The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Jason managed a weak grin. “You'd be surprised where great finds turn up.”

  “Great finds? That's no antique. Mr. Hixton's mother made that quilt, and you know it. I heard her tell you myself.”

  Jason held up his hands, begging Sylvia and Andrew not to leave. “Let me just run inside and get a contract. Once you sign that, I can show you the quilt.”

  He hurried back up the stairs, but his mother blocked the doorway with her arm before he could duck past. “Sign a contract before they see what they're buying?” Her eyes narrowed. “Just what kind of business are you running, anyway?”

  With his mother's help, Sylvia and Andrew eventually dragged the truth from him.

  The young man had indeed been running a business out of the house—a shady business Sylvia considered to be just this side of fraud. He trolled Internet Web sites such as the Missing Quilts Home Page and eBay to find potential customers. With a list of the desired items in hand, he rummaged through garage sales and flea markets until he found similar products. Then he would contact the potential customer with the good news that he might have what they were looking for. “The key word is ‘might,’” said Jason, glancing from his mother to Sylvia and Andrew apprehensively. “All my sales were through AsIsAuctions. They clearly state in their service agreement that all items for sale are as is. It's the buyer's responsibility to inspect the item in person if they want. All sales are final, so you can't get a refund unless you never get your product or you can prove the seller lied about it.”

  “You certainly lied to us about this quilt,” declared Sylvia.

  “I didn't lie.” Jason turned to his mother and quickly added, “I didn't.”

  Andrew frowned. “You said you believed this quilt might have come from Pennsylvania.”

  “Exactly. I said ‘might.’ That also means it might not have come from Pennsylvania.”

  “But you knew for a fact that it did not,” exclaimed Sylvia. “And what about your alias, George K. Robinson? There is no such person.”

  “Everybody uses fake names on the Internet. It's for personal privacy, that's all.”

  “Young man,” said Sylvia, shaking her head, “you have such a gift for double-talk I'm sure you're destined for a career in politics.”

  Andrew folded his arms and regarded Jason sternly. “If you're such an honest dealer, why did you pretend to know nothing about Brandywine Antiques?”

  Jason hesitated. “I didn't want my mom to get mad. I knew she wouldn't want me to run a business out of the house.”

  “A business I could handle,” said his mother sharply. “A scam, on the other hand …” She shook her head and gave Sylvia and Andrew an appraising look. “The question is, what are we going to do about this?”

  Sylvia was reluctant to involve the police, but she and Andrew were both resolute that Jason should not be allowed to perpetrate his scheme any longer. They also insisted that he make restitution for any past customers he might have deceived and write every one of them a letter of apology.

  “Oh, he'll do that, all right,” said his mother. “If I have to stand over him while he writes every word.”

  They all agreed that Jason should be denied access to the Internet at least until his obligations to his customers were fulfilled, and that AsIsAuctions must be informed. If all those measures were followed, Sylvia and Andrew would be satisfied, and they would not press charges.

  “Do you think that's enough?” Sylvia asked Andrew as they resumed their journey east.

  “Nothing short of shutting down this AsIsAuctions place would be enough for me,” said Andrew. “They're just as guilty as he is. But I guess this will have to be enough unless we want to have Jason prosecuted for fraud.”

  “He's just a boy. I hate to ruin his life when all we lost was a few hours of our time and the cost of gasoline.”

  “We wouldn't be ruining his life. He did it to himself. And I don't know how we can rely on his mother to punish him when she didn't even know what was going on under her own roof.”

  The harshness in Andrew's tone surprised Sylvia. “She seemed furious. I'm sure she'll see to it he can't swindle anyone else.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Remember what the girl from the mailbox place said? This is the third time seniors have asked about Brandywine Antiques. Jason's targeting old folks, and that shows calculation and contempt. He's a crook, Sylvia. A young crook, but still a crook, and he's just going to get worse. Mark my words.”

  Sylvia did not know what to say. They drove on in silence until they stopped for the night, just west of the Illinois border.

  Two days later they arrived in Silver River, Indiana, just outside Fort Wayne, to pursue the last of Summer's Internet leads between them and Elm Creek Manor. Although he didn't complain, Sylvia knew Andrew just wanted to get the visit over with and go home. She could hardly blame him. Her anticipation had lessened with each dead end. She might have considered abandoning the search altogether if not for a sense of duty to her mother—and if not for her proud proclamations that she would not give up the search until every lead had been followed to its end.

  “At least they're expecting us this time,” Sylvia said as Andrew drove through town, keeping an eye out for the Niehauses' street. Sylvia had phoned them the previous night, for while it was perfectly acceptable to stop by a museum or antique shop unannounced, she would not dream of intruding on a private residence that way. Mona Niehaus herself had answered the phone, and when Sylvia explained they were in the area, Mona invited them to come see the quilt for themselves. Her description sounded so much like Sylvia's mother's Crazy Quilt that Sylvia allowed herself to hope their luck would take a turn for the better here.

  They parked in front of a sky-blue Victorian house with a white picket fence and a minivan in the driveway. In the front yard, a sudden gust of wind rustled the boughs of a pair of maple trees, sending a flurry of brilliant gold and orange leaves dancing to the ground. Dried cornstalks adorned a black lamppost in front of the house, and on the wraparound porch stood a white stone goose dressed in blaze orange and camouflage, a wooden duck decoy propped up against its booted feet. It was such a typically idyllic autumn scene that Sylvia would have been thoroughly charmed if not for their sojourn in Fort Dodge.

  “Reminds me of Jason's house,” remarked Andrew, echoing her own thoughts.

  “Don't be ridiculous,” said Sylvia, unfastening her seat belt. “His house was brick, and they had no picket fence.”

  She spoke mostly for her own benefit, however, and tried to prepare herself for the worst as they climbed the porch stairs and rang the doorbell. A boy of about seven opened the door halfway and greeted them in a very formal manner. When they asked for Mona Niehaus, he said, “She's my grandma.” At that moment, a girl about two years younger peeped shyly around the door. “I'll get her.”

  “Thank you, darling, but I'm right here.” The door opened all the way, and a tall, thin woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a batik scarf stood before them. Silver bracelets jingled as she placed her hands on the children's shoulders and steered them back into the house. “You must be Sylvia and Andrew. I'm so pleased you could come.”

  She welcomed them into the living room, where the two children played with a jumble of unrelated toys in the center of a woven rug. Sylvia took the seat Mona offered, an overstuffed armchair with legs shaped like lion's feet, and glanced about the room for the quilt. She saw heavily embroidered pillows on the sofa, all manner of candles on the mantel, and framed photographs and other eclectic pieces covering so much of the walls that she could barely see the flowered wallpaper behind them. She saw no quilts.

  Mona excused herself and returned with a tray. “Please help yourselves,” she said as she placed the tea and sandwiches on the coffee table and hurried back out. In a moment they heard the creaking of footsteps on stairs.

  Sylvia and Andrew exchanged bemused looks, but Andrew shrugged and piled several sandwiches on a plate. Sylvia knew she was too
nervous to hold a teacup, so she merely sat fidgeting in her chair, watching the children play. “No, the engine goes in here,” the little boy told the girl, handing her a small wooden block, but what sort of vehicle the engine was meant to propel, Sylvia had no idea.

  Before long they heard footsteps again, and then Mona returned with something draped over her arm. “This is the quilt I contacted you about,” she said, unfolding it carefully. “I hope it's the right one. It would be a shame if you came all this way for nothing.”

  “We were passing by on our way home from California anyway,” Andrew said, but Sylvia merely nodded. Involuntarily, she straightened in her chair and held her breath.

  Mona held up the quilt, and Sylvia was struck speechless.

  “As you can see, it definitely is a Crazy Quilt.” Mona regarded Sylvia inquisitively, awaiting a response. “And it has the identifying marks you listed on the Web site. Although some of the stitches have come out, you can still see an embroidered spiderweb in this corner. Here is the appliquéd horseshoe, and if I'm not mistaken, this patch here is from a linen handkerchief. Do you see the monogrammed ALC?”

  “Sylvia?” prompted Andrew.

  “That's it,” said Sylvia. “That's my mother's quilt.”

  “How wonderful,” exclaimed Mona. She draped the quilt over Sylvia's lap. “I hoped it would be. You must be thrilled.”

  Sylvia hesitated before touching the delicate fabrics, as if they would dissolve like the memory of a dream. She had not seen her mother's Crazy Quilt in more than fifty years. The colors were not as bright as she remembered, and some of the fabrics had unraveled so that only the embroidery stitches held the quilt together, but she did not remember when she had ever seen anything so lovely.

  “Mona,” she said, “I am so far beyond thrilled that I don't think they've invented a word to describe how I'm feeling.”

  Mona clasped her hands together and beamed. “I couldn't be happier for you. And to think, I never would have known to contact you except for my daughter-in-law.” She indicated the children with a proud nod. “Their mother.”

  “She's a dentist,” the boy piped up. “Grandma plays with us when she works.”

  “Yes, and we have a lovely time, don't we?” Mona turned back to Sylvia. “She's a quilter, and she heard about the Missing Quilts Home Page at her guild meeting. When she read the description of your lost Crazy Quilt, she immediately recognized mine.”

  Sylvia felt a pang at Mona's last word, though she was right to use it. The quilt did belong to Mona. “I'm very grateful you contacted me,” she said. “I'm also quite curious. How did you come to own it?”

  “By a very circuitous route,” said Mona with a laugh. “This quilt has had an eventful life since leaving your household.

  “On your way through town, you passed a lovely old brownstone called the Landenhurst Center. It was refurbished into an office building during the eighties, but back in the sixties and seventies, it was a theater for the performing arts. A lovely place, too—velvet curtains, ornate paintings and carvings, two balconies, and private boxes for the local gentry—but the acoustics were far from ideal and the roof leaked, and after the new civic center opened, its time had passed.

  “The founders of this theater, Arthur and Christine Landenhurst, were rising stars in vaudeville at a time when vaudeville was going the way of the buggy whip. They traveled from town to town performing their comedy act on a variety of stages—nothing terribly grand, of course, but fame and fortune seemed only the next performance away. They had both been married to other people, people who were not performers and thus did not understand them at all, or so Arthur and Christine thought. They fell passionately in love with each other, and one night, after a particularly successful performance in front of a scout from a New York theater who promised them they could be headliners, they ran off to New York, where they divorced their spouses, married each other, and eagerly anticipated their coming stardom.

  “Not long after their arrival, they discovered that the theater this scout worked for was not one of the most prestigious. According to the story, it was one of the seediest in the city. Christine and Arthur needed a year to get out of their contract, and almost another year to find a better one, but that, too, was short-lived. Both tried to find work on Broadway, never managing to get more than bit parts, but they persisted, until one day they realized they were ten years older and not one step closer to becoming headliners than the day they had arrived in New York.

  “They must have realized their big breaks might never come, for when Christine was offered a role in a traveling production, she took it, and Arthur accompanied her. Eventually he won a part in the cast, too, and together they toured throughout the East Coast and parts of the Midwest, enjoying every minute on stage, but hating the travel and the unpredictability of their profession.

  “They were heading West after a performance in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, when the train was delayed for repairs. The entire company found themselves stranded in a small town with nothing to do but wait and try to enjoy the unexpected time off. Arthur and Christine decided to explore the quaint shops downtown, which is where they found your mother's quilt.”

  Mona reached for the quilt, and Sylvia reluctantly allowed her to take hold of one edge. “They bought it, of course,” said Mona, regarding the quilt with amused fondness. She nodded to the patch cut from a linen handkerchief. “Actors are notoriously superstitious, and when they saw the monogram—the same as their own, ALC for Arthur and Christine Landenhurst—they saw it as an omen of change. I imagine they were ready to give up the road anyway, but finding this quilt gave them the push they needed. So they resumed their journey with the company and waited for another sign.

  “The production was in its final week in South Bend when the sign finally came. A childhood friend of Arthur's had driven all the way from Fort Wayne, where he was a college professor, to see the couple's performance. As it happened, this friend was in a position to offer Arthur a job as a drama teacher. Arthur accepted, and so he and Christine moved to Fort Wayne.”

  “Arthur became a drama professor at the college?” asked Andrew.

  “Well, not exactly. The job was at the local high school. But there Arthur discovered a love for teaching, as did Christine, who became a music instructor and vocal coach. Eventually they joined the college faculty, and wouldn't you know it, their acting careers finally took off. They both made numerous appearances in university theater productions, and later, they became quite popular hosts of a local television variety show. They founded the Landenhurst Theater here in Silver River, where they made their home, and they were very well regarded as patrons of the arts and pillars of the community.”

  “They sound like very interesting people,” said Sylvia. Suddenly she didn't mind quite so much that they had owned her mother's quilt. They had purchased it honestly enough, and by its appearance, they had cared for it properly.

  “That explains how it ended up in Silver River, Indiana,” said Andrew, “but not how you became its owner.”

  “Oh yes. Please go on,” said Sylvia. “Are you related to the Landenhursts?”

  “No, but my husband was acquainted with them. Arthur Landenhurst died in 1984, and Christine passed away two years later. They had no children, and except for a modest percentage for the general scholarship fund at the college, they left their estate to a trust to help fund the Landenhurst Theater in perpetuity. Most of their possessions were sold to establish this trust, but others—their substantial collection of costumes and musical scores, for example, autographed photos and scripts from actors they had met, various items that seemed to have little fiscal worth but could be used as distinctive stage props—those remained in the theater, in the safekeeping of the theater board.

  “Regrettably, after some time, the theater ran into financial problems, which were augmented, I'm sad to say, by the board's poor management of their finances. The board held an auction of the Landenhurst's remarkable collection
s in an attempt to shore up the trust, but they held off their troubles for only a few more years.” Mona sighed and gathered up the quilt, and Sylvia forced herself not to cling to it. “The theater sold to a business development group. At first there were some sporadic protests from local preservationists who wanted the building to remain a theater, but even they realized it would cost a fortune to bring it up to modern standards.” Mona stroked the quilt. “I have wonderful memories of that theater. Now all that remains is its name, most of its original exterior, and those belongings of the Landenhursts that were sold at auction.”

  “The Crazy Quilt was one of those?” asked Sylvia.

  Mona smiled. “Yes. It was a prop in numerous plays over the years—Little Women and Arsenic and Old Lace, among others. It was also used in You Can't Take It with You, in which my eldest son appeared. He went on to become a theater major at Yale, and now he's a director.”

  “I can see why you wanted to keep this quilt as a memento,” remarked Andrew.

  “Well, everyone around here knows the legend of how the Landenhursts came to Silver River, but only a few know the story of this particular quilt, or I suspect the bidding would have gone far beyond my reach.”

  “How did you happen to hear the story?” asked Sylvia, with a sudden fear that Mona's tale might be no more than hearsay.

  “My late husband was a lawyer,” said Mona. “He was also, at one time, a member of the theater board. When Arthur and Christine updated their will to create the Landenhurst Trust, my husband met frequently with them and their counsel. They shared quite a few stories of how they came by certain items of great sentimental value.” She gave Sylvia a long look of understanding. “I suppose the only person who valued this quilt more than they did would be you.”

  Sylvia tried to smile. “In my case, ‘sentimental value’ would be an extreme understatement.”

  “That's why although I might own it, it truly belongs to you. To me it will never be more than a beautiful object d'art, a fond remembrance of pleasant occasions and two people I greatly admired. To you, every piece of fabric, every stitch, every thread contains a memory of your family, of your mother. This quilt is a part of you in a way it will never be a part of me, however attached to it I might have become.” She smiled. “That's why you are the only person I could conceivably sell it to.”