Halfway to the second floor, Mrs. Compson paused on the step, breathing heavily. “As for the rest of it,” she said, waving a hand in no particular direction. “Bedrooms, each with its own sitting room.”
“Why so many?”
“This was supposed to be a family house—several generations, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all living together happily under one roof. Hmph.”
“Which room’s yours?”
Mrs. Compson glanced at her sharply, then continued her climb. “I have my sitting room downstairs.”
“You mean you sleep on the sofa? Aren’t the bedrooms furnished?”
Mrs. Compson said nothing. Sarah bit the inside of her upper lip in a belated attempt to restrain the question. When they reached the top step, Mrs. Compson let out a relieved sigh and turned left down another hallway. “My sister saved everything,” she finally said as they passed two closed doors on the right. When the hallway widened and dead-ended at another set of double doors, Mrs. Compson stopped. “And I do mean everything. Old magazines, newspapers, paperbacks. I want you to help me sort the rubbish from anything salvageable.”
With her lips firmly pursed, Mrs. Compson swung open both doors, and they entered the library. The musty, cluttered room spanned the width of the south wing’s far end. Dust specks floated lazily in the dim light that leaked in through tall windows on the south-, east-, and west-facing walls. Oak bookcases, their shelves stacked with books, knickknacks, and loose papers, stood between the windows. Two sofas faced each other in the center of the room, dusty lamps resting on end tables on either side of both, a low coffee table turned upside down between them. More books and papers were scattered on the floor near the large oak desk on the east side of the room. Two high-backed, overstuffed chairs stood near a fireplace in the center of the south wall, and a third chair was toppled over onto its side nearby.
Sarah sneezed.
“God bless you.” Mrs. Compson smiled. “Let’s open these windows and see if we can clear out some of the dust with some fresh air, shall we?”
Sarah set the dust rags on the desk and helped her carefully swing open the windows, which were made of small diamond-shaped pieces of glass joined with lead solder. Some of the panes were clear, but others were cloudy with age and weathering. Sarah leaned her head and shoulders out of one of the south windows. She could see the roof of the barn through the trees.
She smiled and turned back to her new employer, who was trying to set the overturned chair onto its feet. “Where do you want me to begin?” she asked, hastening to help.
“Begin wherever you like. Just see that you get the job done.” Mrs. Compson brushed the dust from her hands. “Separate all of the old newspapers into a pile for recycling, and do the same for the magazines. Loose papers may be recycled—or discarded, if you think it best. Gather the old paperbacks somewhere. Later we can box them and donate them to the public library, if they’re in suitable condition. I’d like to keep the hardcover books, at least for now. Those you may dust off and return to the shelves.”
“Waterford Library may have to open up a new branch for all of this,” Sarah remarked, scanning the shelves. “Your sister must’ve liked reading.”
The older woman gave a harsh laugh that sounded more like a strangled cough. “My sister liked reading junk—the cheapest romances, the most trivial tabloid magazines. In her later years she saved newspapers, too, but I don’t think she actually read them. No, she just piled them up here, creating a fire hazard, leaving them for someone else to clean up later.” She shook her head. “The finer books were my father’s. And mine.”
Sarah felt her cheeks grow warm. Apparently it was time to stop bringing up Mrs. Compson’s family. “Well, I guess I’ll get started, then,” she said.
Mrs. Compson gave her a brisk nod. “You may work until four, then meet me in the sitting room and we’ll discuss your quilting lessons.”
Sarah breathed a quick sigh when Mrs. Compson left the library, relieved to have escaped another scolding. Mrs. Compson didn’t seem to think very much of her sister. Or maybe she was so grief-stricken that she couldn’t bear to think about her and that was why she seemed so abrupt. Sarah stooped over to pick up some scattered newspaper pages, vowing to keep her mouth shut more often.
Even with the windows open, the library was a dusty, stuffy place to work. As Sarah sorted through the clutter, she found several fine leather-bound volumes which she carefully dusted and returned to the cleaned shelves. When she found the piles of yellowed newspaper taking up an entire bookcase in the northeast corner of the room, she leafed through them eagerly. Newspaper clippings from the manor’s earlier and happier years would tell her more about the people who used to live there. To her disappointment, however, Sarah soon realized that none of the papers dated from earlier than the mid-1980s. As she continued to work, she began to believe that Mrs. Compson’s dismissive critique of her late sister’s reading habits had been accurate.
At four o’clock Sarah heard Mrs. Compson calling her from the bottom of the stairs. She arched her back, stretched, and wiped her brow on a clean corner of a dust cloth. There was still a lot of work to be done, but even Mrs. Compson would have to agree that Sarah had made a noticeable dent in it.
She hurried downstairs, where Mrs. Compson greeted her with an amused look. “There seems to be more dust on you than there was in the entire library.”
Sarah hastily wiped her palms on her shorts and tucked in her blouse. “No, don’t worry. There’s plenty more dust up there for anyone who wants it.”
Mrs. Compson chuckled and motioned for Sarah to follow her down the hallway. “How much did you accomplish today?”
“I took care of everything that was on the floor and finished the bookcases on the north and west walls. I closed the windows, too, in case it rains tonight. Do you want to look through anything before it’s recycled?”
“Did you follow my instructions? Were you careful?”
“I think I was, but it’s your stuff. I’d hate to throw out anything you might miss later. Maybe you should look through the piles just the same.”
They entered the kitchen. “No need for that. Anything I ever wanted from this place isn’t here for the taking.” Mrs. Compson gestured to the sink. “When you’ve cleaned yourself up a bit, join me in the sitting room.”
Sarah washed her hands and face, then hesitated in the sitting room doorway. Mrs. Compson was pulling some quilts from a cedar chest and draping them on the sofa. Open books were piled on an end table. Mrs. Compson turned and spotted her. “Well, are you coming in or aren’t you? It’s all right. You’ve been invited this time, not like that first day.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about that.”
“I never forget.”
Sarah figured the older woman probably never forgave, either. She entered the room and walked over to the quilts. The fabric seemed worn and faded, even faintly stained in some places, but the quilting stitches and the arrangements of tiny pieces of cloth were as lovely as the newer quilts she had recently seen. Gingerly she traced the pattern of a red-and-white quilt with a fingertip. “Did you make these?”
“All of them. They’re old.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Hmph. Young lady, if you keep saying things like that I might just have to keep you around.” Mrs. Compson closed the cedar chest and spread one last quilt on the sofa. “They shouldn’t be stored in there. Contact with wood can damage them. But Claudia was too scatterbrained to remember such simple things.” She sighed and eased herself onto a chair beside the end table. “Not that it really matters. These quilts were made to be used, and to be used up. I thought they might at least give you some ideas, a place to start.”
Claudia—she must be her sister, Sarah thought as she pulled a chair closer to Mrs. Compson’s.
“The last time I taught someone to quilt—why, it must have been fifty years ago,” Mrs. Compson said, as if thinking aloud. “Of course, she never t
ruly wanted to learn. I’m sure you’ll do much better.”
“Oh, I really do want to learn. My grandmother quilted, but she died before I was old enough for her to teach me.”
Mrs. Compson raised an eyebrow. “I learned when I was five years old.” She put on her glasses and peered at one of the books. “I thought you could best learn by making a sampler. Mind you, I plan to teach you the traditional way, hand piecing and hand quilting. You shouldn’t expect to finish your quilt this week or even this year.”
“I know it’ll take time. I don’t mind.”
“There are many other perfectly acceptable modern techniques that make quilting faster and easier.” She indicated the sewing machine with a jerk of her head. “I use some of them myself. But for now, hand piecing will do.”
Sarah looked at the small machine in disbelief. “You can sew on that toy sewing machine?”
Matt had an expression very much like the one Mrs. Compson wore then, one he usually assumed when Sarah called an amaryllis a lily or when she called everything from mulch to peat moss dirt. “That’s no toy. That model isn’t manufactured anymore, but it’s one of the finest sewing machines a quilter can own. You shouldn’t judge things by their size, or by their age.”
Chastened, Sarah changed the subject. “You said I should make a sampler?”
Mrs. Compson nodded. “How big do you want the finished quilt to be?”
“Big enough for our bed. It’s queen-size.”
“Then you’ll need about twelve different blocks, if we use a straight setting with sashing and borders instead of setting the blocks on point. Then we’ll attach wide strips of your background fabric between the blocks and your outer border so you have plenty of space to practice your hand quilting stitches.” Mrs. Compson handed Sarah one of the books. “Pick twelve different blocks you’d like to try. There are more patterns in these other books. I’ll help you find a good balance.”
With Mrs. Compson’s guidance, Sarah selected twelve blocks from the hundreds of patterns in the books. Mrs. Compson explained the difference between pieced blocks, ones that were made from seaming the block’s pieces together, and appliquéd blocks, which were made by sewing figures onto background fabric. Mrs. Compson encouraged her to choose some of each style for her sampler. The time spent choosing, reconsidering, and rejecting blocks passed quickly, and before Sarah knew it, it was half past five. She had selected twelve blocks that varied in style, appearance, and difficulty, and Matt was standing in the sitting room doorway smiling at her.
“How’s quilt school going?” he asked, crossing the room and giving Sarah a hug.
Sarah smiled up at him. “I’m getting my homework assignment as we speak.”
“Yes, Sarah has decided to become a student again,” Mrs. Compson said as she jotted down some notes on a pad. She tore off the top sheet and handed it to Sarah. “This is a list of the fabrics and other tools you’ll need to complete the quilt top. We’ll worry about the other materials later. Do you know the quilt shop downtown?”
“I’ve been there once.”
“Ask someone there to help you select the items from this list. Bonnie Markham is the owner. A very pleasant woman. She’ll know what to do.”
Sarah nodded, remembering the friendly, dark-haired woman. She scanned the list, then folded the paper and placed it in her pocket. “I’ll see you on Monday, then.”
Mrs. Compson escorted them to the door, and Sarah and Matt drove home.
The answering machine’s light blinked a welcome when they entered the duplex. Sarah’s stomach flip-flopped as she ducked around Matt and reached for the playback button.
“This is Brian Turnbull from PennCellular Corporation.”
Sarah closed her eyes and suppressed a groan.
“I’m trying to reach Sarah McClure regarding the résumé you sent us. If you’re still interested in the position, give me a call today before five so we can set up an interview.”
Sarah glanced at the clock in dismay. It was already almost six.
“If you can’t reach me before then, I’ll be back in the office first thing Monday morning.” He quickly recited his telephone number and hung up.
“Doesn’t that just figure?” Sarah muttered, snatching up the phone. “The only day I’m not around, and that’s the day he calls.”
“He might still be there. You could try.”
Sarah was already dialing the number. She reached an answering machine and hung up without leaving a message. “If only I’d been here. What if he thinks I’m not interested? By now he could have offered the job to someone else.”
“Hey, relax,” Matt said, rubbing her shoulders. “He said you could call on Monday, right? Why would he say that if he wasn’t interested?”
Sarah shook her head. “This is a sign.”
“It’s not a sign.”
“It is, too. It’s a very bad sign.”
“Sarah, you’re overreacting. You shouldn’t—” Matt broke off and sighed, shaking his head and furrowing his brow in exaggerated helplessness. “I’ll tell you what. First, we make supper. I’m starved.”
Sarah’s anxiety began to wane. “And then what?”
“Then we clean up.”
“Then what?”
“Then,” he said, dropping his hands to her waist and pulling her into a hug. “You forget all about work for a while.” He kissed her and smiled, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Sarah smiled back. “Why wait until after supper?”
Five
Over breakfast on Saturday morning, Sarah approached the Help Wanted ads with more confidence than she had felt in weeks. Now that she could count on her job with Mrs. Compson for a regular paycheck, she didn’t need to find the perfect career right away. Besides, she’d rather spend the summer exploring Elm Creek Manor than crunching numbers in some climate-controlled office cubicle.
Sarah found three new ads for accounting positions, and she took them as a sign that her luck had changed at last. Usually she struggled to choose the perfect words for her cover letters, but today her fingers flew over the keyboard. On a whim she changed the typeface on her résumé from Helvetica to New Century Schoolbook, since it looked more optimistic and might make a better impression. At ten o’clock she and Matt drove downtown to the post office, where she sent her résumés on their hopeful journeys. Then, while Matt drove off to complete some errands of his own, Sarah hurried down the sidewalk to Grandma’s Attic.
The store was more crowded than it had been on her first visit. Several customers browsed through the aisles, studiously comparing different bolts of fabric or leafing through the books and quilt patterns near the front entrance. Sarah spotted Bonnie standing with five other women around the far end of the long cutting table. She was about to approach them when they erupted in peals of laughter. Feeling awkward, she hung back. They didn’t seem standoffish, but their friendship was so tangible that Sarah felt like an unwanted eavesdropper. She waved discreetly instead, trying to catch the shop owner’s eye without interrupting the lively conversation.
The youngest woman in the group looked her way, smiled, and left the table. She had long, straight auburn hair that was parted in the middle and reached halfway down her back. “May I help you?” she asked as she approached. She seemed several years younger than Sarah, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties.
Bonnie followed close behind. “So, Sarah, you’ve decided to take the plunge?”
Sarah pulled Mrs. Compson’s list from her pocket. “Yes, and I’m supposed to get a bunch of supplies. But I’m not really sure … well, like this. I’m supposed to get ‘three yards of a medium print.’ Does that mean medium as in medium-size?”
“Dark, medium, and light refer to a fabric’s value,” the auburn-haired girl explained.
“You mean, how much it costs?”
The girl’s smile deepened, and a dimple appeared in her right cheek. “Not that, either. Let me start over. Value refers to how dark or light a co
lor is, how much black or white has been added to a hue. You need to have contrasting values in a quilt so the block pattern shows up. It’s like if you track dark brown mud all over a light beige carpet. The mud and the carpet have very different values so the footprints really show up. But if you track dark brown mud on a dark blue carpet, you can’t see the footprints as much. And if your mom’s anything like mine, she won’t even notice the stains.”
“I heard that, kiddo,” one of the women called out from the cutting table. “You know you’re not supposed to air my housekeeping foibles in public.” She, too, was auburn-haired, but more sturdily built than her slender daughter. She wore a long flowing skirt and several beaded necklaces.
“She isn’t telling us anything we don’t already know, Gwen,” the woman at her side drawled. She was strikingly pretty, tall, thin, and tan, and she wore her short blond hair in curls.
“Besides, Mom, it was for a good cause. I was helping a new quilter.”
Gwen shrugged. “Oh. In that case, go right ahead.”
The others burst into laughter again. Sarah felt a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth as she watched them.
“It looks like Summer has everything under control, so why don’t I leave you in her capable hands?” Bonnie suggested. “She knows as much about quilts as anyone here.”
“Not exactly. I’m still learning, too,” Summer replied, but she looked pleased as she motioned for Sarah to follow her to the closest aisle of fabric bolts.
After searching through cotton prints of every imaginable pattern and color, Sarah found a medium value print she liked, a paisley pattern in shades of red, blue, cream, and brown. Then Summer showed her how to match other fabrics to the colors in the first print. At first Sarah selected all floral designs, but Summer explained that different prints—some large, some airy, some geometric, some tone-on-tone, and others multicolored—would give the finished quilt a more interesting texture.
“There’s so much to think about,” Sarah said, overwhelmed. “I didn’t think making a quilt would be easy, but if the shopping’s this difficult, I can’t imagine what the sewing will be like.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 5
