The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Diane and Tim didn’t have the resources to bribe the entire commission,” said Sarah, “and they wouldn’t have bribed anyone, even if they could have. If Krolich isn’t planning to bribe the commissioners, and if they aren’t eager to take the money, why postpone the decision until this top-secret meeting? Why hold it behind closed doors?”

  Andrew’s lined face furrowed in worry. “Would they really do that? Make and take a bribe so boldly?”

  “They won’t call it a bribe,” said Sarah. “Krolich will do something like offer in trade a fantastic deal on some other piece of property University Realty owns. The commissioners will convince themselves it’s in the best interest of the community to take the deal as they pocket their finder’s fees. Or if not that scenario, something like it. You wait and see.”

  “We can’t let them get away with such shenanigans,” declared Sylvia. “You thwarted him once, Sarah. You can do it again.”

  “Me? What could I do about this—what’s it called—Union Hall? I don’t know anything about that place.” She studied the photo and vaguely recalled passing a large, sad, forlorn, apparently vacant building on her way to the gym or the hair salon. “In the case of Elm Creek Manor, all I did was tell you the truth about Krolich’s intentions, and you decided not to sell to him. That was easy. This—” She shook her head and set down the paper. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. He’s told the commission he plans to tear it down, and they’re okay with that.”

  “It sounds like their only objection is what he plans to put in its place,” said Matt. “If Krolich changes the design to fit in with the surrounding buildings, they might not object.”

  “And if they do, Krolich’s money will help them forget.” Sarah hated to see Krolich succeed at anything after all the trouble he had caused Sylvia and Bonnie, but she wasn’t sure how to fight him this time. As far as she knew, this Union Hall, whatever it had once been, had been vacant for years, a magnet for vandals and litter. If it were beyond saving, perhaps it ought to be razed and replaced with something more useful and less hazardous—but not these condos, and not only because they didn’t suit the historic district. Sarah would rather have almost anything on that lot as long as Krolich wouldn’t benefit from it.

  “Perhaps Agnes knows more,” said Sylvia, turning the page with a disapproving shake of her head. “She’s a member of the Waterford Historical Society, and they surely won’t stand by and let Mr. Krolich run roughshod over the zoning commission.”

  They all nodded in agreement, but later, no one remembered to ask Agnes about the conflict. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, but other, more relevant concerns occupied their time, and it was easy to forget the troubles facing an old, abandoned building downtown. Sarah supposed none of them gave the matter another thought until a few days later, when a smaller follow-up article appeared in the Register, buried on page twelve amid a mosaic of advertisements. The executive board of the Waterford Historical Society had demanded to be included in the closed-door meeting, not only because they wanted to preserve the building due to its historical and architectural value to the community, but also because they owned it.

  “If they own it, why have they allowed it to fall into such a state?” asked Gretchen, as once again the manor’s permanent residents discussed the news of the day over breakfast.

  Joe scanned the rest of the article. “Apparently their budget won’t cover any maintenance except for the bare minimum to keep the pipes from bursting and the roof caving in. ‘Although the Waterford Historical Society currently uses the building only for storage,’” he read aloud, “‘their long-range plans include a complete renovation and restoration and the eventual reopening of Union Hall as the organization’s headquarters and a museum of local history.’”

  “An admirable goal,” remarked Sylvia. “Well, if they’re the proper owners and they don’t wish to sell, that should be the end of the matter.”

  “I suppose,” said Sarah dubiously. In theory, that indeed ought to be the end of it, but she knew Gregory Krolich didn’t give up that easily.

  Sure enough, the following Wednesday, Sarah had just settled the twins down to their after-school snack and homework—in separate booths in the kitchen, so they wouldn’t distract each other—when Agnes called, distressed. The Waterford Historical Society had been denied admission to the meeting, where it was rumored that Krolich had made a persuasive case for the city to invoke their power of eminent domain, declare the property neglected and abandoned, and sell it to University Realty. Agnes was so angry and upset that it was difficult to understand whether these things had already happened, were about to happen, or merely might happen if the Waterford Historical Society did not take immediate action. Agnes, who had welcomed Bonnie into her home when Craig and Krolich had conspired to sell her condo out from underneath her, disliked Krolich as much as Sarah did. “Union Hall is a treasure,” she said, her voice trembling with outrage. “We can’t allow that dreadful man to tear it down.”

  “What can we do?” Sarah asked. “Chain ourselves to the front doors as the wrecking ball approaches?”

  “Let’s pray it never comes to that.” Instead, Agnes explained, the Waterford Historical Society was planning a volunteer workday to clean up the property, inside and out. Presenting a more attractive appearance would not solve the larger, long-term problems facing the building, but it would make it more difficult for the zoning commission to condemn the property. Unfortunately, the society’s membership had dwindled in recent years, and they had few volunteers to call upon. Agnes wondered if she could search the Elm Creek Quilts database for the names and e-mail addresses of local former students who might be willing to help. “Quilters are always willing to pitch in during a time of need,” said Agnes. “That’s why I thought of our campers. If camp was in session right now, I could ask for helpers when everyone gathered for lunch, but since it’s October—well, if this weren’t so important, I wouldn’t ask you to divulge their contact information, but we absolutely must save Union Hall.”

  Sarah had never heard Agnes so adamant. “I’m fine with it, but I’ll have to ask Sylvia.” She promised to call back soon.

  Sarah found Sylvia sewing in the parlor. Sylvia mulled over Agnes’s request and agreed that Agnes could have the contact information for her own former students, and that she herself would contact the Waterford Quilting Guild and ask them to spread the word. “If we lose any students because their former teacher wrote to them, I believe those are students we can do without,” said Sylvia, justifying her decision. Sarah agreed and hurried off to assemble a list of e-mail addresses for Agnes.

  The workday took place on the third Saturday in September. Sarah couldn’t attend because she and Matt spent most of the day standing on the sidelines of soccer fields, cheering on the twins in back-to-back matches on opposite ends of the valley. Sarah meant to stop by for a few hours between soccer and supper, but just as she was hurrying out the door, Anna called, and as usual, they had so much catching up to do that the conversation ran well over an hour.

  Unfortunately, Anna had little good news to share. She and Jeremy liked Virginia and they loved their little family, but ever since the move, they had both encountered one professional disappointment and bewildering complication after another. Gina had grown into a sweet, delightful six-year-old, she had many friends in her neighborhood, and she adored her first-grade teacher. For those blessings, Anna was grateful beyond measure, but she missed her work and friends at Elm Creek Manor with a longing that had not eased over the years. After Gina became old enough to attend half-day preschool, Anna had launched a personal chef business, catering parties and delivering a week’s worth of fresh, delicious gourmet meals to clients’ homes. Although she enjoyed the creativity of the work and the flexibility of her schedule, her client list had grown little since she started the service, despite numerous referrals by satisfied customers. Unless things turned around soon, Anna wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to stay in b
usiness.

  She was even more concerned about Jeremy’s career. Although he had begun his work as an assistant professor buoyed by enthusiasm and optimistic ambition, he soon discovered that the History Department was splintered into three warring factions, each seeking to profit at the others’ expense. During his first few months on the job, Jeremy attempted to stay out of the fray, treating everyone with professional cordiality and demurring when asked to offer an opinion on old grievances that had occurred before he had joined the faculty. He was not aware that his every action, from meeting one colleague for coffee to collaborating with another on a conference paper, was scrutinized and analyzed for signs of his true allegiance. By second semester, most of his colleagues assumed he was allied with a faction other than theirs, and burgeoning friendships suddenly cooled. Worst of all, in his second year on the job, he offended a particularly influential professor who not only happened to lead the most powerful faction, but also was married to the dean of the college.

  Jeremy wasn’t even sure what he had done to earn such withering enmity. True, he had missed a department meeting to attend Gina’s dance recital, and he had not attended a lecture the professor offered in recognition of her recent publication in the Journal of American History because he had been up all the previous night grading exams. Since the lecture was open to the entire campus he had assumed he would not be missed, but apparently his absence was noticed and gave offense. When another colleague, a gray-haired associate professor who had managed to navigate the lonely territory between factions for more than a decade, warned him about his inadvertent slight, Jeremy attempted a friendly apology, but he was coolly rebuffed. He figured his prospects in the department dimmed after she was named department chair the following semester, and they became utterly bleak when she appointed herself to his tenure committee.

  “Isn’t there anything Jeremy can do?” Sarah had asked at the time. “If she’s completely biased against him, can’t he ask for her to recuse herself?”

  Anna explained that the tenure system didn’t work like a courtroom, and appealing to the department chair to appoint someone else would be no use because the professor in question was the department chair. Her thoughts leaping to the most logical conclusion, Sarah hesitantly asked what would happen if Jeremy were denied tenure. Would he remain an assistant professor as long as he worked for the university, or would he ever have another chance to be promoted to associate professor, perhaps after the current department chair stepped down?

  “I wish,” said Anna. “If he’s denied tenure, they’ll keep him on the faculty until the end of the school year, and then they’ll let him go. That’s to give him time to find a place at another university. But with so many new Ph.D.’s graduating every year, who wants to hire someone who was denied tenure at another school?” She choked up. “It’s just not fair. He’s worked so hard. He’s published a book from his dissertation and a whole slew of papers in good journals, he’s served on committees, and his teaching evaluations are some of the strongest in the College of Arts and Letters. How can his whole career get derailed by one mean person?”

  Sarah had no idea. The whole situation seemed bizarre and wrong, and all she could do to reassure Anna was to remind her that the other members of the committee, who weren’t biased against Jeremy, might overrule the department chair. Even if he didn’t earn tenure, his record of publications and successful teaching would surely win him a position somewhere else. Surely his more reasonable colleagues would vouch for him when he explained that he had been denied tenure for purely political reasons.

  The dismaying course of events had unfolded over several years and would soon reach its conclusion, for better or for worse. The tenure committee would decide Jeremy’s fate within the next few weeks, and he had feverishly redoubled his efforts to prove himself. Anna hardly saw him anymore, she lamented, her pain and loneliness clear to Sarah even over the phone line. He worked seven days a week, from morning until long past Gina’s bedtime, and he couldn’t afford to attend her school events anymore. Jeremy promised that his workload would lessen tremendously after he earned tenure, and the three of them would take a long-awaited and well-deserved vacation. “I hope he can make it until then,” said Anna. “I’m worried about him. The stress of the past few years is taking its toll. I’m afraid he’ll have a heart attack or something.”

  “Really? It’s that bad?”

  “Yes, it’s that bad. I thought graduate school was grueling, but this is insanity. Not the research or the teaching or even the boring committee meetings—that’s all fine. No one can fault him for his actual work, but the office politics are killing him. He might get tenure, but at what cost? I’m telling you, Sarah, this is not the kind of family life either of us wanted.”

  Sarah wished with all her heart that she could do something to help. All she could do was try to reassure Anna that the situation was temporary and that it would soon be over, one way or another. And one way or another, Jeremy would land on his feet.

  By the time they hung up, Anna seemed somewhat comforted, but Sarah was more worried about the couple than ever. They had talked so long that the afternoon had waned, and it was too late for Sarah to head downtown to volunteer at Union Hall. In the end, out of all the Elm Creek Quilters, only Gretchen responded to Agnes’s call for help. Somewhat guiltily, Sarah and Sylvia greeted Gretchen at the back door when she returned home later that evening, weary from a long day of sorting through dusty artifacts haphazardly packed into cartons and trunks in an upper gallery of Union Hall. Too exhausted to chat, Gretchen went upstairs to freshen up and change clothes while her husband microwaved some leftovers for her supper. Sylvia put the kettle on, and when Gretchen returned to the kitchen, Sylvia and Sarah joined her and Joe at the long wooden table, sipping tea while Gretchen ate and told them about her day.

  About thirty people had turned out for the workday, Gretchen reported, and they had divided themselves into three teams. The first group worked outside, trimming hedges, raking leaves, and yanking weeds from overgrown flower beds. The second, made up of people with carpentry skills or construction experience, fanned out through the building, inspected every room, made a very long list of necessary repairs, and began working on them. Gretchen was assigned to the third team, which took inventory of the storage rooms, sorting, identifying, and cataloging everything from collections of personal documents and shoe boxes stuffed with yellowed newspapers to books and daguerreotypes. It was hard, discouraging work. For each fascinating historical treasure the workers discovered, they found a half dozen so damaged by water, time, or mold that they had to be immediately discarded. “Some papers were so fragile they disintegrated the moment we picked them up,” Gretchen lamented. “Others were so blackened by mold that scarcely any of the words remained legible. But someone, years ago, must have thought they were valuable enough to save, or they wouldn’t have been stored in the gallery in the first place. I hate to think what knowledge has been lost, all because the building wasn’t properly maintained.”

  “It’s a shame,” said Sylvia, with a quick upward glance that told Sarah she was thinking of the historical treasures she had found in the manor’s attic, clues that had illuminated the mysteries of her heritage. Since her return to Elm Creek Manor after her fifty-year absence, Sylvia, Sarah, and Summer had investigated many of the trunks and cartons, but much had remained undisturbed.

  Thinking of all that they had discovered, Sarah could only imagine what could have been learned from documents and artifacts stored in a public building nearly as old as the town itself, if only they had been properly preserved. “Why didn’t the historical society take better care of the things entrusted to them?” Sarah asked.

  “They don’t have the staff,” said Gretchen. “In their defense, they thought they had stored everything in a safe, dry place. The gallery is on the second story, not tucked away in a corner of a damp basement. The water damage came from a leaking pipe within the walls, the leak so small it went unno
ticed until yesterday, when the volunteer carpenters found it.” Gretchen finished her supper and touched her napkin to her lips with a mournful sigh. “Their resources are so limited that for more than fifty years, they’ve kept most of their research archives in a special local history room of the Waterford College Library rather than maintain the collection themselves. The college took on the responsibility—and the expense—so that the archives would be available for their students and faculty.”

  “Good thing they did,” said Joe. “At least that part of the collection didn’t get damaged.”

  “Lots of other things survived storage unscathed too,” said Gretchen. “We finished going through only about two-thirds of the boxes, and the ones that remain are closer to the center of the room, away from that damp wall. Agnes is optimistic that their contents will be in better shape.”

  Sarah hoped Agnes was right, and she resolved to attend the next workday her friend arranged, even if she had to skip the twins’ soccer games.

  But her first visit to Union Hall came much sooner than that. The next morning, Agnes phoned with the news that the volunteers had made an astonishing discovery late Saturday night after Gretchen had left, and the society’s president was eager for the Elm Creek Quilters to meet her at Union Hall to examine the find. Maggie, especially, was most urgently invited to attend.

  “Why me?” asked Maggie, bewildered, but in her excitement Agnes had hung up without explaining.

  “I don’t know,” said Sylvia, equally perplexed. “I assume they’ve turned up an antique quilt or two, but why they should need any of us, I can’t imagine. Agnes is certainly qualified to appraise whatever it is they’ve found.”

  Sylvia’s observation was spot-on, because not only was Agnes a very experienced quilter, she also had a certain expertise in antiques, for she had learned quite a lot over the decades assisting her second husband in his work. What could the historical society volunteers have discovered that required more than Agnes’s expert eye, and why did they need Maggie in particular?