“I guess I’m still a free agent, not by choice, but—”
“Then you can join our group,” Summer exclaimed. “I mean, if you want to. If you’re not too busy.”
“I’d love to. But I’m just a beginner. Is that okay?”
“We were all beginners once,” Gwen assured her. She introduced the other women, who smiled at Sarah as Gwen went around the circle.
Gwen explained that the 100-member Waterford Quilting Guild met once a month on the college campus to discuss guild business and activities, and broke up into smaller groups for weekly quilting bees. “The Tangled Web Quilters started out as one of those bees, but eventually we stopped going to the guild’s monthly meetings. I for one got tired of all the bureaucracy, electing officers for this, selecting a committee for that . . . all that nonsense takes up valuable quilting time. You’re more than welcome to join us if you like, if your Thursday evenings are free.”
“You’ll enjoy yourself, Sarah,” Bonnie said. “Bring something to quilt and be prepared to tell us your life story.”
Diane grinned. “Or, as we usually say, ‘Stitch and Bitch.’”
They all laughed.
“Don’t tell her that,” Mrs. Emberly said, struggling to hide a smile. “She’ll think we’re horribly rude.”
“No, not at all,” Sarah assured her. The Tangled Web Quilters were more like her State College friends than she ever could have suspected.
Summer finished cutting Sarah’s fabric while Gwen wrote down some information about the next week’s quilting bee. Sarah paid for her supplies, said good-bye to her new friends, and left the store. Swinging her shopping bag cheerfully, she walked up the street to the coffee shop where Matt was going to meet her for lunch. For the first time since they’d moved to Waterford, the downtown seemed the warm, friendly place their real estate agent had promised.
“This Diane sounds like she’s jealous of Mrs. Compson,” Matt said after Sarah told him about her morning.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s nice enough. They all seemed very nice.” Sarah regarded him closely and tried to suppress a grin. He looked ready to leap to Mrs. Compson’s defense if he heard another word against her.
“While you were at the quilt shop I picked up a car phone from work,” Matt went on. “I thought we could use one since we’re going to be spending a lot of time out at Elm Creek Manor.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Maybe we should try to talk Mrs. Compson into having a phone installed. Not for us, for her, in case she has an accident or something. I can’t figure why she wouldn’t have one already.” Suddenly he frowned and looked puzzled. “What? Do I have crumbs on my face or something? What are you grinning at?”
“You,” Sarah teased. “You’re so cute, the way you’re so concerned about Mrs. Compson. It’s like you’ve adopted her or something.”
Matt looked embarrassed. “You make me sound like a Boy Scout.”
“I think you’re sweet.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand affectionately. “You’re right about the phone, too. I wonder what she could do in an emergency. I don’t think anyone would hear her if she shouted for help.”
“I doubt it. The main road’s too far from the house, and not many people use it. Elm Creek Manor’s pretty isolated, especially if you don’t drive.”
“Doesn’t she?”
“Think about it. Did you ever see any cars behind the manor? Except for ours, I mean?”
Sarah tried to remember. “No, I don’t think so, and she’d probably park as close to the back door as possible, since she has some trouble walking.” That thought troubled her. No phone, probably no car, and no one else in the house except when Sarah was working. How did Mrs. Compson get groceries? What if she had an accident?
“No wonder she wants to sell the place and move back to Sewickley.” Matt shook his head. “It’s too bad. When we finish our work that place is going to be awesome, and she won’t be able to enjoy it.”
“Yeah. It’s a shame.” Sarah frowned and tapped her fingers on her coffee cup.
Six
Before Sarah and Matt left for Elm Creek Manor on Monday morning, Sarah gathered her courage and called Mr. Turnbull at PennCellular Corporation. “Why don’t you go upstairs or something?” she said to Matt as she dialed the kitchen phone. “You’ll distract me.”
“Okay,” Matt agreed, but he lingered in the doorway.
After a few rings a receptionist answered and promptly put Sarah on hold. As she waited, she began to feel her throat tightening.
“Don’t be nervous,” Matt whispered.
Sarah waved him away, but he only took one step out of the kitchen.
“Turnbull here,” a gruff voice suddenly barked in her ear.
“Good morning, Mr. Turnbull,” Sarah said. She forced some confidence into her voice. “This is Sarah McClure. I’m returning your phone call about—”
“Oh, yes, right. Sarah McClure.” Papers shuffled in the background. “You applied for a job in our public relations office, correct? Quite a nice résumé you sent in.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m a Penn State grad myself, you know. ’Course, that was before your time. I see you took advanced auditing. Is Professor Clarke still teaching it?”
“Yes. I mean, as far as I know she is. I had her years ago.”
“Liked her lectures, hated her exams.” Mr. Turnbull chuckled. “Well, let’s see here. I’ve been going over your background, and you know something, Sarah? You really seem more suited for a job in our accounting department.”
Sarah’s heart sank. She tried to think of an appropriate response.
“Now, it just so happens we have an entry-level opening there, too,” Mr. Turnbull went on. “It hasn’t even been advertised yet. What do you say? Interested?”
“Well, sure, but I’m also very interested in the other—”
“Good. Then some of the folks in the accounting department want to meet you and talk about it. How about some time this week?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“How about tomorrow, say, about one o’clock?”
So soon? “That sounds fine.” Sarah knew she ought to say something else, something impressive, something brilliant, but the words eluded her.
Mr. Turnbull raced through directions to his office as Sarah scrambled to write them down. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turnbull. I’m looking forward to meeting with you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again.”
Matt had been studying her expression throughout the conversation, and he stepped back into the kitchen when Sarah hung up the phone. She groaned, closed her eyes, and slumped against the kitchen wall. “It couldn’t have been that bad,” Matt said, incredulous. “You weren’t on the phone long enough to do that much damage.”
“I should’ve practiced what I was going to say. God, won’t I ever get this right?” She thumped her head against the wall.
“Well, hitting your head on the wall isn’t going to help.”
“He’s not considering me for the PR job.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you just schedule an interview?”
“For an accounting job. Every time I tried to talk about the PR job, he steered the conversation back to accounting.”
“You’re meeting with him tomorrow, right? Talk about it then.”
“No, I blew it. Talk about terrible first impressions. Maybe I should call him and cancel.”
Matt laughed. “Oh, sure. That’ll make an even better impression.” He crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders. “Give yourself a break, Sarah. So you were a little nervous. That doesn’t mean you blew it. I bet everyone he talks to gets nervous, probably more than you did. He must’ve liked how you sounded or he wouldn’t have offered you the interview, right?” He stooped down until his eyes were level with hers, and gave her a playful grin. “Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”
Sarah managed the b
arest hint of a smile in return. “Okay, maybe you’re right. I guess he could’ve hung up on me. And he’s Penn State alumni. He had Professor Clarke.”
“Well, there you go. Turnbull likes Professor Clarke, and Professor Clarke likes you, right? You’re a shoo-in.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Matt.”
“You never know.” He gave her a quick kiss, then picked up his wallet and keys from the counter. “Come on, let’s get going. Mrs. Compson might not be too thrilled if we’re late.”
Sarah snatched up her bag of quilting supplies, threw on her raincoat, and hurried after him to the truck. By the time he dropped her off behind Elm Creek Manor, she was about fifteen minutes late. She tried to avoid the biggest puddles as she ran from the gravel driveway to the back steps.
Mrs. Compson was waiting in the foyer. “You’re late,” she said before Sarah had a chance to say hello. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Compson.” She took off her raincoat and shook the rain from her hair. “I had to make an important phone call, and their office didn’t open until eight.”
“At eight you were supposed to be here working, not at home making phone calls.”
“I said I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Hmph.” Mrs. Compson sniffed, relenting a little. “I suppose you forgot to buy your quilting materials.”
“Everything’s right here.” Sarah showed her the bag.
“Did you wash and press the fabric?”
“Just as you told me.”
“Hmph. Well, I suppose you might as well continue with the library this morning until lunchtime.” Mrs. Compson took the bag and turned toward the kitchen. “Leave your shoes here. It won’t do to have you tracking mud everywhere.”
Sarah made an exasperated face at Mrs. Compson’s back. That woman had a real gift for overreacting. She knew that Sarah’s search for a real job had to be her first priority. If Mrs. Compson had a phone like normal people, Sarah could have come to work on time and called from there. She jerked off her shoes, and the chill from the cold tile floor crept into her toes. Muttering complaints under her breath, she pulled up her socks and followed her employer into the kitchen.
“Was my quilt still in the window of Grandma’s Attic?” Mrs. Compson asked as Sarah entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, peering through her glasses at a newspaper.
“It was still there Saturday morning.”
Mrs. Compson frowned and shook her head. “Maybe it’s time for them to take it down. I doubt if anyone will buy it. I should just stick it in the cedar chest with the others.”
“Oh, no, they should leave it up. It’s so pretty. Someone will buy it soon, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Compson looked up then, her face uncertain. “Do you really think so?”
“I’d buy it, if I could.”
“You’re a sweet girl to say so, but I have my doubts. It just seems like people don’t care about things like quilters anymore.”
Sarah thought about Bonnie, Summer, and the other Tangled Web Quilters. “I don’t know. I think a lot of people care about quilts.”
Mrs. Compson smiled halfheartedly. “That’s not what I said.” She sighed and returned to her newspaper.
Sarah watched her for a moment, then turned and went upstairs to the library. She didn’t feel like a sweet girl. She wished she could be more like Matt—always accepting people, never making snap judgments, giving people the benefit of the doubt instead of getting angry over the least little thing. Maybe Mrs. Compson had overreacted, but Sarah had been late for work, if only by a few minutes. She felt a tiny prick of guilt on her conscience, more for her angry reaction to Mrs. Compson’s behavior than for her tardiness.
Mrs. Compson had left three empty cartons, a ball of twine, a can of furniture polish, and a pile of clean rags on the floor next to the desk. Since the wind was blowing from the south, Sarah opened the windows on only the east wall so she could get some fresh air without soaking the hardwood floor or the Persian carpet that covered its center. Then she began her day’s work by filling the cartons with Claudia’s old paperbacks and tying up bundles of newspaper with the twine. The library was pleasantly cool that morning, and Sarah hummed cheerfully as she worked, listening to the rain outside. Sometimes a low peal of thunder would toll far off in the distance, making the windows tremble and the lights flicker.
At noon she heard Mrs. Compson’s slow step from the top of the stairs. Sarah set down her dust rag and hurried to open the library door. Mrs. Compson stood there with a tray loaded with sandwiches, fruit salad, and a pitcher of iced tea.
“You didn’t need to come all the way up here.” Sarah took the tray and carried it to the coffee table. “I would’ve come downstairs.”
“I thought I might like to see how you’re coming along up here instead.” Mrs. Compson looked around, nodding in satisfaction as she joined Sarah in the center of the room. “Yes, you’re doing a fine job. This place looks almost as I remember it.” She gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa, and a cloud of dust rose.
Sarah made a mental note to beat the cushions after lunch. She sat on the floor on the other side of the table and poured herself a glass of iced tea.
“I thought I’d join you for lunch,” Mrs. Compson said. “If you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“It’s no intrusion. I’d like the company.” Sarah poured a second glass and handed it to her employer. She took a sandwich from the top of the pile and placed it on the delicate china plate Mrs. Compson set before her. The plate was almost translucent, with scalloped edges trimmed in gold and a rearing stallion etched in the center. “You know, I’ve noticed this horse emblem all over the place,” Sarah mused, forgetting her earlier vow to resist prying into Mrs. Compson’s life. “There’s the fountain in the front of the manor, and the same horse is etched on the china, and it’s embossed in gold on the desk—”
“Compson is my married name.” Mrs. Compson sipped her iced tea. “Oh, yes, of course. You’re new to Waterford. You haven’t heard, I suppose, of Hans Bergstrom? Or of Bergstrom Thoroughbreds?”
Sarah shook her head.
“What do you know of horses?”
“Not much.”
“Hans Bergstrom was my great-grandfather.” Mrs. Compson rose and went over to the desk. She ran a hand over the emblem of the rearing stallion. “In his time he raised the finest horses in the country. I never knew him, except from my parents’ stories, but he must have been a remarkable man. All Bergstrom men were remarkable men.”
I remember one story in particular. Out of all the stories this house holds, it’s my very favorite.
My great-grandfather was the youngest son of a rather well-to-do family in Germany from a small city near Baden-Baden. I say the family was from Baden-Baden, but that’s not entirely true. Hans’s grandfather moved there from Stockholm when he married a German girl. And you’d think that would be enough moving about for one family, but you’d be wrong.
I suppose Hans Bergstrom was a lot like his grandfather—never one to stay in one place. His parents wanted him to go into the clergy, but he would have none of that. He wanted to seek adventure and fortune in America. When he was a young man, perhaps only a few years younger than you, he boarded a ship and emigrated without his parents’ permission, without even informing them of his journey. Only his eldest sister knew, and she told no one until his ship was a week at sea.
Before long he made his way to Pennsylvania and began to use his knowledge of horse breeding and raising in other men’s employ, saving every spare cent he could. He had a plan, you see, to establish his own stables someday and to breed the finest horses anywhere, new world and old alike.
When he was ready, he found this land and built a small house on the western edge of the property, where the orchard grows today. Such a confident man he was, brash even, so certain he was of his future success. He wrote to his family back in Germany to urge them to join him here, b
ut only his eldest sister, Gerda, agreed to make the journey. She was unmarried, and very sensible, but not afraid to take a few risks.
When Gerda’s ship was scheduled to arrive, Hans traveled to New York City to meet her. And this is the part of the story I like best. When he arrived at Immigration, he found a small knot of men talking excitedly and waving their arms about and carrying on as men always do when they argue. Never one to keep his nose in his own business, Hans nudged one man and asked him what was going on.
“They’ve got a girl there,” the man told him. “Folks say she’s been loitering here for three days now.”
“I heard a week,” another man interjected.
The first man shrugged. “Either way, they want her gone. They’re trying to figure out what to do with her.”
Intrigued, Hans pushed his way to the center of the crowd, and there he discovered the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Oh, she looked exhausted, to be sure, but with her green eyes and brown hair—well, I’ve seen her portrait, and I tell you she must have been a vision. She sat on top of a shining new treadle sewing machine cabinet, ankles crossed, hands folded primly in her lap, brave chin up, for all the world as if she were sitting on a throne. A couple of steamer trunks rested on the floor beneath her feet, and beside her three men in uniforms debated her future as if she had no say in the matter—which, I suppose, she probably didn’t. She ignored them with all the dignity she could muster.
After questioning some others in the crowd, Hans learned that this young woman was from Berlin and that she was supposed to have been met there three days before by the man who had promised to marry her. She had spent her life savings on her passage to America and on the sewing machine with which she hoped to earn her keep, had gambled everything on that scoundrel’s promise. The officials did not know what to do with her. She had no other family in the country, spoke no English, and had no one to sponsor her now that her good-for-nothing fiancé had betrayed her. Most of the men were all for bundling her back on board the next ship for Germany, but she refused to budge. She wouldn’t disobey them, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be meekly driven away, either.
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