An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  Summer brushed some cookie crumbs off her lap and unfastened a twist-tie on the garbage bag. “While you guys were off having fun at quilt camp, I was getting some work done.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a folded bundle.

  “Oh, you finished piecing the Bear’s Paw,” Mrs. Emberly exclaimed. “Let’s have a look at it.”

  Summer and Gwen each took two corners of the quilt top and held it open between them. Sarah could see where the pattern had earned its name, as it did resemble a bear’s footprints. Summer had selected a different solid fabric for each of the twelve blocks, and the vivid colors stood out from the black background fabric. There were three rows of four blocks each, and a border of small isosceles right triangles surrounded them.

  “Nice work,” Diane said. “You can hardly tell it’s machine pieced.”

  Summer rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks.” Then she turned a hopeful gaze on them all. “I thought maybe since we’re all here, you could help me baste it?”

  “Baste it?” Sarah asked. “You mean like a turkey?”

  The others burst into laughter.

  Sarah looked around in surprise. “What? What did I say?”

  “I’m so glad you joined the Tangled Web Quilters, Sarah,” Gwen said, wiping her eyes.

  “Now, stop teasing the poor girl,” Mrs. Emberly admonished. “We were all new quilters once. Sarah, basting stitches are large stitches that hold something in place temporarily.”

  “You might baste an appliqué to the background fabric so that it stays put while you blind stitch it down,” Judy said.

  “But in this case, basting means sewing big stitches through the quilt top, batting, and backing fabric so that the three layers don’t shift around while you’re quilting them,” Summer said. “Basting’s actually kind of boring.”

  “A true quilter enjoys all stages of the quilting process,” Diane said, and earned herself a chorus of groans.

  Gwen shook her head. “You should’ve been a philosopher, you’re so concerned with what’s true.”

  “Well, who says I’m not? Maybe I’m a quilt philosopher.”

  Diane led them to a Ping-Pong table in another corner of the basement. After removing the net and the dust, Summer and Gwen placed a large piece of black fabric right side down on the table. Summer unrolled a sheet of thin cotton batting on the fabric, enlisting the group’s help to smooth out the wrinkles. Sarah then helped her place the quilt top right side up on the batting.

  “This is what we call a quilt sandwich,” Gwen told Sarah.

  Summer showed Sarah how to sew large, zigzag stitches through all three layers of the quilt. “I won’t take out the basting until I finish quilting,” she explained. “If you don’t keep the layers smooth your quilt will be all wrinkly and puckered on the back.”

  Each of them threaded a needle and began basting a section of the quilt sandwich.

  “How was quilt camp?” Bonnie asked.

  Summer smiled. “Yeah, tell us all about it and make us jealous.”

  “Oh, it was even nicer than last year,” Mrs. Emberly said.

  Gwen, Diane, and Judy joined her in describing quilt camp: the classes they had taken, which nationally famous quilters had turned out to be equally skilled as teachers and which had not, and all the new quilts they were now inspired to make.

  “It would have been more fun if you three had been able to come, too,” Judy added.

  Diane sighed. “It was such a treat to be able to spend the whole weekend quilting, without having to worry about getting somebody’s dinner or cleaning house or doing the laundry—”

  “Or checking papers or dealing with undergraduates or taking care of the kids,” Gwen said. “No offense, Summer.”

  “None taken, Mom.”

  “Life is too short to worry about chores when there’s important quilting to be done,” Mrs. Emberly said, smiling. “Most people I know don’t see it that way, though.”

  Gwen stopped basting and rested her elbows on the table. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Mrs. Emberly shrugged. “A sense of duty, I suppose.”

  “Or guilt,” Bonnie said. “Sometimes people look critically at a woman who spends time on her hobbies when the carpet needs to be vacuumed.”

  “Yes, but think about it.” Gwen rested her chin in her palm. “Who would criticize a male artist who spent the day painting or sculpting instead of mowing the lawn? Nobody, I bet. ‘He’s an artist; he must paint.’ Or sculpt. Whatever. That’s what they’d say.”

  “I think most people don’t consider quilting to be art,” Sarah said.

  The others groaned in protest.

  “Heresy,” Gwen cried, laughing.

  Diane frowned. “Of course it’s art.”

  “I didn’t say I feel that way, just that other people might.”

  “And why is that?” Gwen mused. “Consider that even today there are far more female quilters than male. Is quilting not considered art, then, because it’s something women do, or are women allowed to quilt because it isn’t considered art? Quilting does have a practical purpose, after all, so it could be said that the women are not creating art but are instead remaining within their acceptable domestic sphere—”

  “All right, Professor,” Diane broke in. “We aren’t in one of your classes.”

  Sarah wondered how Mrs. Compson would respond to this discussion. “Of course it’s art; what a question,” she’d probably declare, and then stare down anyone who dared to disagree.

  “Well,” Bonnie sighed, tying a knot in her basting thread, “as far as I’m concerned, women need art at least as much as men do, even if no one sees their work but themselves. We all need to give ourselves that time and try to ignore other people’s criticism if it comes.”

  “And we need to give ourselves that space,” Judy said. “One of the nicest things about quilt camp was that we all had so much room to ourselves, to spread out our fabric and our templates and things without worrying about getting in someone else’s way or having a baby crawl on a rotary cutter or needles.”

  “Time, space, and lots of friends—that’s what you need to be a successful quilter,” Summer said. She surveyed their work as Mrs. Emberly put the last basting stitch in the quilt sandwich, tied a knot, and cut the thread. “This would have taken me hours, but now it’s all done. Thanks, everybody.”

  For the rest of the evening they worked on their own projects, and Sarah was able to finish the LeMoyne Star block. Gwen took a piece of paper out of her bag and gave it to Sarah. “This will tell Mrs. Compson everything she needs to know about the lecture,” she said. “When, where, how long, all that. If she has any questions, though, she can give me a call.”

  “Thanks,” Sarah said, tucking the note into her bag of quilting supplies. She knew Mrs. Compson couldn’t and wouldn’t call, but Sarah could carry messages if necessary.

  Mrs. Emberly had looked up when Gwen mentioned Mrs. Compson. “Sarah, dear, is there any news about the sale of Elm Creek Manor?”

  “Nothing as far as I know. Sorry, Mrs. Emberly.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Perhaps no news is good news. Perhaps she’s decided not to sell after all.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t,” Sarah confided. “I tried to get her to join the Tangled Web Quilters, but—”

  “You did what?” Diane demanded.

  Startled, Sarah looked around at the others. Their expressions were guarded. “I—I’m sorry,” Sarah said. She felt her face growing warm. “I thought that since I was a member I was allowed to invite others to join. I—I’m really sorry. I should have checked first.”

  “Please tell me she said no,” Diane said.

  “Well—yes. I mean, yes, she did say no.”

  “What a relief.”

  Mrs. Emberly drew herself up and gave Diane a sharp look. “I disagree. Have some compassion. She just lost her sister, and she’s already lost so much in her life. I for one would welcome her into our group, and who here has more caus
e to exclude her than I?”

  Abashed, Diane looked at the floor.

  “She’s right,” Bonnie said. “I’ll never forget how you all rallied around me when Craig was in the hospital last year. Whom does Sylvia Compson have?”

  “Well, she must have someone,” Diane muttered.

  “Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t,” Gwen said. She turned to Sarah. “You go ahead and ask anyone you want to join. Sylvia Compson or anyone.”

  The others nodded and murmured their agreement.

  Sarah nodded, but felt herself withdrawing from the circle of friends, suspended in the middle between the Tangled Web Quilters and Mrs. Compson. She wanted Mrs. Compson to make friends in Waterford so that the friendships would encourage her to stay at Elm Creek Manor. But Diane—well, Diane seemed to enjoy having a recognizable enemy, a clear boundary between those who were good enough to get in and those who would be excluded. Mrs. Emberly was another mystery. Could she have been one of those Waterford girls who had been jealous of Mrs. Compson’s quilting and riding awards so many years ago?

  Sarah sighed to herself. She wouldn’t give up. The others seemed willing to welcome Mrs. Compson into the group, though it might be awkward at first. As for Diane, she would just have to get used to the idea.

  If Mrs. Compson would agree to join. And if she wouldn’t sell Elm Creek Manor and move away.

  Seventeen

  The next morning, Sarah and Matt arrived at Elm Creek Manor to find a dark blue luxury car parked in their usual spot. “Was Mrs. Compson expecting someone today?” Matt asked as they went up the back steps and into the manor.

  “She didn’t say anything to me. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  They hurried inside, calling Mrs. Compson’s name. Her voice returned an unintelligible reply from somewhere in the west wing. To their relief, they found her seated on an upholstered armchair in the formal parlor, sipping coffee. A thin, dark-haired man in a black pinstriped suit was with her.

  Mrs. Compson smiled warmly when she spotted them in the doorway. “Ah. There they are. Matthew and Sarah, come meet Mr. Gregory Krolich from University Realty.”

  Matt and Sarah exchanged a quick look as the man stood to greet them.

  “How do you do,” he said, smiling. His ring bit into Sarah’s hand when he shook it. “Mrs. Compson has been telling me how much you two have been helping her lately.”

  “Oh, yes indeed. We’ll have this place looking wonderful in no time,” Mrs. Compson said. “They’re both such good workers.”

  “I’m sure they are. I’ve heard a lot of good things about Exterior Architects.” He smiled ruefully at Matt. “I guess I can’t enlist your help, then.”

  Matt looked puzzled. “My help for what?”

  “I’m trying to convince Mrs. Compson that the restoration isn’t necessary.”

  “And I find his argument contrary to everything I’ve ever heard about selling a home,” Mrs. Compson said.

  Matt smiled. “Sorry, Mr. Krolich. I’m afraid I have to side with Mrs. Compson on this one. I’m not about to bite the hand that feeds me.”

  “Please, call me Greg,” Krolich urged. “Just my luck. It’s three against one. Unless … ?” He turned to Sarah. “You’re an accountant, right? Help me explain the economics of the situation to your friend here.”

  His tone wasn’t patronizing, not exactly, but it irritated her just the same. “Economics? Well, I’m not in real estate, but I guess you could offer Mrs. Compson less if the manor isn’t yet fully restored, right?”

  Mrs. Compson turned to Krolich. “Is that what’s behind all this?”

  He chuckled and held up his palms in defense. “Mrs. Compson, I assure you, I know how much Elm Creek Manor is worth. I’d be a fool to insult you by offering anything less than a fair price. I just hate to see you invest money in restoration when you’re planning to sell the place. Save your money for your new home.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Compson eyed him. “I think that’s my decision, to dispose of my money how I see fit.”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” He smiled agreeably. “I shouldn’t butt in. Especially when you have such ardent defenders.” He turned his smile on Sarah. “You have to admire someone who wants the best for her friends. That’s the kind of business instinct you’ll need in Waterford. You don’t get far in a small town like this by making enemies.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah replied. Then she thought about his words and wondered if he really had complimented her.

  “What are your career plans for after the manor sells?” Krolich asked Sarah.

  “Now, don’t you get any ideas,” Mrs. Compson warned. “You’ll have to be patient. I plan to keep Sarah very busy for the next few months.”

  “I’ll wait my turn.” Krolich chuckled. He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a business card, which he handed to Sarah. “Give me a call when you’re available, will you?”

  Sarah fingered the card without looking at it. “I don’t know anything about real estate.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of my department. We’ll try to find something for you in accounting.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” Then she thought of something. “Could you tell me more about your company? University Realty manages student rental properties, right?”

  He blinked, but his smile never wavered. “Why, yes. We do run many student properties.”

  “All of your properties are student rentals, right?”

  “Currently, they are.” His voice took on a slight edge.

  Mrs. Compson looked from Krolich to Sarah and back. “What does this mean? Are you planning to turn Elm Creek Manor into some kind of frat house?”

  “Certainly not. Nothing of the sort. We screen all our potential student renters very carefully. We get references, parents’ addresses, all that.”

  Mrs. Compson drew in a sharp breath and shook her head. “I realize the number of bedrooms and baths might seem to lend itself towards that sort of thing, but you see, I couldn’t bear to think of drunken undergraduates swinging from the chandeliers or performing hazing rituals in the gardens—”

  “I assure you, that will never happen.”

  “How can you guarantee that?” Sarah asked. “Are you planning to move in and baby-sit?”

  Krolich focused two steely eyes on her. “You’re not long out of college yourself, are you? Would you have been swinging from the chandeliers if you’d been able to live in a place like this?”

  “Of course not, but I appreciate—”

  “Well, there you have it.” He turned back to Mrs. Compson. “And most college students are as pleasant as your friend Sarah here. It’s not fair to stereotype.” He glanced at Sarah over his shoulder. “We mustn’t alarm people unnecessarily.”

  “No one’s getting alarmed as far as I can see,” Matt said. “We’re just asking a few questions. Mrs. Compson doesn’t have to sell to you if she doesn’t think you’ll take care of the place.”

  Krolich looked wounded. “I don’t know where all of this is coming from. I assure you, University Realty has an outstanding reputation in this community.”

  Mrs. Compson waved her hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, of course you do. No one is questioning your character or your company’s willingness to properly care for a historic building.”

  I am, Sarah thought as she studied him.

  His eyes told her he had noted her gaze, but his expression remained amiable. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Compson, but I must be going. Please look over those papers, and we’ll discuss them soon. No, no, I’ll show myself out,” he hastened to add as Mrs. Compson began to rise from her seat. He shook her hand and picked up his attaché case. He gave Sarah one last smile as he left the room. “Think about that job, will you?”

  When he had gone, Mrs. Compson sighed and leaned back in her chair. A troubled frown lingered on her face, and her eyes were tired. “It’s not that I want to see Elm Creek Manor become student apartments,” she told them. “That certainly
wasn’t what I had in mind. I thought—well, a nice family, perhaps, with children … ”

  “You don’t have to decide right now,” Sarah said after Mrs. Compson’s voice trailed off.

  “I have to decide soon.” Mrs. Compson stood and briskly smoothed her skirt. “They’ve made a reasonable offer, one I’d be foolish to simply disregard.”

  “What should I do about the outdoor restoration?” Matt asked.

  Mrs. Compson thought for a moment. “Continue. He may use the unfinished work as an excuse to reduce his offer later, regardless of what he says now.”

  So Mrs. Compson didn’t trust Krolich either, at least not completely. Sarah picked up the two coffee cups and carried them into the kitchen, then joined Mrs. Compson in the front foyer. Matt kissed Sarah good-bye and left for the north gardens.

  As they worked upstairs, Sarah and Mrs. Compson made only a few half-hearted attempts at conversation. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, Sarah would see Mrs. Compson’s hands drop from her work as she stared unseeing at some corner of the room.

  Sarah watched and wished she could think of the right words to convince Mrs. Compson not to sell her home.

  At noon Matt joined them for lunch. Sarah longed to take him aside and get his opinion about Krolich when Mrs. Compson couldn’t overhear, but she didn’t get an opportunity. During the meal no one mentioned the real estate agent or the manor’s impending sale, and to Sarah it seemed as if the others were ignoring the morning’s events. She couldn’t decide if that made her disappointed or relieved.

  After Matt left, Sarah remembered Gwen’s notes. Mrs. Compson spread them out on the kitchen table and looked them over, nodding. “Everything seems to be arranged,” she remarked. “On Gwen’s end, at least. I still need to work on my own presentation if I am to be ready by the ninth. That’s a Tuesday, I think.”

  “I didn’t know it was going to be so soon.”

  “Soon? We have more than a week. We’ll be ready. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Compson smiled reassuringly. “Perhaps that’s what we should work on today. That may shake off our gloom.”

  Sarah nodded. Gregory Krolich sure knew how to ruin a perfectly good summer day. Knowing Elm Creek Manor was going to be sold was bad, and knowing it was going to be turned into student apartments was worse. But there was something else, something Krolich wasn’t telling them. Or maybe it was all in Sarah’s mind. Maybe she was just looking for reasons to dislike him.