When the following evening arrived and Sarah still had heard nothing from either Jeremy or Anna, she grew concerned. It was not like them, no matter how busy they were, to let urgent e-mails and messages go unanswered for so long. After supper, Sarah and Matt lingered at the table to discuss her trip and speculate about their friends’ silence. Sarah feared Gina was ill or Jeremy had been denied tenure, but Matt thought it was more likely that the family was on vacation. “In the middle of the semester?” asked Sarah, skeptical, but Matt pointed out that the family both deserved and needed time off after all Jeremy had gone through lately, and Jeremy himself had promised Anna a vacation.
When there was still no word from Jeremy or Anna the next morning, Sarah kissed the twins good-bye, explained that she was going out of town for a few days, and sent them off to school. Then, back upstairs, she went online to reserve a room at a hotel within walking distance of the Penn State campus and packed enough clothes for a few days. When she came downstairs lugging her suitcase, her laptop in a smaller bag slung over her shoulder, she found Matt in the kitchen packing her a lunch and snacks for the road. “Call me when you get there?” he asked, helping her carry everything out to the car.
“Of course.” They kissed good-bye, and Sarah set out.
The long drive gave her ample time to consider all that had happened since the discovery of the two antique quilts. She wondered what Krolich knew about Union Hall that they didn’t—not only what he knew, but also how he had come to know it. He didn’t strike Sarah as particularly well-read or intellectually curious. Whatever he had learned about Union Hall, he hadn’t stumbled across it in the pages of Abel Wright’s books. Something or someone else must have warned him of the evidence they contained.
The weather was sunny and clear but cool, the trees on the rolling Appalachians long past their peak of autumn color. Sarah reached University Park by late morning, parked in the hotel lot but didn’t check in, and walked up the hill to the Pattee Library, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. While the librarian retrieved Abel Wright’s books from Special Collections, Sarah discreetly checked her messages before obeying the posted signs and shutting down her cell phone. Matt had sent a text wishing her a safe drive, but otherwise there was no news from home, nor any word from Jeremy.
The librarian returned with six volumes that smelled faintly of age and attics, their covers worn and faded, the pages yellowed. Sarah left her driver’s license in lieu of a library card and carried the books to an isolated carrel. Since Agnes had already read most of Abel Wright’s first book, Sarah opened the second and soon became engrossed in the spellbinding tale of his Underground Railroad years. It was midafternoon before hunger compelled her to break for lunch, and after returning the books to the Special Collections desk, she walked downtown to a favorite restaurant from her college days only to discover that the Stage Door Deli had become the Fraser Street Deli. Startled and a bit disappointed, she nonetheless ordered a sandwich, reflecting on how many years had passed since her graduation, and how all things must change. Waiting for her lunch, she turned on her phone to check for messages—and found a startling text Diane had sent hours before: “Urgent! Everyone meet at Union Hall at noon!”
“Oh, no,” Sarah muttered, dialing Diane’s number. The call went straight to voice mail. She next dialed Agnes’s home, but the line was busy. She called Elm Creek Manor, but after three rings the answering machine picked up. That struck her as the strangest of all; usually at least one of the manor’s residents was around any time of day to answer the phone. One by one she called each of the Elm Creek Quilters, but reached only busy signals or voice mail. She sent out a flurry of texts, and at last received a cryptic response from Diane: “On phone. Will explain later.”
“Should I come home?” Sarah quickly texted back, but Diane didn’t reply.
Torn, Sarah finished her lunch, returned to the library, and reclaimed Abel Wright’s books from Special Collections. Though distracted by concerns about what could possibly be going on back in Waterford, she continued to read and take notes, surreptitiously checking her cell phone from time to time in case Matt or her friends had returned any of her messages.
Special Collections closed at six-thirty, but Sarah managed to finish reading Abel Wright’s second book before she had to leave. Sylvia would be delighted to hear that he had mentioned the Bergstrom family several times. Not only that, but in the chapter when he told of his wife’s deliverance from slavery in Virginia to freedom in Pennsylvania, he mentioned a visit from the Granger family and a quilt that nineteen-year-old Dorothea had given to Constance to welcome her to her new home. Although the description was brief, certain details convinced Sarah that the quilt in question had to be the elaborate appliqué sampler discovered in Union Hall. The passages verified the embroidered details on the back of the quilt, but that evidence only confirmed the historical significance of the quilt, not the building in which it was found.
Sarah was intrigued by all she had learned that day, but her frustrations and worries remained. The Loyal Union Sampler was linked to Union Hall but not to Abel Wright. The appliqué album was definitely linked to Abel Wright but not to Union Hall. The crucial evidence linking quilts and author and Union Hall still eluded her, and she doubted she would find it in Abel Wright’s third book, which was another memoir covering the postwar years and Reconstruction, or the three books that followed, collections of essays and treatises on a variety of social and political subjects. Sarah would have to read the books to be sure, but considering that Union Hall was built in 1863, it seemed unlikely that it would figure in Abel Wright’s later work.
As soon as she exited the library, she called Matt’s cell phone and was relieved when he picked up. “What’s going on at Union Hall?” she asked. “I’ve had two alarming texts from Diane, but otherwise I haven’t heard anything all day.”
“I don’t know much,” said Matt, his voice barely audible over the exhaust fan above the stove. Likely he was fixing himself and the twins hamburgers for supper. “Agnes found out that the city council was holding an emergency closed-door session today when someone from the Waterford Register called her for a comment.”
“Another closed-door session?”
“Apparently so. The reporter told Agnes that the council was expected to vote to condemn Union Hall under their right of eminent domain.”
“Already?” Sarah hurried down the hill past Old Main, where tall, stately elms sent golden leaves dancing to the grass and sidewalks below. “This is unbelievable.”
“Surely you didn’t expect Krolich to waste any time.”
“No, but I thought the council might.” A fallen elm leaf caught in her hair, and she plucked it out and tossed it over her shoulder. “What happened?”
“Agnes called all hands on deck to try to figure out some way to stall them. I don’t know if she succeeded. Gretchen and Maggie joined the meeting at Union Hall, but they haven’t come home yet.”
Just then, Sarah’s call waiting beeped. “It’s Diane,” she said, checking the screen. “Can I call you back after supper?”
“Please do. I want to know everything,” Matt said, and hung up.
Diane had much to tell. After the reporter alerted Agnes to the unexpected city council meeting, she summoned all the friends of the Waterford Historical Society to Union Hall so they could organize their response and attempt to delay the vote. Agnes’s first thought was to organize a march on city hall, but Gwen, who had fond memories of antiwar protests at Berkeley, pointed out that they could march and protest and burn Krolich in effigy until they were hoarse and footsore, but the city council could still proceed blithely along behind locked doors, ignoring them. What they needed to do, Gwen proposed, was to prevent at least six council members from attending the meeting. “If they can’t form a quorum,” Gwen explained, “they can’t hold a binding vote.”
“How exactly do you suggest we keep them away from city hall?” Diane asked. “Ambush them on the side
walk and carry them off in a sack?”
Gretchen suggested they send two or three people to each council member’s home and to civilly and politely explain the historical society’s position. “Even if we can’t convince all twelve members to save Union Hall today,” she added, “we might be able to convince six of them to stay home from this meeting tonight. We’re not asking for the moon, just a little more time to search for proof that Union Hall is historically significant. If the council members are even moderately reasonable people, they’ll see the merit in postponing the vote.”
“What if they won’t listen to us?” a member of the historical society called out over the chorus of voices chiming in their agreement. “What if they don’t answer the doorbell? What if while we’re on the front porch, they’re sneaking out to the garage through the side door?”
“We’re their constituents,” Gretchen said. “They have to listen to us.”
Gwen burst out laughing, but then caught herself. “Oh, you’re serious. I’m sorry, Gretchen. I thought you were joking.”
“If they won’t listen to the voters,” Agnes declared, her blue eyes taking on a steely glint, “I bet there’s someone each of them will listen to.”
Agnes’s plan required a bit of research, but several of the friends of Union Hall had brought their laptops and were able to log on to the Internet via the free Wi-Fi at a café down the block. Others used their smartphones. Within a half hour, thanks to Waterford’s relatively small population and to the lengthy biographies posted on the council members’ election Web sites, they were able to track down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the council members’ mothers. Then, while teams of two or three went to each council member’s home to speak with them, Agnes had other friends call their mothers. She assigned callers to mothers with swift insight, never failing to find some small connection between them—they attended the same church, or they lived on the same street, or their husbands were co-workers, or they had both served on the same fund-raising committee when their children were in the high school marching band together many years before. Before anyone dialed a single number, Agnes instructed them to tell the mothers that an irreplaceable city treasure was in jeopardy, and all the historical society wanted was the opportunity to prove it. All they asked for was time to finish their research and have the National Park Service determine whether Union Hall possessed unique historical significance. Should the mothers agree that their voices deserved to be heard just as much as Mr. Krolich’s did, the Waterford Historical Society would be deeply grateful if they would call their children and urge them to be patient, to listen, and to give them a chance to make their case.
The calls, the visits, the scrambling to reach mothers who were not at home, the gentle persuasion, the protests as some council members pushed past their visitors in their haste to get to their cars—it went on all afternoon and into the evening. A few of the mothers declared that they did not get involved in their children’s politics and hung up on the callers. One mother tearfully admitted that her son had not spoken to her in years. Several were appalled to learn how Krolich was trampling on the historical society’s right to equal treatment, and they vowed to keep their children on the phone until they agreed to preserve Union Hall or it was too late for them to leave for the council meeting. At least one drove to her daughter’s house, blocked the end of her driveway with her own car, and joined the friends of Union Hall on the front porch, ringing the doorbell and calling to her daughter through an open window until embarrassment compelled the younger woman to invite them in. When the appointed hour arrived, four council members had made their way to the chambers in city hall, two had feigned illness, and six had called the mayor to explain that upon further reflection, they saw no reason to rush to a vote in yet another closed-door emergency session, or to deny the Waterford Historical Society an opportunity to explain why preserving Union Hall would benefit the community. To that end, they urged the mayor to invite the society’s president to address the council at their next regularly scheduled meeting.
Thanks to Agnes, a quorum had not met that day, the vote was not taken, Union Hall had been granted a reprieve, and the historical society would be allowed to make their case for saving Union Hall. Sarah was thrilled, but she cautioned, “Krolich won’t give up. For every argument the historical society makes for preserving Union Hall, he’ll have a counterargument.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Diane darkly. “He’ll have tax revenue projections on his side, and so far all we have are nostalgia and sentiment. Unless you found something today?”
“I learned a lot, but nothing that you’d call conclusive proof of Union Hall’s historical significance.”
“You’ll keep looking, though, right?”
“Of course. How can I give up after one day at the library after all Agnes went through today?” Sarah fell silent, reflecting upon her friend’s actions, not only that day but ever since Union Hall had become threatened. “Why do you suppose Agnes cares so much about Union Hall? Why is the history of Waterford so important to her? It’s not like she has deep roots in the Elm Creek Valley—she moved to town when she married Sylvia’s younger brother. I could understand her passion if generations of her family had lived here, but why care so much about the history of an adopted hometown?”
Diane paused. “You really don’t get it?”
“No, I don’t.”
Diane had known Agnes longer than any of them except Sylvia. They had been neighbors throughout Diane’s childhood, and Agnes had often babysat her. “Her parents disowned her when she married Richard,” Diane said.
“That much I know.”
“Did you know she hasn’t had so much as a postcard from any of her relatives in almost sixty years? Waterford isn’t just an adopted hometown to her. It’s her home, her only home, and Union Hall was once the pride and joy of the town. She’s not going to let it be eliminated and forgotten as if it never existed.”
And Sarah understood.
She asked Diane to keep her posted, and then she ended the call and checked in to the hotel. Exhausted, she ordered room service for supper and called home to speak to the twins and update Matt on the day’s developments. Gretchen and Maggie had come home, exultant in victory, and added a few other details to Diane’s story. The friends of Union Hall knew they had not won yet, but they believed the momentum was turning in their favor.
That night Sarah slept restlessly in the unfamiliar bed, and she woke to the sound of her cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. Groping for it, she blinked sleepily at the caller ID and was startled awake when she read Jeremy’s name. “Hello?” she said, sitting up in bed and drawing the covers around her. “Jeremy?”
“Hi, Sarah.” He sounded tired and drained, not as if he had woken too early but as if he had not slept well for days. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, but the question is, how are you? How are Anna and the girls? I haven’t heard anything from you in so long, I was beginning to worry.”
“Anna and the girls are fine. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’m even sorrier that I gave you cause to worry.” Jeremy inhaled deeply and sighed. “The thing is, it’s been kind of a bad week.”
Sarah suspected she knew why, but hoped she was wrong. “What happened?”
“I didn’t get tenure.”
“What? Why not? How did that happen? Anna said the faculty voted in your favor.”
“They did, and as required, the tenure committee forwarded everything to the dean of the college. And . . . that’s where it all fell apart.”
“The dean turned you down?”
“The dean turned me down.”
“The dean, who’s married to the chair of your tenure committee, a woman who inexplicably hates you.”
“That’s the one.” Jeremy sighed heavily. “He weighed the evidence and decided I wasn’t a strong enough candidate to warrant forwarding my dossier to the provost.”
“That’s not fair. How were
you ever supposed to get an unbiased decision out of those two?”
“I don’t have a good answer for that.”
“Can you go over the dean’s head?”
“I could but . . .” Jeremy’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat and continued. “It would get ugly. It would mean legal action, and I don’t think I have the stomach for that. I also don’t think I have much of a case, and I definitely can’t afford the legal bills.”
“I’m so sorry, Jeremy. This is just wrong, so wrong.”
“Thanks.” He sounded numb, drained of all emotion. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Look for another job. I actually started sending out CVs months ago. It’s standard procedure for anyone going through tenure review, but in my case it seemed especially prudent.”
“How long do you have?”
“How long do I still have a job here, you mean? Until the end of spring semester. With any luck, I’ll have something else lined up by then, and if I’m very lucky, it will be within a tolerable commute so we won’t have to move. The way my luck’s been lately, though . . .”
He didn’t need to complete the thought.
Sarah thought it was deplorable that he would have to finish out months of teaching and committee work for that department with everyone knowing he had, essentially, been fired. “If there’s anything I can do, you know all you have to do is ask.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied. “All the more since I haven’t responded to your questions.”
“For perfectly legitimate reasons.”
“Maybe, but they were easy questions to answer and the need was urgent. I should have stopped wallowing in self-pity long enough to get back to you. I hope it’s not too late.”
The Wedding Quilt Page 22
