Claudia added a postscript informing him that she was Claudia Midden now and had been ever since she married Harold.
He went cold at the news. Yes, he had known that Claudia and Harold were engaged, but he never thought she’d go through with it. Hadn’t Sylvia told her how Harold had let Richard and Sylvia’s husband, James, die?
The four men had enlisted within hours of each other—he and Richard first, thinking World War Two would bring them adventure and glory; James and Harold later, when they learned of the younger men’s actions. James went to watch over Richard for Sylvia’s sake, but if Harold shared James’s intentions, his courage failed at the crucial moment.
He could never forget the view from that high bluff, the droning of planes overhead, the relief that turned to terror as their own boys fired upon them, the tank on the beach below exploding in flames. James, climbing out of the other tank and racing to help, as he himself had done, sprinting straight down the steep bluff to the beach, knowing he would never make it in time. In his nightmares he was forever running toward that tank, knowing Richard was inside, running with his feet sinking into the soft, wet sand, never gaining any ground. In the nightmares he could hear James’s last words as he fought with the hatch, desperately trying to free his wife’s beloved brother: “Come on, Harold, help me!”
But Harold ducked back inside his own tank. The planes made another pass, and the world exploded in flames.
Harold’s cowardice had saved him, but the cost was great—Richard’s life, and James’s, and Mr. Bergstrom’s, and that of the child Sylvia was carrying. Richard and James died in the second explosion; the shock of the news killed Mr. Bergstrom and caused Sylvia to miscarry James’s child. Tragedy piled upon tragedy drove a wedge into the family, estranging the grieving sisters when they needed each other most. And now Harold had maneuvered his way into the family he had so devastated.
The outrage, the injustice of it all, nearly drove him mad. He frightened Katy with his fury, and only the shock in her eyes allowed him to regain control of himself. For an instant the part of him that was so like his father had escaped. He sealed it up again, eventually, but his anger never completely died. He couldn’t bear it. He had longed to be a part of the Bergstrom family ever since he was a young boy playing with Richard on the banks of Elm Creek—but that honor had gone to Harold, the one who least deserved it.
That was why he had stayed away so long. Why return to Elm Creek Manor when Richard was dead, when James was dead, when Mr. Bergstrom was dead, when Sylvia had left for good? The place once so full of light and laughter must surely have become as cold and silent as a tomb. He could not go back. There was no point to it.
At least, there hadn’t been for many years.
Shaken by memories, he pulled the motor home onto the shoulder of the road. He set the parking brake and turned on his hazard lights, then sat motionless, gripping the steering wheel, staring ahead through the windshield. The motor home trembled whenever a car sped past, but he barely noticed.
Later—it could have been ten minutes or several times that—he took out his wallet and held it for a moment before retrieving the old photo he knew was there. He had carried it all those years, ever since he and Richard were young men in Philadelphia.
He had seen the black-and-white snapshot in Richard’s room, where his friend was boarding as he attended school. In the photo, Sylvia was standing beside a horse, one of the last Bergstrom Thoroughbreds, though of course no one knew that then. She wore close-fitting pants and carried a rider’s helmet and crop in one hand; the other arm was draped around the horse’s neck. She was smiling at the photographer with perfect joy, as if she had never known sorrow and never would.
“James took that picture,” Richard had told him, seeing how he admired it.
He had nodded, his heart sinking a little. Of course, it had been nonsense to think that she would have waited for him. He was a child to her and always would be. He had not seen her in years, not since the social workers had taken him and his sister from their parents and sent them to live with an aunt in Philadelphia. He consoled himself with the knowledge that James was a good man—Richard had nothing but praise for him—and that Sylvia was happy.
“Can I have it?” he heard himself asking.
Richard grinned, removed the photo from the frame, and gave it to him. He’d carried it ever since, and it showed. He should have taken better care of it.
He studied the smiling face in the photo.
He could do it; there was no reason not to. He could take the Pennsylvania Turnpike to the road that led to Waterford. He would recall the way to Elm Creek Manor once he got closer. Sylvia might not remember him, but that wouldn’t bother him too much. He just wanted to see her, to talk about old times and see for himself that she was all right. Now, when the past sometimes seemed more vivid to him than the present, it would be good to talk to someone who remembered the old days.
He put the photo away and turned the key in the ignition.
He’d do it. First, though, he had to get something better to wear. He had to be presentable when he saw Sylvia again, not worn and shabby in his old fishing clothes. For the first time he wished he’d given in to Cathy’s urging to let her take him shopping.
“An hour at the mall won’t kill you, Dad,” she’d admonished him.
“You never know, it just might,” he’d retorted, enjoying her teasing and delighted, as he always was, that his son’s wife called him “Dad.”
He smiled as he pulled back onto the road and headed east.
Five
Sarah knew Matt hated to hear her grumble about her mother, but one evening as they got ready for bed, she forgot herself. The more she told him about the annoying things her mother had done and said that day, the more irritable she became. She didn’t realize that she had been rambling on for ten minutes, her voice increasing in volume and pitch with each sentence, until Matt cut her off.
“Sarah, I’m tired,” he said, climbing into bed. “Can you just pull the plug, please?”
“Pull the plug? You mean, tell her to go home?”
“No, I mean stop playing this broken record.” He lay down and drew the covers over himself. “Your mother says the wrong things, she embarrasses you, she doesn’t understand you—I get the idea. We all get the idea.”
Sarah stared at him. “Since when do we not talk to each other about our problems?”
“If you want to talk, we can talk. You’re just ranting and raving.” He rolled over on his side, ending the discussion.
Sarah watched him, speechless, before she finally finished undressing and got into bed. She lay down on her side with her back to him. She waited, but he didn’t mold his body around hers as he usually did. She felt cold and alone, and it was an increasingly familiar feeling. She missed their old closeness and wondered what had become of it.
Sometimes she felt like she couldn’t talk to Matt about anything anymore. She would have turned to Sylvia, but the older woman already had enough misgivings about bringing mother and daughter together; Sarah couldn’t bear to add to them. She would have confided in the Elm Creek Quilters, but they had already accepted Carol as one of their own. Two years ago the Elm Creek Quilters had welcomed Sarah without judgment, without conditions, with no other wish than to offer her their friendship. In spite of everything, Sarah couldn’t bring herself to insist that they deny that gift to another newcomer, even when that newcomer had her so crazy she often thought she’d rather fling herself into Elm Creek than spend another minute in her presence.
As the spring days grew longer and warmer, Sarah put her energy into counting the days until her mother’s departure. If Diane could tolerate the skateboard ramp fiasco, Sarah could surely endure the rest of her mother’s visit.
On a Thursday afternoon, Sarah left the office and went downstairs to the ballroom, where Diane was assisting Bonnie with her workshop. Sarah watched as Diane moved briskly and confidently from table to table, assisting the
campers. If Diane was worried about the upcoming exemption hearing, she hid it well. There was a new determination in her eyes, an awareness and confidence Sarah hadn’t seen there before.
When the class was over and the students had gone off to enjoy their free time, Diane took a folded bundle out of her bag. “I finished adding my border,” she said. “Do you want it next, Bonnie?”
Bonnie agreed, took the quilt, and held it up. Sarah took one look at it and began to laugh.
“What?” Diane asked. “What’s the problem now?”
“All you did was add four triangles and set it on point,” Sarah exclaimed.
“So? No one said we couldn’t set it on point.”
“Setting it on point isn’t the problem.”
Bonnie shook her head. “No piecing, no appliqué—I consider that cheating.”
“At least I got it done on time,” Diane said, then she paused. “Almost on time. I’m only a little late.”
They all laughed, but Sarah felt a wave of sympathy for Diane, who had been much too distracted lately to enjoy working on the quilt. Diane’s piecing had improved so much over the past two years, and she had probably been eager to show off her new skills. Once again Mary Beth had forced Diane to modify her goals.
A similar thought must have crossed Bonnie’s mind, for she folded up the quilt top and packed it carefully in her tote bag. “Your border’s just fine,” she said. “In fact, I think it was an excellent choice. An unbroken space for hand quilting will set off the center block perfectly.”
Diane was so pleased by the compliment that she couldn’t speak.
Suddenly, Sarah heard an odd rumbling coming from outside. “Do you hear that?” she asked her friends.
They all listened.
“Thunder?” Bonnie guessed.
“I don’t think so,” Sarah said. They went to a window on the westfacing wall, where they could hear the sound more plainly as they looked out on the back of the manor. Elm trees obscured most of the view, but in the distance Sarah could see a cloud of dust rising along the back road, near the barn and moving closer.
“What is it, a cattle drive?” Diane asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Sarah left the ballroom and headed for the west wing, Bonnie and Diane close behind. Sylvia met them at the kitchen doorway as they passed.
“What on earth is that noise?” she asked them. Without waiting for an answer, she tossed her dish towel onto the kitchen table and followed her friends to the back door.
Sarah opened it and led the three women outside, where they shaded their eyes with their hands and looked down the back road. A motor home was crossing the narrow bridge over Elm Creek.
Sylvia sucked in a breath. “Watch the trees, watch the trees,” she called out as the vehicle scraped through the stately elms lining the back road. Sarah was glad Matt hadn’t seen it.
The motor home slowed as it entered the clearing behind the manor and circled the small parking lot, carefully making its way past the campers’ cars. When it reached the far end of the lot, it maneuvered into a block of open spaces and halted.
A moment later, the door opened and a man got out. Sarah guessed from his gray hair and the slight stiffness to his movements that he was in his early seventies, a few years younger than Sylvia. He wore tan slacks and a striped golf shirt—the uniform of the leisure set—but the hard knots of muscle in his forearms suggested years of demanding physical labor.
“Someone’s husband?” Bonnie murmured.
“Maybe.” Sarah watched the man approach. They had a few campers around his age. Alarm pricked her. What emergency would require a man to come pick up his wife from quilt camp without phoning first?
Sylvia brushed past Sarah as she descended the steps to welcome their unexpected guest. “Hello,” she greeted him from a few yards away. “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor. May I help you?”
A grin broke over the man’s face, and Sarah found herself smiling, too. He looked almost bashful, and his brown eyes were warm and kind. “Hello, Sylvia,” he said.
He knew her. Sarah, Bonnie, and Diane exchanged surprised glances, and Sarah could tell by their expressions that they didn’t recognize the man, either. She wished she could see Sylvia’s face, but the older woman’s back was to her.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then Sylvia’s hand flew to her throat. “Good gracious me, it couldn’t be.”
The man’s grin deepened, and he nodded.
“Andrew Cooper, as I live and breathe,” Sylvia exclaimed. It happened too suddenly for Sarah to detect who stepped forward first, but in an instant the distance between Sylvia and the man had been closed and they were embracing. Then Sylvia placed her hands on his shoulders and stepped back to see him better. “How are you? Better yet, what on earth are you doing here?”
“I saw your program on television,” he explained. His voice had a rough edge to it, the sound of a man who spoke only when he had something important to say. “I was traveling east to visit my daughter, and I figured I’d pull off the turnpike and see the old hometown.”
“I’m glad you did, but you could have told me you were coming,” Sylvia scolded him. “You certainly know how to give a body a shock.”
“Sorry.” He smiled, and suddenly Sarah realized he’d been looking forward to that scolding for miles. As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up at her.
Sylvia followed his line of sight and started as if she had forgotten her friends were there. “Oh, dear. Andrew, you surprised the manners right out of me. These are my friends and colleagues—Bonnie Markham, Diane Sonnenberg, and Sarah McClure. Ladies, this is Andrew Cooper, a dear old friend of the family. He and my brother Richard were once as thick as thieves.”
Andrew. With a jolt, Sarah realized who the man was, who he had been—the child who had hidden from his abusive father in Richard’s little red playhouse so many years before; the young man who had shared Richard’s excitement and naive bravery as they went off to war; the veteran of so much horror who had told Sylvia how her brother-in-law’s cowardice had led to the deaths of Richard and her beloved husband, James. That figure from the past was greeting her and taking her hand in his callused, work-hardened one. She was as stunned as if Hans and Anneke Bergstrom themselves had suddenly appeared and waved at her as they strolled arm-in-arm across the lawn.
“We have so much catching up to do,” Sylvia was saying to Andrew. “But surely you didn’t travel all this way alone. I’ll be terribly disappointed if you didn’t bring your wife with you.”
Andrew’s smile wavered. “My wife passed on three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How would you have?” He shrugged apologetically. “I’ve never been very good about writing letters. The last time I wrote was to invite you to the wedding.”
“I wish I had come,” Sylvia said. There was an ache in her voice Sarah hadn’t heard in a long time. “I wish I had known her.”
“You would have liked her.”
“I’m certain I would have.” Sylvia took Andrew by the arm. “Come inside and tell me all about her.” She led him into the manor.
That evening, after the campers had turned in for the night, Sarah, Matt, and Carol joined Sylvia and Andrew in the parlor to hear more of Andrew’s story. The day Andrew broke the tragic news to Sylvia had been his last in Waterford, and from there he had gone to Detroit for a job on the line in a factory that was being returned to auto production since tanks were no longer in such demand. Within a few years he had worked his way up to shift supervisor, and soon after he became foreman he married a young widow whose husband had died in Normandy, a beautiful young schoolteacher with dark hair, a ready laugh, and a quick temper that was appeased as quickly as it flared up. They had a daughter and a son, the most perfect grandchildren in the world, and almost fifty years together. She had died of an extended illness, but Andrew so couched this part of his story in euphemism that Sarah was
n’t exactly sure what had taken her life. After his retirement, Andrew had bought the motor home and spent most of his time traveling between his son’s home, on the West Coast, and his daughter’s home, in the East. His many years of hard work had earned him the freedom to come and go as he pleased, and he’d made the most of it—and he planned to keep doing so as long as he and the motor home held up.
“I’m glad you finally decided to take the road home to Waterford,” Sylvia said.
He smiled at her. “So am I.”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Sarah would have sworn Sylvia’s cheeks colored before she looked away.
Then Andrew turned to Matt. “Is Elm Creek still good for trout?”
“One of the best streams in the state,” Matt said. “They stock it every year.”
“In the old days they didn’t need to,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “Domestic fish. Bet they train them to swim right up to your hook and take the bait. Where’s the challenge in that?”
Matt grinned. “Think of it this way. They stock upstream, and that’s where most people fish. The trout that make it down here have to be pretty smart to run that gauntlet. It might be harder to catch them than you think.”
“Good. It’s more fun that way.”
“We can go out tomorrow morning if you like.”
“I would,” Andrew said, pleased. “We’ll have trout for you and all your campers for lunch, Sylvia.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll go ahead with my original menu, just in case.”
Andrew smiled and turned to Sarah. “How about you? Do you fish?”
“Not much,” Sarah admitted, making a face at the thought of putting a worm on a hook.
“I’ll teach you so you’ll like it,” Andrew promised. “I taught a young woman to fish once. She caught her first fish with her bare hands. Well, actually, it was with her foot, and she didn’t mean to catch it, but it wasn’t bad for a first try.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 35
