“Not as used to it as I’m going to be, I bet.”
Mrs. Compson laughed and motioned for Sarah to follow her out of the library. “How are you coming with the Double Nine Patch?”
Sarah followed her down the hallway and to the stairs. “I finished it last night. There’s a group called the Tangled Web Quilters, some people I met at Grandma’s Attic. They get together and quilt once a week, and they asked me to join them.”
“How nice.”
“You could come next week, too. It would be fun.”
Mrs. Compson shook her head. “They didn’t invite me.”
“But I’m a member now. They invited me, and I’m inviting you.”
“That’s not the same thing and you know it. I used to belong to the local guild—Claudia, too. We started going to meetings with my mother when we were young girls and sometimes held quilting bees here. We would set up several quilt frames in the ballroom and everyone would come over, and we would have such a grand time.” Mrs. Compson paused on the bottom step, her eyes distant. Then she sighed and continued across the marble floor and down the hallway leading to the west wing. “But we left the guild when the other women showed us we weren’t welcome.”
“What did they do?”
“Hmph. Their feelings were obvious, believe me. Even Claudia noticed.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Fifty years ago, give or take.”
“Fifty years? But—well, don’t you think it’s time to give it another chance, maybe? The Tangled Web Quilters are really nice. You’d have a good time. Besides, they’re a different group, not the Waterford Quilting Guild.”
“Now, dear.” Mrs. Compson stopped outside the kitchen and placed a hand on Sarah’s arm. “No more of this. The local quilters made it clear I was not welcome, and until they let me know they’ve changed their minds, I must assume their feelings haven’t altered. I’d rather quilt with you or alone than with a group of strangers who don’t want me among them in the first place. Now, are we agreed?”
Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Compson’s expression silenced her. She nodded instead, reluctantly.
They went to the sitting room, where Sarah was struck by the feeling that something was different about the room. She looked around for a moment before realizing that the neatly folded pile of sheets and pillows Mrs. Compson usually kept on the sofa was gone.
Mrs. Compson noticed her staring at the sofa. “I decided to move back into my old room, if you must know,” she said crisply, before Sarah even spoke a word.
Mrs. Compson leafed through a pattern book and found Sarah’s third quilt block, Little Red Schoolhouse. For this block Sarah needed to make templates for several rectangles in different sizes, a parallelogram, and another four-sided figure. When she had cut pieces using all but the last template, Mrs. Compson showed her how to “reverse a template” by tracing around it to make one piece, then flipping the template over and tracing around it again to make its mirror image.
When Sarah had finished piecing some of the straight seams, Mrs. Compson showed her how to set in pieces, sewing a third piece of fabric to two others that met at an angle. Sarah attached the new piece to the first by sewing a straight seam into the angle where the three pieces would meet. Then she pivoted the new piece around her needle until the next edge was aligned with the edge of the second piece, and continued her running stitch to join them. She hoped Mrs. Compson was right and that setting in pieces would become easier each time she did it.
Once satisfied that Sarah could manage on her own, Mrs. Compson began to work on one of her own quilts. “Richard used to call this block the Little Red Playhouse,” she remarked, smiling as she worked her needle in tiny stitches through the smooth layers held snugly in her quilting hoop.
“Why did he call it that?”
“Probably because Father once built him a little playhouse painted red, near the gardens, where the stables and exercise rings were. Richard loved to watch Father work with the horses, and this way Father could keep him near enough to watch without fearing for his safety.”
“Where was it? Near the gazebo?”
“Oh, no. Near the edge of the old gardens, on land that was sold off a long time ago to build the state road.” Mrs. Compson rested the quilt hoop in her lap. “My, how we all doted on that child. We had to, of course, to try to make up for losing Mother.”
“You lost your mother? Did she—was it when she had Richard?”
“No, thank God. Not until a few years later, when I was ten and Richard was three. At least he had that little time with her.”
“I’m sorry.” The words sounded hopelessly inadequate.
Mrs. Compson slipped the silver thimble from her finger and handed it to Sarah. “This was Mother’s. She gave it to me when she became ill the last time. She gave Claudia another just like it. I suppose she must have known, somehow, that she would be leaving us.”
Although the way I remember it Mother was a spirited woman, she tired easily. We children knew to keep quiet when she went about the manor pressing her fingers to the side of her head, almost blind from headaches that could last for days. Father worried about her and often sent an older cousin running for the doctor. Mother tolerated the doctor’s orders for bed rest and limited activity only reluctantly; as soon as the headaches passed she would be playing dolls with us on the nursery floor, planning a ball with Father, or exercising the horses. He would protest that she should not work herself so hard, but she would pretend not to hear him, and he would pretend she was fine.
She was not supposed to have any more children, but there it was, and she was so happy that none of the aunts could scold her. I did not know that until much later. At the time, Claudia and I and the cousins were only happy about the news.
The pregnancy was difficult, and Richard arrived almost a month early. We other children were not allowed to see him until he was nearly five weeks old. I overheard some of the older cousins whispering that it was because the grown-ups thought he would die, and that it would be easier for us if we had not seen him. I had such terrible nightmares after hearing that.
But the baby grew stronger, and Mother seemed to be well again. Father was so thrilled to have a son. Not that he didn’t love Claudia and me, mind you, but I think a man just feels something different, something special, about a son. At least at first—then the son gets older and the father and son fight like a mother and daughter or a mother and son never would. It happens all the time that way, and I don’t know if anyone really knows why.
As I was saying, the baby grew stronger, and Mother seemed healthy for a while, but as Richard learned to walk and talk and play, Mother seemed to weaken, almost to fade away. First she stopped riding, then even quilting became too much for her, and then one morning the rest of us woke but Mother did not.
How dark and lonely Elm Creek Manor became then. I don’t like to think about it, when I can help it.
We all went on, as people always have to, but it was difficult. Mother’s passing left an enormous emptiness in our lives. Claudia and I tried to take Mother’s place raising Richard—with our aunts’ help, of course. How he managed to become such a dear boy instead of a spoiled brat … well, I surely don’t know. Between the two of us, Claudia and I made sure he never wanted for anything. What a pair of young mother hens we were.
Father, too, indulged him, just as he had always indulged Mother, I suppose. When Richard demanded to be allowed to ride alone when he was barely tall enough to bump his head if he walked under the horse, Father would hold him on the back of a tired old mare and walk them slowly around the grounds. Richard had little patience for school as he grew older, and when I tried to tutor him he would dash off to explore the barn, or run away to the orchard to see if the apple trees were blossoming.
Such a headstrong, mischievous boy. But he had such a kind heart, that one. Once, when he was in his third or fourth year of school, a new boy came to his class. I would
see him every morning when Claudia and I dropped Richard off before walking down the block to our school. It was heartbreaking, really. The boy’s clothes looked as if they had not been washed, his eyes looked tired and hungry, and sometimes he would have such awful bruises on his arms. Most of the children avoided him, but Richard became his friend.
Once, at dinner, Richard asked Father if the boy could come and live with us, because his mommy and daddy were mean. Father and Uncle William exchanged looks—you know the kind of looks I mean, the ones they think the children don’t see. After dinner they took Richard aside and questioned him. They went out that evening and would not tell the rest of us where they were going.
Later I overheard them talking to my aunts. Very well, if you must know, I crept out of bed and pressed my ear against the library door. Father and Uncle William told my aunts that they had gone to the little boy’s house to speak with his father. Father wanted to see the boy, but when his daddy went to check his bed, the little boy wasn’t there. His sister spoke up then and said that her brother hadn’t been home for two days.
Father grew so angry that Uncle William had to hold him back or he might have hit the man. “How can a man not know whether his eight-year-old son is under his own roof?” he had shouted. They stormed out of the house and went straight to the police, who went back and took the little sister away from those horrible people. But no one knew what had happened to the little boy. He had disappeared.
“Did he run away?” I asked Richard the next morning.
He hesitated, then shrugged. “He didn’t tell me he was going anywhere.”
I didn’t know what to think. The rumors raced around school like wildfire. Some said the little boy had been murdered by his own parents. Others said he had run off to the city. I couldn’t bear to believe the former, but I knew he was too young for the latter.
A week later, I woke early and heard someone walking in the hallway past my bedroom. It was not yet dawn. I crept from the bed, tiptoed across the room, and opened the door.
Richard’s back was just disappearing around the corner. I crept after him, downstairs to the kitchen, out the side door and down the stone path to the garden. It was a clear evening in early autumn, and my bare toes were chilly as I trailed Richard beyond the gardens to his playhouse. He ducked inside, and I heard soft voices murmuring.
I followed, only to find Richard and the little boy sharing a loaf of bread and a paper sack of apples. They looked up in fright when I entered. The little boy jumped up and tried to run for the door, but I was blocking his way and caught him around the waist. He shrieked and tried to punch me with his fists, but Richard grabbed his wrists.
“No, Andrew, it’s Sylvia. She’s my sister. Everything’s okay now,” he said, his voice sounding so much like Father’s when soothing a jittery colt. He repeated the refrain until Andrew went limp in our arms.
Our two dogs had started barking when Andrew cried out, and soon all the grown-ups were awake. Fine guard dogs, indeed, to be silent until then. Before long we were inside the warm kitchen with quilts wrapped around us, sipping warm milk. I didn’t know why they gave me warm milk, since I had not been hiding in a playhouse or sneaking outside every night to care for a friend, but never mind.
Richard later tried to convince me that he hadn’t lied to me, not exactly. “I said Andrew didn’t tell me he was going anywhere,” he argued. “That’s true. Andrew didn’t tell me that because I already knew.”
I told him he intended to deceive me, and that was as bad as a lie. He was quite abashed and said he would never lie to me again.
But that tells you what kind of boy Richard was: good intentioned but so very impulsive. His instinct was to help his friend the only way he knew how. It never occurred to him that the grown-ups could help Andrew more than Richard himself could.
Who knows what might have happened if I had not found them in the playhouse that night. As usual, Richard’s luck rescued him in the end.
“What happened to Andrew?” It was Matt, leaning against the wall near the sitting room doorway. Sarah had not heard him arrive.
“The police came for him. He and his sister were taken to live with an aunt in Philadelphia. Richard saw him again, but not until they were young men. His parents moved away, and I don’t know what became of them. Good riddance.” She sighed and stood up, making a tsking sound with her tongue when she saw how little piecing Sarah had finished. “No more stories. It distracts you from your quilting.”
“No, don’t say that. I can sew and listen at the same time. Really.”
“Hmph.” Mrs. Compson shook her head, but a slow smile crept across her face. “One more chance. I’ll be watching carefully next time, mind you.” She rose and left the room, returning with a brown leather purse. She took out a checkbook and a pen and filled out one of the checks. “Here,” she said, tearing the check from the book and giving it to Sarah. “Your wages. I’ll see you Monday.”
Sarah was about to put the check away when she noticed something odd. “This can’t be right.”
“Not enough for you? Hmph.”
“No, that’s not it.” In her head Sarah calculated her wages for the number of hours she had worked. “Mrs. Compson, you overpaid me. I think you accidentally paid me for the hours we spent quilting, too, not just the hours I worked.”
“Accident has nothing to do with it.” Mrs. Compson zipped her purse shut and folded her arms.
“But that’s not fair to you. That’s not what we agreed.” Sarah tried to return the check, but Mrs. Compson shook her head and refused to listen. Instead she guided Matt and Sarah out the back door. As they drove away, they spotted her on the back porch, watching them go.
Fourteen
Sarah had all weekend to finish the Little Red Schoolhouse block, and—despite Matt’s attempts to distract her—to worry about her upcoming job interview. This time, she resolved, she was going to be perfect. She would answer every question with intelligence and charm. Sure, it had been years since she’d attended those job interview seminars at Penn State, but she remembered the most important tips. And hadn’t her professors told her that with each interview she would improve?
Several of them had, and every so often she felt like giving them a call and asking them when she could expect this improvement to kick in.
“How do you feel?” Matt asked as she finished her breakfast on Monday morning.
“Not bad, considering that I’ve done this about a million times. Now I’m really an expert at interviewing.” She was also becoming all too familiar with the variety of ways employers delivered rejection.
Hopkins and Steele was a small public accounting firm two blocks away from Grandma’s Attic. The secretary greeted her and led her down a carpeted hallway. “The nine-o’clock was a no-show,” she confided in a whisper. They stopped in front of a windowless door, and the secretary gestured for Sarah to sit in a nearby armchair. “They’ll come out for you when they’re ready.”
About five minutes after the secretary left, the door opened. “Sarah?” a tall, balding man asked. He shook her hand and led her into the office, where another man sat at a round table. The first man pulled out a chair for Sarah, then took his own seat.
The interview was more casual than Sarah had anticipated. Mr. Hopkins and Mr. Steele were good-humored and friendly, and Sarah felt she responded to their questions well. She even remembered to ask a few questions to demonstrate her interest in the position. By the time the interview ended, Sarah felt she had made her best showing yet.
Afterward, Mr. Hopkins offered to show Sarah out. When they opened the door and stepped into the hallway, they saw a man waiting in the armchair.
“Guess we’re running behind,” Mr. Hopkins said. “Sarah, do you mind finding your own way out?”
“No, not at all.”
“Follow this hall all the way down to the receptionist’s desk and you’ll see the exit. You’ll be hearing from us.” He smiled, then turned to the man in the a
rmchair. “If you’ll give us a minute to regroup, we’ll be right with you.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said. Mr. Hopkins nodded and shut the door, and she turned to leave.
“Well, hello again,” the man in the armchair said.
Sarah looked at him closely. Where had she seen him before? “Oh … hi.”
“Tom Wilson. From the PennCellular waiting room? Hey, we really have to stop meeting like this. Although I guess it had to happen, so many accountants and so few jobs, and all.”
“Yes, of course. How are you?”
He shrugged. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old.” He grimaced and jerked his head toward the closed office door. “How was it in there?”
“Oh, fine. Very nice people.”
“Good, good. You must have done really well for them to keep you late like that. That’s a good sign. You must have impressed them.”
“Really? Do you think so?”
“Well, sure. My appointment was for ten, and here it is quarter after. They wouldn’t run overtime for just anybody.”
Sarah felt a small spark of hope. “You know, I think it went well, too. They really seemed interested in me. I almost wish—” She bit her lip.
“Wish what?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, what?”
“It’s just—” She glanced at the office door to assure herself that it was still closed. She lowered her voice. “It’s just that I was hoping to find something outside of accounting. I mean, I know that’s where all my experience is, and I know I can do the work, but—” She searched for the words.
“But what?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to try something different, something, well, more interesting. No offense.” He was an accountant himself, after all.
He chuckled. “None taken. But why are you applying for jobs you don’t want?”
“It’s not that I don’t want them. I need a job, and I’ll be grateful for whatever I get. I just wanted to try something else, maybe something I would enjoy more. You know, explore my options. Except I don’t seem to have any options. Like with PennCellular? I really wanted to apply for the opening in their PR department, but they wouldn’t even give me a chance. One look at my accounting degree and that was that.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 12
