The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

They left the motor home and crossed the street hand in hand. They entered through the front double doors and paused in the foyer long enough for Sylvia to help herself to some of the pamphlets in the rack of brochures. Andrew sniffed the air. “Sure doesn't smell like a museum. Smells like lunch.”

  “There's a Chinese restaurant on the lower level. We could stop by for a bite to eat later.” She smiled slyly and took his arm. “Or we could try the Buffalo Rose.”

  “You mean that place a few doors down? From the name, I figured it was a florist.”

  Sylvia erupted in peals of laughter. “I don't think you should tell them that. It's a biker bar.”

  “Chinese sounds good,” said Andrew hastily. He held open the door and ushered her inside.

  Sylvia eyed the gift shop with interest as they passed, but she was too eager to find her mother's quilt to be distracted long. They entered the first gallery and were greeted by two docents, who provided them with brochures about the exhibits and invited them to sign the guest book. “Waterford, Pennsylvania,” one of the women said, reading upside down as Sylvia handed the pen to Andrew. “Did you ever attend the quilt camp there?”

  “She's one of the founders,” said Andrew.

  The second woman spun the guest book around, and her eyes lit up at what she read. “You're Sylvia Compson?”

  “She sure is.” Andrew put an arm around her proudly.

  “I love your quilt, Sewickley Sunrise,” the second docent said, adding that she had a print of it hanging in her office.

  Sylvia and Andrew thanked the docents and moved deeper into the gallery. Andrew trailed after her as Sylvia approached the first quilt, an appliquéd scene of the first moon landing, nearly lifelike in its realism. “I don't think we'll find your mother's quilt here,” said Andrew, and read aloud from the brochure. “‘A retrospective of the works of Colorado quilter Alexandra Grant, age ninety-seven, who used intricate appliqué and surface embellishment to depict the most significant historical events of her lifetime.’ That's some lifetime. Do you think you'll still be quilting when you're that age?”

  “God willing,” said Sylvia, and moved on to the next quilt, a collage of images from the civil rights movement, fluid and vividly colored scenes of hope and triumph. Hanging next to it, in stark contrast in monochromatic grays and browns, was a three-panel work depicting the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and rolling hills Sylvia immediately recognized as the countryside of her own beloved state of Pennsylvania. A single bright color illuminated each panel: a brilliant blue sky over the Pentagon, a lush green forest for Pennsylvania, a firefighter in a yellow coat against a background of rubble in Manhattan.

  Sylvia could hardly bear to look at it, and at the same time she longed to touch it, to find comfort in the soft fabrics even as the images caused her pain. She reached for Andrew's hand instead. He held it in both of his, and let her linger a moment longer before drawing her away to the next quilt.

  Before long, Sylvia lost herself in the beauty of the quilts and the poetry of their stories. Andrew's prediction proved true, however, as Sylvia had assumed it would; not even a novice quilter or a very poor historian would have confused Eleanor Lockwood's pieced New York Beauty quilt with the appliquéd pictorial works of Alexandra Grant. They left the first gallery and went upstairs to the second, although one glance at the sign outside the exhibit indicated they were not likely to find her mother's quilt there, either.

  “‘Agriculture Quilts,’” Sylvia read aloud. “It's a long shot, but if we have time, I'd prefer to check anyway, if only to be sure.”

  “Maybe they have quilts in here that aren't part of the special exhibit,” said Andrew, escorting her into the gallery. “Besides, if we don't look, I'll spend the whole drive home wondering what in the world an Agriculture Quilt is.”

  They quickly discovered that Agriculture Quilts were quilts inspired by farming. Some artists had used pictorial quilts to create fabric snapshots of farm life, much as the artist featured in the lower gallery had done for historical events. Others had approached the theme more whimsically, resulting in works such as the Pickle Dish bed quilt pieced from cow print fabrics and the Corn and Beans quilt with the Farmer's Daughter border. Sylvia's favorite was an Attic Windows wall hanging pieced from vintage feedsacks. She peered at the quilt closely to study the fabric, then nodded, satisfied that the fabrics were not reproductions. Genuine vintage feedsack fabrics were scarce and highly prized by some collectors, and whenever Sylvia saw the charming works modern quiltmakers had created from the scraps they had found, she remembered with misgivings how many sacks of horse feed must have come to Elm Creek Manor in her childhood. Her thrifty mother would not have simply discarded them, but since she had not cut them up to make quilts as far as Sylvia could recall, Sylvia had no idea what had become of them.

  They returned downstairs. Andrew said nothing, but he still held Sylvia's hand, so she knew he was sorry for her sake that their second lead had turned out no more successfully than their first. “There must be other rooms we haven't seen,” said Sylvia, unwilling to give up so easily, not after driving so far and hoping for so much.

  They returned to the first gallery, where Sylvia showed the docents Summer's computer illustration of the New York Beauty quilt and asked if they recalled seeing it. To Sylvia's dismay, the women studied the picture and shook their heads. “Are you certain?” she asked. “A recent visitor to your museum says she saw it here. We already checked the galleries, but might it be somewhere else in the museum?”

  The docents exchanged a look, and Sylvia could see they were reluctant to disappoint her. “It's not in any of the staff offices,” said the first docent, “or in the classroom. Did you ask in the gift shop? We do sell some antique quilts. Your friend might have seen it there, although I know it isn't there now.”

  Sylvia nearly gasped. “You mean it might have been here—but was sold?”

  “Most likely not,” said the second docent quickly. “We'll ask Opal. She's been with the museum since its founding. If your quilt has ever been here, she'll know.”

  Sylvia nodded, but as the docent led them back upstairs to the museum's administrative office, she envisioned a clerk closing a cash register and handing a satisfied customer the New York Beauty in a plastic bag. How on earth would she find it then?

  Opal turned out to be a cheerful, curly haired woman who greeted them warmly and listened with interest to Sylvia's explanation about her search for her mother's missing quilts. “Your Internet correspondent says she saw your quilt here?” asked Opal, accepting the picture Andrew handed her.

  “She did, but unfortunately, she didn't say when.”

  Opal studied the illustration, shook her head, and returned the paper to Sylvia. “It's not one of ours. We never sold a quilt resembling this one in our quilt shop, and I know we don't have it in storage.” “Storage?”

  “Why, yes. We have more than two hundred and fifty quilts in our permanent collection, and when we aren't displaying them, we keep them in protected storage.”

  “If you don't mind, could we please look for ourselves?” asked Sylvia. “I don't mean to be a bother, but if there's any chance you might have my mother's quilt, I would kick myself later for not asking.”

  Opal smiled sympathetically. “Unfortunately, that's easier said than done. Ordinarily, we don't even open this room to the public, but I think we can make an exception for the founder of Elm Creek Quilts.”

  She led them next door to a locked room. Inside the air was cool and dry, and along one wall Sylvia discovered shelves and shelves of quilts, each wound around a long carpet roll and wrapped in a clean cotton sheet. “Oh, dear,” said Sylvia. “I suppose looking at these quilts would be more difficult than I thought.”

  “I'm afraid so,” said Opal. “But I've been through this collection many times, and I know we don't have any in the New York Beauty pattern. I would definitely remember such a striking quilt.”

  She offered to post pictures of the New
York Beauty on their announcements board in case any of their other visitors had seen it. Perhaps, she suggested, Sylvia's Internet correspondent had seen the New York Beauty elsewhere in the area and was mistaken only in regard to the specific location. Sylvia appreciated the thread of hope, however thin, and gratefully gave Opal illustrations of all five quilts.

  “Strike two,” said Sylvia as she and Andrew returned downstairs.

  “Don't get too discouraged,” said Andrew. “We make progress with every lead we follow, even if the trail doesn't seem to go anywhere.”

  “I won't feel like we're making progress until we find one of the quilts.”

  Andrew chuckled. “Come on. I'll cheer you up at the gift shop.”

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him, but allowed him to steer her into the QuiltMarket. She had enjoyed exploring the museum despite the unsuccessful search, but she wasn't about to tell him so. If he wanted to console her with a present, it wouldn't be right to spoil his fun.

  By the time they reached Iowa several days later, Sylvia had read her new book on the Agriculture Quilts exhibit from cover to cover twice, and Summer had received nine more responses from the Missing Quilts Home Page. None of these new sightings were on the route home to Pennsylvania, however, which suited Sylvia just fine. After their disappointments in Boulder City and Golden, she and Andrew had decided that it would be wiser to contact future prospects by phone first to rule out obvious false leads rather than put so many extra miles on the motor home for nothing more than another dead end.

  But since they were driving through Iowa, anyway, they saw no reason not to turn north at Des Moines and investigate a promising e-mail message sent by the proprietor of Brandywine Antiques in Fort Dodge. Not only had he seen an Ocean Waves quilt fitting Sylvia's description, he actually had it in his possession.

  “He inherited the business from his grandfather,” said Sylvia as they paused at a gas station to fill up the tank and purchase a map of the city. “His grandparents used to travel to Pennsylvania to buy Amish quilts, but they bought others, too, and he believes this Ocean Waves quilt might have originated in Pennsylvania.”

  “Why would they go all the way to Pennsylvania for Amish quilts?” said Andrew. “There are Amish communities much closer.”

  “Perhaps he had a fondness for Lancaster. I certainly do.”

  “Well, sure, but you're from Pennsylvania. Why would an antique shop be interested in new Amish quilts, anyway?”

  “Heavens, Andrew, how should I know? Perhaps they bought antique Amish quilts. You'll have to ask—” She glanced at her notes. “You'll have to ask this George K. Robinson when we arrive.”

  Andrew shrugged and said he might do just that.

  They located the street on the map and, with slightly more difficulty, found it in the city as well, but the shop itself eluded them. “3057 Brandywine Drive,” said Sylvia, checking her notes. “Perhaps I wrote down the wrong number.”

  “Could be. This strip mall is the entire 3000 block, and I don't see a sign for Brandywine Antiques.”

  Neither did Sylvia, and they had passed the strip mall three times. Andrew drove the entire length of the street once, and again, scanning every sign and building they passed, but they could not find it. They did discover one antique shop, but not only was it not the one they were searching for, the owner claimed there were no other antique shops in that part of town.

  “Of course he would say that,” said Sylvia as Andrew helped her back into the motor home. “He doesn't want us to visit the competition.”

  She didn't really believe that, and she knew Andrew didn't either when he suggested they return to the strip mall and inquire at whatever business occupied 3057 Brandywine Drive. If they didn't know where the mysterious antique shop was, Sylvia could phone Summer and verify the address.

  They parked in the strip mall lot and strolled the length of the shops. “I hate to think we made this trip for nothing,” Sylvia remarked, when Andrew suddenly stopped in his tracks in front of a Letters et All store.

  “This is it.”

  “This can't be it. This is one of those shipping and mailing services.” Then Sylvia understood. “There's no store. It's just a mail drop.”

  Andrew nodded and pushed the door open.

  “But that doesn't make any sense,” she said, lowering her voice as she followed him inside. “I don't care how much mail a business receives. It wouldn't be practical to send someone to pick it up each day instead of having it delivered to the store.”

  “Exactly.” Andrew strode up to the queue. “I think you might have been right when you said there is no store.”

  Sylvia had no time to reply, for the smiling young woman behind the counter beckoned them forward. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so,” said Andrew. “We're looking for a business called Brandywine Antiques. They gave this place as their address.”

  The young woman's smile vanished. “They must be one of our mail clients.” She nodded to a wall of metal post office boxes on the opposite wall.

  “We need to find the shop itself,” said Sylvia. “Do you have another address?”

  The young woman glanced at a middle-aged gentleman behind the counter. He had not appeared to be listening, but he looked up at Sylvia's question and said, “I'm sorry. We can't give out any personal information about our clients. It's a corporate privacy policy.”

  “We aren't asking for personal information,” said Andrew, “just the address of a business.”

  “I'm very sorry, folks.” He looked past them to the next customer in line. “May I help you?”

  Andrew scowled, and the young woman gave them a look of helpless apology. “Come along, Andrew,” murmured Sylvia, taking his arm. “We haven't hit our dead end yet.”

  They left the shop and retraced their steps until they came to a pay telephone Sylvia remembered passing earlier. They searched the weathered telephone book, but Brandywine Antiques was not listed in either the yellow pages or the alphabetical business directory. “I suppose it's time to call home,” said Sylvia, digging into her purse for change. “Perhaps Summer said Fort Dodge, Indiana, or Ohio. Or maybe the city—”

  Andrew placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hold on. I think I see help coming.”

  Sylvia followed his line of sight and discovered the young woman from Letters et All hurrying toward them, glancing furtively over her shoulder. “Here,” she said, and handed Sylvia a scrap of paper. “The owner of the box gave this as his address. Just please don't tell anyone where you got this. I could get fired.”

  Sylvia glimpsed a hastily scrawled address. “Are you sure, dear?”

  She nodded. “This is the third time senior citizens have asked about him in two weeks. I think he's up to something, and I don't like it.”

  “Thanks very much, miss,” said Andrew. “We appreciate your help—and we can keep a secret.”

  The young woman gave them a quick smile and dashed back to the store.

  Sylvia studied the address. “Well, Andrew? Do you feel like playing detective?”

  Within minutes they were back on the road, following their map away from the business district into a residential area. When they stopped in front of a two-story colonial house on a pleasant, tree-lined street adjacent to a park, Sylvia shook her head in disbelief. “I suppose our Mr. Robinson might run the business out of his home.”

  Andrew snorted, skeptical.

  A woman who looked to be in her late forties answered the doorbell, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

  “Oh, dear, I hope we didn't interrupt your supper,” said Sylvia, giving the woman her most disarming smile.

  “Oh no, my son isn't even home from school yet,” she assured them. “He's a junior at the local college. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I hope so. We're looking for Brandywine Antiques.”

  The woman looked puzzled. “Brandywine Antiques? There's a Brandywine Drive near the mall …”

  “Yes,
we're quite familiar with that,” said Sylvia. “I don't suppose you know a George K. Robinson?”

  Behind them, a car pulled into the driveway. Sylvia and Andrew turned to see a bushy-haired young man in baggy clothes climbing out of a bright blue hatchback.

  “I'm afraid I don't,” said the woman. “My son might. He has me at my wit's end most of the time, but he does know the neighborhood.”

  “Hey, Mom, did I get any mail?” he called, sauntering up the front walk.

  “Two packages on the hall table. Jason, do you know the Robinson family?”

  “Who?” he asked, brushing past Sylvia and Andrew on his way to the front door.

  “These nice people who you didn't even say hello to are looking for someone named George Robinson.”

  “George K. Robinson, to be precise,” said Sylvia.

  “Or his company, Brandywine Antiques,” Andrew added.

  Jason froze. “Never heard of him. Or—or it. That company. Whatever you called it.”

  “That's a shame,” said Sylvia. “Brandywine Antiques is supposed to have a quilt that belonged to my mother, and we were willing to spend quite a lot of money for it.”

  Sylvia and Andrew bid his mother good-bye and turned to go.

  “Just a sec,” said Jason, with a furtive glance at his mother as he followed them down the stairs. “I do all my business over the Internet, see? You can only buy my stuff through AsIsAuctions dot com. I don't have a storefront yet.”

  “What?” his mother said. “Since when are you an antiques dealer?”

  “You told me to get a job,” protested Jason. He turned a pleading gaze on Andrew and Sylvia and lowered his voice. “I'm saving up money to buy a store, but until then, I'm running my business out of the house. Really. What was it you said you were interested in again?”

  “A quilt,” said Andrew, loud enough for Jason's mother to hear. “The pattern's called Ocean Waves. It's made up of lots of blue and white triangles.”

  Jason nodded, but before he could reply, his mother called, “You mean that raggedy old thing you got at the Hixtons' garage sale?”