He shrugged. “At least you’re getting the interviews. And you’re still young. You have plenty of time to switch careers if you want. Me, on the other hand—well, like they say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. They call us displaced workers. There’s so many of us we even have our own buzzword. Can you believe that?”
Sarah couldn’t decide what to say, so she shook her head.
“Besides,” he continued, “who’s going to hire a guy like me who wants to be paid what he’s worth and knows more about the boss’s job than the boss does? Not like some green college kid who—” Suddenly his gaze shifted over her left shoulder.
Sarah heard the door open behind her and Mr. Hopkins speaking to Mr. Steele. “I’d better go,” she said. Tom raised his hand in farewell, and she hurried down the hallway to the exit.
She met Matt at the square, a small downtown park near Waterford’s busiest intersection. They stopped home for a quick lunch, where Sarah told him about the interview. It had been a long time since she’d had good news to share about her job search, and even longer since she’d left an interview thinking she had a good chance of landing the job.
When she finished, Matt placed his elbows on the table and frowned. “I don’t know if it was such a good idea to tell that Tom guy how you felt about the job.”
Sarah’s smile faded. “Why? I made sure the door was shut first.”
“Maybe the interviewers didn’t overhear you, but that doesn’t mean they won’t find out.”
“What do you mean? You think he went in there and told them what I said?”
“No, I don’t think that, but—”
“Then what do you think?”
“I think you ought to be more careful, that’s all. If you want to get a job, you have to be smarter. You can’t keep screwing up your chances like this.”
“So you think I don’t have a job yet because I’m not smart enough or I’m messing up on purpose?”
“That’s not exactly how I put it.”
“It’s pretty close. God, Matt, that was the best interview I’ve had since we moved here, and all you can do is criticize me.”
“You’re overreacting. I’m not criticizing you.” Matt shoved his chair back from the table and stood. “But if you didn’t want my advice, then why tell me about it?”
“I am not overreacting.” She hated it when he said that. “I told you about the interview because I thought you might be interested in what goes on in my life, not because I want to be criticized every time I do something.”
“How do you expect to improve if you don’t get any feedback?”
“I don’t see how you know any more about the interviewing process than I do. I managed to find myself a job in State College, remember?”
“Fine. It’s my fault you don’t have that job anymore, and it’s my fault if you can’t find a new one. Satisfied?”
“I didn’t say it was your fault. Now who’s overreacting?”
“I’ll be waiting in the truck.” Matt grabbed his lunch dishes and stormed into the kitchen. Sarah heard them clatter in the sink, and then the front door slammed. Red-faced and fuming, she raced after him.
They drove out to Elm Creek Manor in silence. When the truck pulled up behind the manor, Sarah jumped out and slammed the door without a word. The truck sped away, its tires kicking up a shower of dirt and gravel.
Sarah went inside and paused in the back hallway, fuming. He was right, and she knew it. She shouldn’t have confided in Tom Wilson. But the other things he’d said were so wrong. He had no right to criticize her for not finding anything yet. Hadn’t she left her job in State College for his sake? Matt’s new job didn’t pay any more than Sarah’s old one had, so they weren’t any better off financially. Matt was better off—at least, he seemed happier—but what had Sarah gained?
“We should’ve stayed in State College,” Sarah said aloud.
The manor’s silence absorbed her words.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, her stomach tightening. Moving to Waterford had been a mistake. They should have stuck it out in State College a little while longer; surely Matt would have found something. He was more likely to find a job in State College than Sarah was to find something in Waterford.
She knew this as certainly as she knew that she could never tell Matt how she felt.
It was too late, anyway. She’d made her choice and she had to live with it. It would be a lot easier to live with, though, if Matt appreciated her sacrifice. Sometimes she thought he didn’t even realize she’d made one.
She took slow, deep breaths until most of her irritation subsided. She felt the manor surrounding her, comforting and quiet, more like home than the duplex would ever be.
Another quiet minute passed before Sarah opened her eyes and went upstairs.
She found Mrs. Compson in the suite next to Aunt Clara’s. She was sitting on the floor on top of a folded quilt and removing faded clothing from the bottom drawer of a bureau.
“I’m here,” Sarah said as she came into the room.
“So I see.” Mrs. Compson eyed her. “Should I not ask how it went, then?”
“Hmm? Oh. The interview. No, the interview was fine.”
“Of course. That explains why you’re so cheerful this afternoon.”
Sarah almost smiled.
Mrs. Compson set aside a flannel work shirt. “Well, then, since you clearly aren’t in the mood for working today, why don’t we have a quilt lesson instead?”
“But I haven’t done any work yet today.”
“True, but I’ve been working all morning.”
Sarah shrugged. “Okay. You’re the boss.”
“Indeed I am,” Mrs. Compson said. She motioned for Sarah to help her to her feet. “You’ll be starting a new block today, the Contrary Wife.”
Sarah snorted. “Got one called the Contrary Husband instead?”
Mrs. Compson raised an eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of discord? That can’t be, not with the two lovebirds.”
“Matt was being a pain today. I told him about my interview, and all he could do was pick apart everything I said.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“And I didn’t even do anything wrong.” Sarah explained what had happened.
Mrs. Compson drew in a breath and grimaced. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Matthew.” She raised a hand when Sarah opened her mouth to protest. “With what he said, not with how he said it. He should have been more tactful. But I think he’s right to caution you against speaking too freely with others who are competing for the same jobs.”
Sarah plopped down on the bed. “I knew you’d take his side.”
“Oh, is that what I’m doing? I thought I was merely offering my opinion.” Mrs. Compson sat down beside her. “If I am taking his side, it’s because he’s right. This Tom Wilson didn’t need to know how you feel about your profession.”
Sarah sighed. Maybe Mrs. Compson and Matt were right. She’d really blown it this time.
“I don’t think this Tom Wilson will divulge your secret, however,” Mrs. Compson said.
“I hope not, but why wouldn’t he?”
“Because he’ll seem terribly unprofessional if he does. Why should they believe him, anyway, someone spreading rumors about another applicant?”
“That’s probably true.”
“However, I do hope you’ve learned a lesson. Be careful to whom you divulge your secrets. You never know—” Mrs. Compson paused, smiling to herself.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” Mrs. Compson’s smile grew. “I was just thinking about how I met my husband.”
“You met him at a job interview?”
“No, no.” Mrs. Compson laughed. “But the day we met, he was even less discreet than you were today, much to his later embarrassment.”
I told you before how every year at the state fair Claudia and I would show our quilts, and how I would compete in the rid
ing events. Father would show his prize horses and spend hours debating the merits of various breeding and training practices with the other gentlemen. Richard hung on every word; he wanted to be ready for the day he would take over Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. He spent nearly every moment with Father and the horses. Despite my efforts, however, he did not have the same diligence for his schoolwork. I suppose that isn’t unusual for a nine-year-old boy.
I was sixteen, and I loved the fair. And I loved to ride. I must have annoyed some of the other girls, since I took first place in every competition I entered. But I didn’t care as much about the ribbons and trophies as they thought I did. What I loved was flying like the wind, feeling the horse gather all its strength before soaring over a jump, the delicate power of the flashing hooves and flowing manes—oh, it was wonderful. Seeing the pride in Father’s eyes when I won on his horses—well, that was wonderful, too.
One morning I was riding Dresden Rose in the practice ring when I noticed a young man leaning against the fence, watching us exercise, just as he had for the past two mornings of the fair. After returning his greeting with a nod I pretended to ignore him, but it was difficult not to watch him out of the corner of my eye as I rode. It was also rather annoying to have him there again. I had my first competition coming up and needed to concentrate, and I couldn’t do so very well with someone staring.
Afterward in the stable, I was brushing Dresden Rose, checking her feed, and murmuring to her encouragingly to build up her confidence for the afternoon’s events. Then I heard the stall door open behind me.
I whirled around, startling Rose. The young man from the practice ring stood there grinning at me.
“Beautiful animal,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” I replied, my voice tinged with irritation. I stroked Rose’s neck and spoke soothingly to calm her.
The man reached over to stroke her muzzle. “A Bergstrom?”
“Yes.” Then I realized he meant Rose, not me. “Yes, she is.”
His admiring gaze turned to me. “You’re a fine rider.”
My cheeks flushed, although I willed them not to. He was quite handsome, tall and strong with dark eyes and dark, curly hair. I was very aware that there was no one else around, and how I probably looked to him. I was never the beauty Claudia was, but in my own way I was quite pretty back then, or at least he seemed to think so.
“Thank you,” I finally managed, half hoping that Richard or Father would suddenly appear, and half afraid that they would.
He moved along Rose’s side, and I stepped back involuntarily even though the horse was between us. “Don’t worry,” he murmured to Dresden Rose as he stroked her neck. “I don’t mean you any harm.” He ran a hand along her flank, looking her over with a practiced eye. “Do you get to ride Bergstroms often?”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Of course.”
“They’re supposed to be the finest horses around.”
“A lot of people think so.”
He grinned at me. “I know I shouldn’t admit this, but the best of my family’s stable can’t match the worst of old Bergstrom’s.”
“Oh, really?” I was so surprised I almost laughed. “Well, I suppose ‘old Bergstrom’ would be delighted to hear that.”
“I bet he already knows.” He had continued around Rose’s hindquarters and was now on my side of the stall. “My father has plans, though. He thinks he’ll catch up to Bergstrom in a generation.”
“Those must be some plans.” My voice trembled as he drew closer, and I busied myself with Rose’s mane. “Will they work?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. His ideas are a good start, but they don’t go far enough. And you can’t get anywhere in this life without taking a few chances.”
“My father would agree.”
“No, no one will catch Bergstrom for a while yet. But someday I’m going to breed horses that will rival his. Maybe even surpass them.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise and challenge. “Do you really think you can?”
“Oh, sure. Not soon, but someday. I have some ideas.” He stepped closer and took the brush from my hand. “May I?” I nodded, and he continued Rose’s grooming. “Hard to imagine there could ever be a finer horse than you, though, isn’t it?” he murmured in Rose’s ear. She nuzzled his face.
“Her name is Dresden Rose.”
“And what’s yours?”
I paused for a moment. “Sylvia.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Sylvia. Lovely name.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m James Compson.”
I took in a breath. “One of Robert Compson’s sons?” Robert Compson raised horses in Maryland. He was my father’s nearest rival.
His smile turned wry. “The youngest of many.”
“I see.” I reached out for the brush.
He dropped the brush and took my hand in both of his. Startled, I moved as if to pull away.
“Please, don’t run off,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s taken me two days just to get up the courage to speak to you.”
“My father will be here soon.” My voice shook and I felt very strange, but I didn’t back away.
A hurt look flashed in his eyes, and he released my hand. “Do you want me to leave?”
I shook my head, and then I nodded, and then I just looked at him in dismay. I wanted him to take my hand again, and I wanted him to be gone.
“I’m sorry. This was foolish of me.” He opened the stall door and left.
By the time I finished caring for Dresden Rose, my hands had stopped shaking. By the time Father, Claudia, and Richard arrived to help me prepare for the competition, I was able to appear calm. I didn’t fool Claudia, though; she knew something had happened, but she wouldn’t press me to explain, not with Father and Richard there.
The competition began, and soon it would be my turn. I spotted my family cheering in the spectators’ seats, and I grinned as I waved back, my confidence bolstered.
Then, as I looked away from my family and into another part of the stands, my eyes met James’s. My stomach flip-flopped. His gaze was so steady and intense, and it so unsettled me, that I sawed on Rose’s reins. She whinnied in protest, jolting me back to alertness.
Then it was my turn. “Our fifth competitor,” the announcer’s voice rang out so that all could hear. “Sylvia Bergstrom.”
There was just enough time before I trotted into the ring for me to see James’s jaw drop.
“You see, he didn’t know who I was.”
“Yes, I figured that out,” Sarah managed to say through her laughter. “But when he asked for your name, why didn’t you say Sylvia Bergstrom instead of just Sylvia?”
Mrs. Compson looked abashed. “I was having too much fun at his expense, I’m afraid.” She laughed. “My goodness, how embarrassed he must have been. Can you imagine?”
“But everything worked out fine in the end, didn’t it?” Sarah teased. “I mean, you did marry him, right?”
Mrs. Compson smiled. “Yes, I did. So maybe everything will work out just fine for you, too, but I do hope you’ll be more cautious.”
“I will.”
They went downstairs to the sewing room, where Mrs. Compson helped Sarah draft her new templates. As they worked, Sarah realized that most of her anger had faded, but Matt’s criticism still stung. Was it because she knew he had been right—not just about divulging secrets but about everything? Was she subconsciously screwing up her search for a real job?
Sarah thought about it and decided that it couldn’t be true. Why would she want to do that, subconsciously or otherwise?
She concentrated on her quilting—and on figuring out a way to get Matt to apologize before she confessed that he’d been right.
Fifteen
That week Sarah and Mrs. Compson finished the second suite and started a third, working on the manor in the mornings and quilting in the afternoons. On Thursday, Sarah completed the Contrary Wife block and began
another, which Mrs. Compson called the LeMoyne Star. Mrs. Compson must have liked the pattern herself, since it appeared in several of the quilts she had taken from the cedar chest.
Thursday was also the day Sarah remembered Gwen’s request. “You know that group of quilters I told you about?” she asked as she traced a figure onto the template plastic.
Mrs. Compson kept her eyes on her quilting. “No, I’ve never made their acquaintance.”
“Actually, you do know one of them, Bonnie Markham. But you know what I mean. Do you remember them?”
“How could I remember them if I’ve never met them?”
Sarah decided to start over. “Last week when I went to the Tangled Web Quilters’ meeting, I met a woman named Gwen Sullivan. She’s a professor at Waterford College.”
“How very nice for her.”
“She’s teaching a course on the history of American folk art, and she wondered if you might be willing to be a guest speaker.”
“Really.” Mrs. Compson set down her quilt hoop. “Does she want me to teach the class how to quilt or to teach them about quilt history?”
“I think she wants you to talk about quilt history and folklore and stuff.”
“If Gwen is a quilter herself, why does she need me?”
Sarah hesitated. “Well, sometimes it’s more fun for the students to listen to someone other than the professor. And you tell good stories.”
Mrs. Compson smiled. “Very well, then. You may tell your friend it would be my pleasure to speak to her class.”
“Great. Gwen will be glad to hear that.” Sarah paused. “You could come to the Tangled Web Quilters’ meeting with me tonight and tell her yourself.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m sure you’re responsible enough to carry the message.”
“Of course I am, but—”
“Then it’s settled.”
Sarah gave up.
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 13
