An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  “But your quilt does the same, only in a different way. Your quilt reminds us of cooperation, and friendship, and—”

  “Who says we can only have one quilt on that wall?” Summer broke in. “Why don’t we hang them both? There’s plenty of room.”

  Gwen hugged her. “Didn’t I tell you guys my daughter’s a genius?”

  “At least once a week for the past two decades,” Diane said.

  Everyone laughed, and the sound of their voices warmed Sylvia nearly as much as the beautiful quilt in her arms.

  “Why don’t we hang them now?” Matt suggested. The others chimed in their agreement and moved toward the door.

  “Not just yet, if you please,” Sylvia called out above the clamor. “I have a few more surprises for you.”

  She saw them exchange curious glances as they settled back into their seats. She picked up the folder and opened it on her lap, enjoying every extra moment she kept her friends in suspense.

  “My attack gave me much to think about,” Sylvia said. And so did that argument she had overheard between Sarah and Matthew, but she wouldn’t remind them of that awful time. “I decided that it was time for me to put my affairs in order. I met with my lawyer several times in the past few weeks, and I’ve made some arrangements which I’m sure you’ll find quite interesting.”

  Diane looked dubious. “Interesting in a good way, I hope.”

  “Oh, most definitely.” Sylvia turned to the first page in the folder and put on her glasses. “I’ve decided that it’s time for me to change my role in Elm Creek Quilts. I won’t be teaching any longer or organizing the activities. Instead I plan to supervise, pitch in here and there as I’m needed, work one-on-one with our campers now and again, and just generally enjoy myself. However, I don’t expect Sarah to add all my duties to her already substantial workload.” She peered over the top of her glasses at Summer. “In other words, dear, that full-time job you wanted is yours, if you’re still interested.”

  “Absolutely,” Summer exclaimed.

  “Good. Then that’s settled.”

  As the others congratulated Summer, Sylvia moved on to the next item on her list. “Then there’s this little matter of demonstrations and skateboards and what have you.”

  They fell silent as all eyes turned to Diane.

  “I’m concerned about the effect of continuous incarceration upon company morale,” Sylvia said dryly. “I believe I have a solution. We’ll arrange for the construction of a skateboard park—a legal skateboard park.”

  Diane’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “You mean here? On the estate?”

  “Heavens no. Far too many of our campers come here to escape teenagers; it wouldn’t do to give them another whole crop to contend with. I own a small piece of property adjacent to the Waterford College campus. I plan to donate it to the city with the understanding that they will use it for this purpose. I imagine they could put up a swing set or two as well, something nice for the younger children. My lawyer has been speaking with the city planners, and they’ve nearly reached an agreement.”

  “This is wonderful, Sylvia,” Diane cried. “My sons will be thrilled.”

  “Good, because the city of Waterford plans to put them to work. They’re going to assemble a planning committee to research construction, costs, insurance, maintenance—countless other matters. Your sons will participate, as will several other children from local schools. I imagine it will be quite educational.” She licked a fingertip and turned to the next page in the folder. “If nothing else, it will keep them busy and off the streets, so they won’t be mowing down helpless old ladies like myself.”

  Andrew grinned and shook his head at her. “You’re many things, but you’re not helpless.”

  She smiled at him.

  “You’re too generous, Sylvia,” Bonnie said.

  “Oh, I’m just getting started.” Sylvia checked her list. “Ah, yes. The company. I’m going to divide it all up into shares, which will be distributed among the Elm Creek Quilters.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over their exclamations and gasps of astonishment. “Not in equal shares, I’m afraid. Each will receive a ten percent share, except for Sarah, who will receive twenty percent, and, of course, I’m keeping twenty percent for myself. My twenty percent will revert to Sarah after my demise, but don’t hold your breath, Sarah, dear, for I plan to live forever. Now, where’s Matthew?”

  Matt raised his hand to catch her attention. He looked stunned. They all did, which delighted Sylvia beyond measure. “Ah, yes. Matthew. You get the orchard. Let’s see, what’s next? Oh, yes—”

  “The orchard?”

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him. “Why, yes, Matthew. The orchard. The one on the west side of the estate, where you were working just yesterday. Surely you remember it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s yours. The land, the trees, everything. The deed has been transferred to your name. If you don’t want it, you can sell it, but I hope you won’t.” She paused. “I also hope you’ll remain as our caretaker, but I’ll understand if you don’t. You’re an essential part of our operation, Matthew. You’re our—our secretary of the interior, as it were. I hope that the orchard will give you the independence you desire and the security any man would want for himself and his family, so that you keep your role in Elm Creek Quilts because you want to, not because you must.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia. I’m very grateful,” he said, and Sylvia knew he spoke from the heart. “But the orchard—what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Do with it?” Sylvia looked around the circle in surprise. “For goodness sake, what does anyone do with an orchard? Grow apples and cherries if you like. Develop your own hybrids. Build a cider mill. Experiment. Learn. Tear everything up and plant a vineyard if you like, but have fun.” She snapped the papers and hid a smile. “And here I thought you had a green thumb. What do I do with an orchard, he asks. What a question.” She glanced at Andrew, and she could see that he knew how much she was enjoying herself.

  Matthew had barely recovered his wits, the poor dear. “Thank you,” he said again, sinking back into his chair, amazed. She could already see his mind at work, imagining the possibilities.

  “The whole orchard. An actual piece of the Bergstrom estate,” Sarah teased him. “You must be the boss’s pet.”

  Sylvia fixed her gaze on her. “You only think that because I haven’t given you your present yet.”

  Sarah looked at her, her smile fading. The others grew silent.

  “But you’re going to have to wait for it.” Sylvia shook her head. “I almost fear telling you this. I know what an impatient young woman you are.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Sarah said quickly, clenching her hands together in her lap. “I don’t even want you to have a will. I don’t want you to need a will. I don’t want anything if it means that you—that you—” Carol put an arm around her shoulders as Sarah’s eyes filled with tears.

  Sylvia sighed. And here they had been having such a pleasant time. “Sarah, dear, I survived this recent blow, but I won’t survive forever. Recently I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I ever knew, but no one is that strong.”

  To her relief, Sarah nodded.

  “I need to know that the estate will be cared for when I’m no longer here to see to it myself. I need someone who understands that the true value of Elm Creek Manor doesn’t reside in its price per acre. You are that person.” Sylvia reached out and stroked Sarah’s hair. “Matt gets the orchard, the Elm Creek Quilters get the company, and you, my dear, you get everything else.”

  Sarah nodded, tears slipping down her face. Suddenly she was at Sylvia’s side, embracing her. “I’ll take good care of it for you. I promise.”

  Sylvia’s heart was full as she hugged her dear young friend, who would perhaps never understand that no estate in the world could even begin to equal what Sarah had given Sylvia. “I know you will.”

  By the end of the day, two new quilts
hung side by side in the foyer of Elm Creek Manor. The first was a testament to the courage of one remarkable woman who refused to be daunted when confronted with the many faces of tragedy. The other was a reminder of the power of friendship, the awareness that any task could be completed if friends thought creatively, trusted in themselves, and gained strength from each other.

  In the years to come, whenever new visitors arrived at Elm Creek Manor, the Broken Star and round robin quilts would welcome them. The visitors would admire the colors, the patterns, the intricate quilting, and perhaps, just perhaps, they would sense the love that had been worked into the fabric with every stitch. They would wonder about the women who had sewn a small measure of their souls into the cloth as they labored with needles and thread, as they sat around the quilting frame or worked alone, driven on by hope and determination. Some visitors would discover the true stories behind the quilts; others would be content to imagine and wonder.

  But Sarah McClure knew, and for as long as she lived, she would keep those stories close to her heart. She would never forget the lessons she had learned from the Elm Creek Quilters and from the wise woman who had become her most cherished friend. For Sylvia’s greatest bequest was the reminder that true friends are the most precious gift, and that even in the darkest of times love illuminates the way home.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the help of many friends and colleagues, including:

  My agent, Maria Massie; my editor, the incomparable Denise Roy; her assistant, Tara Parsons; and publicist Rebecca Davis. I am privileged to work with such talented people.

  My fellow quilters, who never fail to inspire me, especially the members of the Mad City Quilters, R.C.T.Q., QuiltNet, and QuiltersBee.

  The members of the Internet Writing Workshop, especially Christine Johnson, Candace Byers, Dave Swinford, Jody Ewing, Lani Kraus, Rhéal Nadeau, and everyone in the Lounge.

  The whole Orbitec crew and associated friends, especially Rachel and Chip Sauer, my first and best Madison friends.

  My wonderfully supportive family, especially Geraldine, Nic, and Heather Neidenbach; Virginia and Edward Riechman; Leonard and Marlene Chiaverini; and the entire Riechman clan.

  My beloved husband, Marty, without whom I would not be able to live the writing life; and Nicholas, my heart’s treasure and constant companion during the writing of this book.

  My heartfelt gratitude goes out to you all.

  For Marty and Nicholas, with all my love

  One

  Julia loathed retirement parties. Watching the guest of honor make the obligatory final curtain call evoked a predictable yet uncomfortable melancholy, but worse yet was the sense of the other guests’ eyes upon her. She imagined their whispers: Isn’t it about time we threw one of these parties for her, the dowager queen of the television drama? Doesn’t she realize her time has passed?

  As she raised her champagne flute to join the others in a toast to Maury, the man who had been her agent throughout her career, Julia forced herself to smile. Despite the critics’ lukewarm appreciation of her talent, she knew she was a fine actress. No one would detect her dismay at realizing that she was one of the oldest people present, that she could no longer count on being the most beautiful woman in the room, that maybe it was best that she retire with some dignity instead of lingering on long past her prime.

  No doubt the stars and would be stars assembled there expected her own announcement soon, especially since Family Tree had just ended its lengthy run. She had hoped for at least another two years, but as the three endearing cherubs who played her grandchildren grew into sulky adolescents with various addictions and attitude problems, the program’s once-spectacular ratings had begun a gradual but unmistakably downward slide. The final blow had come the previous winter, when the actor who played her son-in-law developed a particularly nasty infection in one of his pectoral implants. When his hospitalization forced them to shut down production for a month and show reruns during sweeps week, the studio heads decided not to renew any of their contracts. Most of the cast moved on to other projects, but for the first time in over two decades, Julia found herself facing a summer hiatus that threatened to extend indefinitely.

  If she were planning to leave the business, this would seem to be the time to do it. Money wouldn’t be a problem; she had invested her earnings so wisely that she wouldn’t need to earn a paycheck to maintain her lifestyle—even with the ungodly amount of alimony she had to pay her third husband. But to retire now, before she had starred in a hit movie, something meaningful and important and true—that would be unbearable.

  A handsome young waiter smiled as he offered her another glass of champagne. Drowning her sorrows didn’t seem like such a bad idea, given that her series was over and Maury was abandoning her, so she placed her empty glass on the waiter’s tray and took another. As she raised it to her lips, Maury caught her eye and inclined his head in the direction of his study. She took a hasty sip and nodded to indicate she would join him there. If he intended to scold her for drinking too much, she’d scold him right back. What was he thinking, retiring when she needed him so desperately?

  “You look lovely,” he greeted her, kissing her on the cheek as she entered the study. He closed the heavy door behind them, shutting out the noise of the party.

  “Thank you, Maury. You look rather lovely yourself.”

  He grinned and tugged at the sleeves of his elegant tuxedo. “Evelyn insisted,” he said. “I didn’t want such an ostentatious send-off. I would have preferred eighteen holes and a quiet lunch at the club with a few friends.”

  “And disappoint everyone who wanted to bid you a proper good-bye?” Julia tried to keep her voice light, but she couldn’t prevent some bitterness from slipping in. “It’s not like you to put your golf game ahead of your friends.”

  “Now, Julia, don’t be like that.” He placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her to a soft tapestry-covered sofa in front of the fireplace. “You’re going to be well looked after. Your new agent will be able to do more for you than I have these past few years.”

  The apology in his voice touched her. “I’ve had no complaints,” Julia said, resting her hand on his arm. “There’s no one in this world I trust more than you.”

  “Thank you, Julia.” Maury cleared his throat and drew out his handkerchief. “That means a lot to me.” Abruptly he strode over to his desk, and when his back was turned, Julia watched him fondly as he composed himself. Maury was a good man, one of Hollywood’s last true gentlemen. He had been her first husband’s oldest and dearest friend. He and his wife, Evelyn, had seen her through Charles’s death and the two foolish marriages and bitter divorces that followed. He had insisted that the producers of Family Tree audition her for the role of Grandma Wilson despite their complaints that she wasn’t the right type. He had unraveled hundreds of management snarls and eased countless disappointments throughout the years. Maury was a true friend in a city that knew little of friendship and everything about opportunism and greed.

  He tucked his handkerchief away and picked up a thin stack of papers bound by three gold brads. “What’s this?” she asked as he placed the papers in her hands.

  “A little farewell present. You didn’t think I’d leave you without one last great project, did you?”

  That was precisely what she had thought, but she wouldn’t tell him that. She glanced at the top sheet of the script for the writer’s name. “Who’s Ellen Henderson? What else has she done?”

  “You won’t have heard of her. This is her first major motion picture.”

  “Oh, Maury.” Julia frowned and tossed the script onto the coffee table.

  He took up the papers and sat down beside her. “Don’t ‘Oh, Maury’ me before you read it. This is the project we’ve been searching for. It has heart, it has warmth, and it has a fantastic part for you.” He placed the script in her lap and closed her hands around it. “Trust me.”

  “
Who’s directing?”

  “Ellen is.”

  The alcohol helped flame her temper. “This is your big plan for getting me my breakthrough role? I’ve won four Emmys and a Golden Globe, and you give me a script written by a nobody. How dare you, after all I’ve sacrificed?” The last words came out almost as a sob, which she tried to disguise with another sip of champagne.

  Gently Maury took the glass. “Don’t hold her inexperience against her. Two years ago her student film won an honorable mention at Sundance. Plus, William Bernier is producing.”

  Julia raised her eyebrows at him, her anger forgotten. “I thought he had a three-picture deal with—”

  “He does. This will be one of those projects. We’ll have all the perks and publicity a major studio can provide.”

  “That’s not bad,” Julia admitted, picking up the script. Even if the production fell through, Bernier would remember that she had been willing to take a chance on a neophyte director for his sake. Not every actress of her caliber would take such a risk, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a man like Bernier in her debt.

  “I’ll leave you alone to read it.” Maury patted her knee and rose. “If you don’t love it, I promise I’ll go out there in front of all those people and tell them I’m canceling my retirement until I can find you the project of your dreams.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Julia teased as he left the room, though she knew such an announcement would embarrass her more than it would him.

  Alone in the restful silence of the study, she settled back on the sofa and decided to skim through the first few scenes. If nothing else, Maury’s script would provide an escape from an evening of phony smiles and niceties and too much rich food. She read the cover page aloud to test the sound of the title. “A Patchwork Life,” she said, and winced. She wanted Masterpiece Theatre, and Maury had given her something so hokey it could have been plucked minutes before from a Midwestern cornfield. If Bernier was half the savvy producer his reputation claimed, he would change that title before releasing a single dollar. Shaking her head and expecting the worst, she turned to the first page and began to read.