you like some milk in a cup?”
“I think he wants milk in a shirt.”
She started to hear Ethan’s voice at her elbow, the last to discover he had crept silently closer rather than be the only one left out of the interview. “Honey, would you please go look at your book until I’m done?”
“Lucas is over here with you.”
“Oh, just go ahead and let him nurse,” said Gwen good-naturedly. “We’re all friends here.”
The blonde woman shot her a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Look at how big he is. He doesn’t want to nurse. He’s just fidgety.” She turned to Karen. “Right?”
“Well,” Karen managed to say, wrestling with her toddler, “actually—”
“He nurses all the time,” said Ethan. “That’s all he does. Nurse, nurse, nurse. And go poop in his diaper. He doesn’t talk much. But he’s very cute.”
“How old is he?” asked the blonde woman, appalled.
“Eighteen months,” said Karen. Lucas whooped with delight as he managed to unfasten a button.
The blonde woman shook her head in disbelief. “When they can walk over and ask for it, it’s time to cut them off.”
“Oh, Diane, please.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “Breastmilk is the best, most natural food in the world. In some cultures, children nurse until they’re four years old. It’s only in western societies that we’ve so sexualized the female breast that we’ve forgotten what they’re really there for. Breastmilk is full of antibodies and proteins that simply can’t be reproduced in formula, no matter what the corporate manufacturers claim.”
“Did you know that a child’s IQ increases by five points for every month he or she nurses?” added Sarah.
The Elm Creek Quilters stared at her. “And why have you been studying up on breastfeeding?” inquired Gwen’s daughter.
Sarah turned beet red. “No reason.”
“I nursed Summer for almost three years,” said Gwen with pride.
“I could tell,” said Diane.
“How? Because she’s so intelligent? So healthy?”
“No. Because that’s exactly the sort of thing you would do. I’m just surprised you haven’t bragged about it earlier.” Diane fixed her attention on Karen, though it was obvious she was trying not to see Lucas, now happily suckling away. “So tell us. What makes you think you’re qualified for this job, aside from your obvious ability to multitask?”
“Well, I’m a quilter, of course,” said Karen. “I enjoy designing my own quilts, and I’ve mastered many of the techniques you listed in your ad.” She probably could have put together a more cogent answer if she didn’t have a baby at the breast. “I also have a sense of humor, and being a mother has definitely taught me how to deal with occasional minor disasters.”
“And a few major ones,” remarked Gwen, “if your experience is anything like mine. No offense, kiddo.”
“Of course not, Mom,” said Summer, as if she had heard it all before.
“I have another question,” said Diane. “What kind of mother are you?”
Karen blinked at her. “What kind? Well, I suppose I’m attentive, loving, patient—most of the time—a bit of a worrier, creative—”
“That’s not what I meant,”
Diane broke in. “I mean, what kind of mother are you, to even contemplate taking on a job outside the home when your children obviously need you?”
“I don’t think this line of questioning is appropriate,” said Sarah.
“I don’t think it was even a real question,” said Judy.
“It’s a legitimate concern,” said Diane. “For her and for us. She and her boys clearly have a strong attachment. If we hire her, we are forcing her to stick those two precious children in a day care center. How can we be a party to that?”
“I went to day care when I was a child,” said Summer. “I turned out all right.”
Diane waved that off. “That’s different. Gwen’s a single mother. She didn’t have a choice.”
“Ms. Wise’s child-care arrangements are her concern, not ours,” said Sylvia.
“They will be our concern if she cancels classes because she can’t get a baby-sitter.”
Karen was about to assure them that she would never cancel class, but she hesitated. She could not be sure that she would never miss a day because of the boys. What if Lucas had an ear infection? What if Ethan had a day off school?
“I think it’s against the law to discriminate against a job applicant because she has children,” said the dark-haired woman named Bonnie. “If it isn’t, it should be.”
Sylvia raised a hand. “Let’s get this conversation back on track. I believe Sarah has several more questions on her list, and we don’t want to keep Ms. Wise and her sons any longer than necessary.”
“Just one.” Sarah looked up from her copy of Karen’s portfolio and smiled. “I wondered if you would read to us from the cover letter you submitted with your application. I have it here if you need it.”
“That’s okay. I brought one.” Karen withdrew the letter from her briefcase, wondering what Sarah had in mind. Didn’t each Elm Creek Quilter have her own copy, and wouldn’t they have read it already?
“Start with the third paragraph from the top,” said Sarah.
Karen nodded and read aloud:
“Please note that the nearly five-year gap in my employment record is voluntary, as I left my last position to raise my children. In all honesty, I had no intention of returning to the work force so soon, but when I saw your ad, I immediately reconsidered. I enjoy staying home with my children, but I could not pass up this opportunity to become an Elm Creek Quilter. I think every former camper considers herself an Elm Creek Quilter to some extent, but I feel that to deserve that title, and to deserve the privilege of joining the staff of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, a person must possess more than excellent technical skills and teaching abilities. In my time as a camper, I discovered teachers who passed along knowledge but also were willing to learn from their students, who honored the traditions handed down through the generations but were not afraid to push the art beyond its traditional boundaries. I encountered women committed to creating a supportive environment where quilters of all levels of experience could challenge themselves artistically without fear of ridicule or failure, because every risk honestly and courageously attempted is looked upon as a success. I learned about valuing the process as well as the product, and about honoring every piece’s contribution to the beauty of the whole. Elm Creek Quilt Camp celebrates and honors the artist inside every woman, and I would consider it a great privilege and honor to join your circle of quilters.”
Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters Page 10
