Agnes’s words lingered in Sylvia’s thoughts as they welcomed a new group of campers to Elm Creek Manor. A true friend does not demand perfection; a true friend forgives. For that to happen, however, a friend who has given offense must put love before pride and apologize. Sylvia hoped Gwen would not allow the misunderstanding to fester, worsening the injury and prolonging its healing.
Agnes had an instinctive gift for forgiveness for which Sylvia would be eternally grateful. Her petite frame and sweet demeanor concealed a core of resolute strength and courage that often caught Sylvia by surprise. Sylvia doubted she would have been brave enough to approach Agnes, seeking reconciliation and risking rejection. Yet Agnes had waited for her in the garden, still willing to try to make peace long after most people would have given up all hope. “Oh, Sylvia,” she had said, her eyes filling with tears, “is there any chance we could ever be friends? I know I wasn’t the sister-in-law you hoped for, but now that everyone else is gone—”
At that Sylvia had reached out to her sister-in-law and begged her not to cry. Agnes had done nothing to deserve Sylvia’s ill treatment all those many years ago, and Sylvia was truly sorry. She could not believe her good fortune that Agnes was willing to give her a second chance. Agnes was right—there was no one else left who shared the memories of Elm Creek Manor before its decline, of the Bergstrom family before tragedy shattered it, of Richard. They owed it to each other and to their departed loved ones to make amends. What a blessing it would be to say, “Remember when?” and have someone smile fondly and answer, “Yes.”
The paths of their lives had diverged, but Sarah had brought them back together, and they would never again let such a great distance separate them. If she and Agnes could traverse the expanses that had divided them, Gwen and Judy certainly could, and Sylvia doubted they would need fifty years to figure out how to do it.
Sylvia had chosen the softest cottons for Agnes’s section of her secret work-in-progress, warm tones for her sunny outlook on the present, pastel hues for her optimistic approach to the future, floral prints for the garden where she had staged their reunion and mended the breaches of the past. For all their pretty softness, the fabrics were as closely woven and colorfast as any of the others, and Sylvia was glad she had not learned too late to appreciate the texture they added to her quilt.
Summer
Summer was wrapping up her iPhoto slide show on the Amish quilts of Lancaster County when Sylvia slipped into the classroom, her pink seeksucker suit a cheerful splash of color against the white partition that subdivided the manor’s ballroom. Summer smiled and beckoned, assuming that Sylvia had come to contribute to the discussion, but Sylvia quickly shook her head, motioned for Summer to continue, and seated herself in the back row. Summer went on with her presentation, hiding her amusement at the sight of Sylvia Compson, Master Quilter, hands folded on the table and eyes fixed on Summer in rapt attention, as if there were anything Summer could say about quilting that Sylvia didn’t already know.
Summer’s students lingered after class to ask questions and solicit help for some of their more challenging quilting projects, so it wasn’t until ten minutes into her lunch break that Summer found out what had prompted Sylvia to pay an unexpected visit to her classroom.
“I hope I didn’t distract you, dear, popping in like that,” said Sylvia, rising as the last student left and Summer joined her in the back of the room. Sylvia was nearly as tall as Summer, thin, with silver-gray hair and an imperious expression she could never quite shake even in her most affable moments. “I wanted a word before you dash off to lunch.”
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“We have to talk. Would you have time to meet me in the library after your last class?”
Summer tucked a long strand of auburn hair behind her ear and shifted her laptop so that it rested on her hip. “You came to talk to me to see if you can talk to me?”
“I didn’t expect you to have time for a lengthy conversation now. I suppose I’m asking for an appointment.” Sylvia peered at her over the rims of her glasses. “Pencil me in?”
“For you, I’ll put it in ink.”
After Sylvia left, Summer stayed behind to pack up her things, mulling over Sylvia’s request with growing trepidation. Nothing good ever came of a conversation prefaced by “We have to talk.” Summer had uttered the phrase earlier that year when she told her mother she had moved in with Jeremy. She said it again a few months later before telling Jeremy she was moving out. The more time that elapsed between the foreboding line and the actual revelation, the worse things tended to be.
She suspected Jeremy was planning his own “we have to talk” moment, and she had prepared herself to listen without an emotional outburst, without anger, without tears. She had been preparing herself so long that it would be a relief when he finally got it over with.
Summer considered the possibilities as she crossed the manor’s grand, three-story-high foyer, her sandals whisper-quiet on the black marble floor. The smell of fried chicken hung faintly in the air as she passed the banquet hall, and through the open doorway she saw campers lining up on the far side of the room while Anna bustled about, arranging stainless-steel trays on the buffet table with the help of two of the chain gang members. Summer didn’t doubt for a minute that the young men were counting the days until the end of the camp season, just as the other Elm Creek Quilters had counted the days until Anna took control of the kitchen. All summer long, after their original chef retired, the Elm Creek Quilters had taken turns with kitchen duty. Summer had used her shifts to introduce her friends and students to a delicious variety of vegetarian cuisine, but the other Elm Creek Quilters insisted upon serving meat at every meal. Summer made a mental note to encourage Anna to offer more meatless options. She hated to think that all vegetarian dishes might fall off the menu once she was no longer there to promote them.
Because she was leaving Elm Creek Quilts, no matter what.
Surely Sylvia wouldn’t try to talk her out of her plan. Everyone, even her mother, accepted that it was time for Summer to move on. She had passed the point of second thoughts months ago. The Elm Creek Quilters had hired her replacement, just as they had hired Gretchen to take over for Judy. Summer had registered for her autumn-quarter classes at the University of Chicago, putting down a nonrefundable deposit not covered by her fellowship. She would miss her friends and Elm Creek Manor, but she couldn’t wait to throw herself headlong into academic life. She had backed out of her graduate school plans once, years before, but she was a different person now, surer of what she wanted.
Sylvia would be the first person to understand that, Summer reminded herself as she turned down the west wing of the manor on her way to the kitchen. Out of all the Elm Creek Quilters, there was perhaps no one more than Sylvia who had celebrated her decision to pursue her doctorate in history—
Summer stopped short in the kitchen doorway, where the odor of olive oil and roasted corn lingered in the air. Celebrate. That had to be it. A surprise going-away party, even though she wouldn’t be leaving until the end of September, almost six weeks away. “I guess that just adds to the surprise,” she murmured, hiding her dismay behind a friendly smile as a group of campers passed on their way from the back door to the banquet hall. A party was a thoughtful gesture, but the Elm Creek Quilters had already given her an appropriate send-off three years before, after her college graduation. They had expected her to go off to Penn to study philosophy. That was what her mother had wanted, so Summer had dutifully applied, even though she longed to stay in Waterford and nurture their fledgling business until she was confident Elm Creek Quilt Camp could survive without her. How could she have spoken up when pride rang in her mother’s voice whenever she told her college-professor colleagues that her daughter was following in her footsteps? How could she have confided in any of the other Elm Creek Quilters, even Sarah, after they presented her with a beautiful Mariner’s Compass signature quilt upon which each had written congratulatory
messages wishing her good luck in her studies? When she had finally summoned up the courage to tell her mother she wasn’t going, Gwen had burst into tears. As for the other Elm Creek Quilters, they had been happy to learn that she wasn’t leaving—and taking her Internet expertise with her—but they did not approve of how she had handled things and how she had upset her mother. It was a wonder they hadn’t asked her to return the quilt.
They wouldn’t make that mistake again, Summer decided, reaching deep into the refrigerator for the soy milk and vegan sushi box she had hidden behind the gallon jug of orange juice. The Elm Creek Quilters had thrown her a going-away party once and she had made fools of them by refusing to go. For all they knew, Summer had no intention of going through with her graduate school plans this time, either; she just hadn’t confessed the truth yet. A going-away party in the library after classes? Hardly. It was far more likely that the Elm Creek Quilters planned to sit her down in one of the leather armchairs and emphasize that they really didn’t need her anymore and that she must, absolutely must, move to Chicago at the end of September. They would never forgive her if she didn’t.
Summer almost would have preferred a party.
She allowed herself a leisurely lunch, enjoying the quiet of the kitchen, with only the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the distant buzz of quilters’ voices breaking the silence. Usually she preferred to eat in the banquet hall with the other Elm Creek Quilters and their guests—even a vegetarian could fill up on all the meatless side dishes and salads Anna put together—but that day she wanted time alone to read through the history department’s course catalog and the graduate school handbook. She had absorbed most of the information in her first fifty perusals, but she loved to gaze upon the pictures of the stately Gothic buildings, the leafy quads, and the quirky Hyde Park neighborhoods, imagining herself among them.
“They get a lot of snow in Chicago,” remarked Sarah, carrying an empty stainless-steel tray into the kitchen and grimacing at the sight of Summer’s familiar reading material. The tail of her light blue pinstriped Oxford cloth shirt hung loosely over her drawstring capris, and a long strand of reddish brown hair had come loose from her barrette. “It’s frigid when those gusts come off Lake Michigan, too. That’s why they call it the Windy City.”
“That’s not why they call it the Windy City, and how would you know that winters are any worse in Chicago than they are here?” said Summer. “You’ve never lived there.”
Sarah set the tray in the kitchen sink with a clatter of dishes and silverware. “It’s common knowledge.”
“I won’t be outside much anyway.” Summer finished the last bite of her California roll and made a show of savoring every meatless morsel. “I’ll be wandering blissfully through libraries and attending fascinating lectures by Nobel laureates. Winter, spring—it’s all the same when you’re living the life of the mind.”
Sarah shrugged and poured herself a cup of organic ginger tea. Summer was tempted to tell her that not even a dozen cups would give her the boost of a single shot of espresso, but she didn’t want to counteract whatever placebo effect Sarah extracted from the brew.
“Unless there’s an underground tunnel connecting your apartment to the library, don’t forget to pack your parka and snowshoes,” Sarah teased, stirring sugar into her cup. “You have found a place to live, haven’t you?”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
Sarah leaned back against the counter, a crease of worry appearing between her brows. “You’re running out of time. You can’t just show up homeless on the first day of the quarter.”
“When have I had time for a road trip to go apartment hunting? I’ve had classes to teach, and then we were interviewing applicants—”
“Summer—”
“As soon as I get a chance, I’ll search for Hyde Park apartment listings on the Internet. After Labor Day, I’ll drive out and see them in person.”
“If you say so.”
Summer muffled a sigh, knowing that nothing short of leaving Pennsylvania in a U-Haul would persuade her friend that she wasn’t going to back out of graduate school this time. “I’ll see you later,” she told Sarah, and hurried back to the ballroom so she could set up her project samples before her next class, a workshop on color theory. If Sylvia had a party or an intervention planned, Sarah had given no sign of it, and she was notorious for her inability to keep a secret. Whatever Sylvia had planned, Sarah wasn’t in on it.
At four o’clock, the quilt campers finished their classes and went their separate ways, some to relax in their rooms before supper, others to stroll through the orchards and gardens, still more to the front veranda to work on quilting projects with newfound friends. Summer dropped off her laptop and class notes in the suite on the third floor she had called her own since moving out of Jeremy’s apartment, then steeled herself and descended the curved oak staircase to the second floor, where Sylvia awaited her in the library.
At Summer’s touch, double doors swung open into a room spanning the entire width of the south wing, where late afternoon sunlight spilled in through tall diamond-paned windows. The large stone fireplace on the south wall smelled faintly of old smoke and ash even though the hearth had been swept meticulously clean and a fire had not burned there since the last cool evening in spring several months ago. To the left of the mantel hung the Castle Wall quilt Claudia and Agnes had pieced as a memorial to Sylvia’s first husband, James. Sylvia sat in the tall leather chair behind a broad oak desk cluttered with papers and files, chin resting on her hand, gaze fixed on the quilt.
“Sylvia?” Summer greeted her, rousing her gently from her reverie. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes, dear.” Sylvia straightened and smiled at her. “I was wondering, though, whether your mother has called Judy yet?”
“If she has, she didn’t mention it.”
“I see.” Sylvia rose and went to the sofa, beckoning Summer to join her. “I suppose she will in good time. Well, let’s get to it, shall we? I’m sure you and Jeremy have plans this evening.”
“Not really.” Jeremy had offered to take her out to dinner, but Anna’s cooking was so fantastic that they preferred to eat at Elm Creek Manor. Best of all, it was free, and Jeremy could give Anna a ride home afterward. “He’s coming over for dinner as usual.”
“We should be done here well before he arrives. I wanted to speak with you to ask for your help planning the party tomorrow.”
“The party?” Summer echoed, jolted.
“Yes, of course. Surely you saw Vinnie Burkholder at registration.”
Summer breathed a sigh of relief. “Right. Vinnie’s party.” The septuagenarian had attended Elm Creek Quilt Camp every year since its first season, scheduling her visits to coincide with her birthday. Every year the campers threw a surprise birthday party for her, although after so many years their celebrations were no longer so surprising. The Elm Creek Quilters tried to add to the suspense by varying the time and location of the party from year to year, but everyone, including Vinnie herself, knew it was coming sooner or later. It was getting harder and harder to catch the spunky quilter off guard.
“I am completely out of ideas,” said Sylvia, lifting her hands in frustration. “She wasn’t expecting the breakfast-in-bed party two years ago, and I know we genuinely surprised her last year with the midnight-snack party, if only because she didn’t have the whole day to speculate. I can’t think of anything to top that.”
“Maybe we should ask her friends for suggestions.” Although Vinnie was popular with all of the campers, every year she reunited with the same small group of friends with whom she shared a special bond, the Cross-Country Quilters. One of them had even married her grandson.
“I checked with Grace Daniels, and she said Vinnie would be happy with anything. We shouldn’t go overboard.”
“So I guess fireworks and skydivers are out.”
“I would think so.”
“Instead of assuming bigger is better, maybe w
e ought to get back to basics,” mused Summer. “What did we do for her first party? I can’t recall.”
“That’s because it was so low-key, you probably missed it,” said Sylvia. “At breakfast, I served her a blueberry muffin with a birthday candle stuck in it, and the campers sang ‘Happy Birthday.’ It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. I had learned only a few moments before that it would be Vinnie’s first birthday as a widow and that she had chosen to spend the day with us because the alternative was to sit at home alone and mourn. I admired her attitude and wanted to mark the day, to make it a little more special if I could. I had no idea it would become an annual event, or I might have planned better.”
“I’m sure Vinnie was very pleased. Hasn’t she come back every year since?” Summer thought for a moment. “Tomorrow morning, why don’t we give everyone a muffin with a lit candle? All of those tiny, flickering lights would be so beautiful.”
“We’d have to draw the curtains,” said Sylvia doubtfully. “It might get rather stuffy.”
“Only for a moment. After everyone sings and blows out their candles, we’ll let the fresh breezes in again.”
Summer knew that Sylvia could imagine, as she did, the vast room illuminated by tiny stars of light, constellations of friendship and song celebrating another year for their most beloved camper. “It would be perfect,” Sylvia declared, clasping Summer’s hand. “I knew I could count on you for a stroke of inspiration. I always can. I don’t know how we’re going to manage when you’re gone.”
“Someone will step up,” Summer assured her. “Anna and Gretchen will bring in fresh ideas, too. Don’t forget to consult them.”
“And Maggie, too,” said Sylvia, naming Summer’s successor.
Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt Page 21
