Sarah looked overhead for the sign bearing the shop’s name, and laughed in surprise when she saw the words GRANDMA’S ATTIC printed in gold letters on a red background. She checked her watch, gave the bus stop one last quick glance, and entered the shop.
Shelves stacked high with bolts of fabric, thread, notions, and other gadgets lined the walls and covered most of the floor. Celtic folk music played in the background. In the middle of the room, several women stood chatting and laughing around a large cutting table. One looked up from the conversation to smile at her, and Sarah smiled back. She made her way around the checkout counter to the front window and discovered that the quilt was even more beautiful up close. She tried to estimate how the quilt would fit their bed.
“I see our Lone Star charmed another new visitor inside,” a pleasant voice broke in on her thoughts. Sarah turned and found the woman who had smiled at her standing at her elbow. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, with dark, close-cropped hair, ruddy skin, and a friendly expression.
“Is that what it’s called, a Lone Star? It’s beautiful.”
The woman casually brushed pieces of thread from her sleeve as she joined Sarah in admiring the quilt. “Oh, yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? Wish I could take the credit, but one of our local quilt artists made it. It’s queen-sized, entirely hand-quilted.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Thanks anyway,” Sarah said, not entirely able to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
The woman smiled in sympathy. “I know—it’s a lot, isn’t it? Actually, though, if you took that price and calculated an hourly wage from it, you’d see that it’s a bargain.”
“I can believe that. It must’ve taken years to make.”
“Most people stop by, hear the price, then head straight to some discount store for a cheap knockoff.” The woman sighed and shook her head. “People who don’t know quilts can’t detect the obvious differences in quality of materials and workmanship. Mrs. Compson’s lucky to get what she can for those she displays here.”
“Mrs. Compson?”
“Yes, Sylvia Compson. She’s been staying up at Elm Creek Manor since her sister died two months ago. Temperamental as hell—I had to install an awning outside before she’d agree to display her quilts in the window. She’s right, of course. I’d hate to have one of her pieces fade from the sunlight. She has two quilts in the American Quilter’s Society’s permanent collection in Paducah.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Good? I’d be glad just to have something accepted in the AQS annual show.” The woman chuckled. “I thought every quilter around here knew about Sylvia Compson.”
“I’ve met Mrs. Compson, but I’m not a quilter. I do love quilts, though.”
“Is that so? You should learn how to quilt, then.”
“Watch out, everyone, Bonnie’s about to make another convert,” one of the women called out from the cutting table.
“Run for it, honey,” another warned, and they all burst out laughing.
Bonnie joined in. “Okay, I admit I have a vested interest. Satisfied?” She pretended to glower at the others before turning back to Sarah. “We do offer lessons, um . . . ?”
“Sarah. Are you the Grandma from the sign?”
“Oh, no,” Bonnie said, laughing. “Not yet at least, thank God, although I do get asked that a lot. There’s no Grandma. There’s no attic, either. I just liked the name. Kind of homey, don’t you think? As you already heard, my name’s Bonnie, and these are some of my friends, the Tangled Web Quilters. We’re sort of a renegade group separate from the local Waterford Quilting Guild. We take our quilting—and ourselves—very seriously.” Her tone suggested that the remark was only half true. She handed Sarah a photocopied calendar. “Here’s a schedule if you’re interested in the lessons. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Well, thanks for stopping by. Come back anytime. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to that crowd before Diane hides my rotary cutter again.” She smiled and returned to the cutting table.
“Thanks,” Sarah answered, folding up the paper and tucking it into her backpack. She left the store, ran half a block to the bus stop, and climbed on the bus just as heavy drops of rain began to pelt the sidewalk.
Three
Sarah’s heart leaped when she returned home to find the answering machine’s light blinking. A message. Maybe Waterford College had called about that admissions counselor job. She let her packages fall to the floor and scrambled for the button. Or maybe it was from PennCellular Corporation. That would be even better.
“Hi, Sarah. It’s me.”
Matt.
“I’m calling from the office, but I was up at Elm Creek Manor this morning, and—well, I guess it can wait until I get home. Hope you don’t have any plans for tomorrow. See you tonight. Love you.”
As the tape rewound, Sarah left her backpack on the hallway floor and brought the groceries into the kitchen. What was it that could wait until he got home? She considered phoning Matt to see what was going on, but decided not to interrupt his work. Instead she put away the groceries and went into the living room. She opened the sliding door just enough to allow a breeze to circulate through the duplex, then stretched out on the sofa and listened to the rain.
What should she do now? She’d done the laundry the day before and wouldn’t have to start dinner for a while. Maybe she could call one of her friends from school. No, at this time of day they would all be working or busy with their graduate school classes and research.
Funny how things had turned out. In college she had been the one with clear goals and direction, taking all the right classes and participating in all the right extracurricular activities and summer internships. Her friends had often remarked that their own career plans seemed vague or nonexistent in comparison. And now they were going places while she sat around the house with nothing to do.
She rolled over on her side and stared at the blank television screen. Nothing would be on now—nothing good, anyway. She almost wished she had some homework to do. If only she had picked a different major—marketing, or management, maybe. Something in the sciences would have been even better. But in high school Sarah’s guidance counselor had told her that there would always be jobs for accountants, and she had taken those words to heart. She had been the only freshman in her dorm who knew from the first day of classes what major she was going to declare at the end of the year. It had seemed so self-indulgent to ask herself if she enjoyed accounting, if she thought she would find it a fulfilling career. If only she had listened to her heart instead of her guidance counselor. Ultimately, though, she knew she had no one but herself to blame now that she had no marketable job skills beyond bean counting.
Suddenly exasperated with herself, she shoved the whining voices from her mind. True, she didn’t have a job, but she didn’t have to mope and complain like the voice of doom. That was what her mother would do. What Sarah needed was something to keep herself occupied until a job came along. Moving into the duplex had kept her too busy to worry for a couple of weeks; maybe she could join a book club or take a course up at Waterford College.
Then her thoughts returned to the quilt she had seen in the shop window earlier that day. She jumped up from the sofa and retrieved her backpack from the hallway. The quilt shop’s class schedule was still there, a bit damp from her rainy walk home from the bus stop. Sarah unfolded it and smoothed out the creases, studying the course names, dates, times, and prices.
Her heart sank. The costs seemed reasonable, but even reasonable expenses were too much when she hadn’t seen a paycheck in more than two months. Like so many other things, quilting lessons would to have to wait until the McClures were a dual-income family. But the more Sarah thought about it, the more she liked the idea. A quilt class would give her a chance to meet people, and a handmade quilt might make the du
plex seem more like a home. She would talk to Matt about it. Maybe they could come up with the money somehow.
She decided to bring it up over supper that evening. “Matt,” she began. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about all day.”
Matt took a second helping of corn and grinned. “You mean my phone message? I’m surprised you didn’t ask about it sooner. Usually you hate it when I keep you in suspense.”
Sarah paused. She had forgotten all about it. “That’s right. You said you had to talk to me about something.”
“First, though, do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
Something in his tone made her wary. “Why?”
“Yes or no?”
“I’m afraid to answer until I know why you’re asking.”
“Sheesh. So suspicious.” But he put down his fork and hesitated a moment. “I spent the day up at Elm Creek Manor inspecting the trees. Not a trace of Dutch elm disease anywhere. I don’t know how they managed it.”
“I hope you didn’t get caught in the rain.”
“Actually, as soon as the thunder started, Mrs. Compson made me come inside. She even fixed me lunch.”
“You’re kidding. She didn’t make you cook it yourself?”
“No.” He chuckled. “She’s a pretty good cook, too. While I was eating, we kind of got to talking. She wants you to come see her tomorrow.”
“What? What for? Why would she want to see me?”
“She didn’t say exactly. She said she wanted to tell you in person.”
“I’m not going. Tell her I can’t come. Tell her I’m busy.”
Matt’s face assumed the expression it always did when he knew he was about to get in trouble. “I can’t. I already told her you’d come in with me tomorrow morning.”
“Why’d you do that? Call her and tell her—tell her something. Say I have a dentist appointment.”
“I can’t. She doesn’t have a phone, remember?”
“Matt—”
“Think of it this way. It’s a lot cooler out there than in town, right? You could get out of this heat for a while.”
“I’d rather stay home and turn on the air-conditioning.”
“Oh, come on, honey, what would it hurt?” He put on his most effective beseeching expression. “She’s an important client. Please?”
Sarah frowned at him, exasperated.
“Please?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Just, please, next time, ask me before you commit me to something.”
“Okay. Promise.”
Sarah shook her head and sighed. She knew better.
The next morning was sunny and clear, not nearly as humid as it had been before yesterday’s rainstorm. “Why would she want to see me?” Sarah asked again as Matt drove them to Mrs. Compson’s home.
“For the fourth time, Sarah, I don’t know. You’ll find out when we get there.”
“She’s probably going to demand an apology for snooping around her house.” Sarah tried to remember the exchange in the sewing room. She’d apologized when Mrs. Compson caught her, hadn’t she? “I don’t think I actually said I was sorry. I think I was too surprised. She probably dragged me out here to give me a lecture on manners.”
Her stomach twisted into a nervous knot that tightened as the truck pulled into the gravel driveway behind the manor.
“You could apologize before she asks you to,” Matt said as he parked the truck. “Old people like apologies and polite stuff like that.”
“Yeah. I hear they also love being referred to as ‘old people,’” Sarah muttered. She climbed out of the truck and slammed the door. But maybe Matt had a point. She trailed behind him as he led the way to the back door.
Mrs. Compson opened it on the first knock. “So, you’re here. Both of you. Well, come on in.” She left the door open and they followed her into the hall.
“Mrs. Compson,” Matt called after her as she walked ahead of them down a wide, dimly lit hallway. “I was planning to work in the orchard today. Is there anything else you’d like me to do first?”
She stopped and turned around. “No, the orchard is fine. Sarah may remain here with me.” Matt and Sarah exchanged a puzzled glance. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t work her too hard this morning. She’ll see you at lunchtime.”
Matt turned to Sarah, uncertain. “Sound okay to you?”
Sarah shrugged and nodded. She’d assumed that Mrs. Compson would want her to come in, make her apology, and leave, but if the woman wanted to drag things out . . . Sarah steeled herself. Well, Mrs. Compson was an important client.
With one last, uncertain smile, Matt turned and left the way they came. Sarah watched him go, then faced the old woman squarely. “Mrs. Compson,” she said firmly, trying to sound regretful but not nervous, “I wanted to apologize for going into your sitting room with my lemonade and touching your quilt without permission. I shouldn’t have done it and I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Compson gave her a bemused stare. “Apology accepted.” She turned and motioned for Sarah to follow.
Confused, Sarah trailed behind her as they reached the far end of the hall and turned right through a doorway. Wasn’t that enough of an apology for her? What else was Sarah supposed to say?
The hallway opened into a large foyer, and Sarah slowly took in a breath. Even with the floor-to-ceiling windows covered by heavy draperies, she could tell how splendid the entryway could be if it were properly cared for. The floor was made of black marble, and to Sarah’s left were marble steps leading down to twelve-foot-tall heavy wooden double doors. Oil paintings and mirrors in intricately carved frames lined the walls. Across the room was a smaller set of double doors, and a third set was on the wall to their right. In the corner between them a wooden staircase began; the first five steps were semicircular and led to a wedge-shaped landing from which a staircase climbed to the second-story balcony encircling the room. Looking up, Sarah could see another staircase continuing in a similar fashion to the third floor, and an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the frescoed ceiling far above.
Mrs. Compson crossed the floor, carefully descended the marble steps, and waving off Sarah’s efforts to assist, slowly pushed open one of the heavy doors.
Sarah followed her outside and tried not to gawk like a tourist. They stood on a wide stone veranda that ran the entire length of the front of the mansion. White columns supported a roof far overhead. Two stone staircases began at the center of the veranda, gracefully arcing away from each other and forming a half circle as they descended to the ground. The driveway encircled a large sculpture of a rearing horse; a second look told Sarah that it was a fountain choked with leaves and rainwater. Only that and the road leading from the driveway interrupted the green lawn that flowed from the manor to the distant trees.
Mrs. Compson eyed Sarah as she took all this in. “Impressed? Hmph.” She stepped inside and reappeared with a broom, which she handed to Sarah. “Of course you are. Everyone is, the first time they see the place. At least they used to be, when we used to have visitors, before the estate went to pieces.”
Sarah stood there uncertainly, looking from the broom to Mrs. Compson and back.
“At least you came dressed for work, not like last time.” Mrs. Compson gestured, first waving her arm to the north end of the veranda and then to the south. “Take care of the whole thing, and do a thorough job. Don’t neglect the dead leaves in the corners. I’ll be back later.” She moved toward the open doorway.
“Wait,” Sarah called after her. “I think there’s been a mistake. I can’t sweep your porch.”
Mrs. Compson turned and frowned at her. “A girl your age doesn’t know how to sweep?”
“It’s not that. I know how to sweep, but I—”
“Afraid of a bit of hard work, are you?”
“No, it’s just that I think there’s been a misunderstanding. You seem to think I work for Matt’s company, but I don’t.”
“Oh. So they fired you, did they?”
<
br /> “Of course not. They didn’t fire me. I’ve never worked for Matt’s company.”
“If that’s so, why did you accompany him that first time?”
“It was on the way. He was driving me home from a job interview.”
“Hmph. Very well, then. Sweep the veranda anyway. If you’re looking for work, I’d say you’ve found some. Just be glad I didn’t ask you to mow the lawn.”
Sarah gaped at her. “You know, you’re really something.” She threw down the broom and thrust her fists onto her hips. “I tried to apologize, tried to be polite, but you’re just the rudest, the—the—if you had asked nicely I might have swept your porch as a favor to you, and to Matt, but—”
Mrs. Compson was grinning at her.
“What’s so funny? You think being rude is funny?”
The old woman shrugged, clearly amused, which only irritated Sarah more. “I was beginning to wonder if you had any backbone at all.”
“Believe me, I do,” Sarah said through clenched teeth. She spun around and stormed down the nearest staircase.
“Wait,” Mrs. Compson called. “Sarah, please, just a moment.”
Sarah thought of Matt’s contract, sighed, and stopped on the bottom step. She turned around to find Mrs. Compson preparing to come down the stairs after her. Sarah then realized there was no handrail, and the stone wall was worn too smooth for a secure grip. Mrs. Compson stumbled, and instinctively Sarah put out her arms as if to steady her, though she was too far away to make any difference if Mrs. Compson fell.
“All right,” Sarah said. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to chase me.”
Mrs. Compson shook her head and came down the stairs anyway. “I really could use some more help around here,” she said, breathing heavily from exertion. “I’ll pay you, of course.”
“I’m looking for a real job. I went to college. I have a degree.”
“Of course you do. Of course you do. But you could work for me until you find a better job. I won’t mind if you need to leave early sometimes for job interviews.”
The Quilter's Apprentice Page 3
