A warm, calloused hand closed around hers. “Sylvia?”
She gave a start. “Andrew?” Her reverie faded, and she realized she had come to a halt in the middle of the hallway. “Yes, dear?”
He studied her, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you all right? You seemed worlds away.”
“Nonsense. I’m right here.” She squeezed his hand and smiled up at him. “Precisely where I ought to be.”
As Sylvia and Andrew continued on to the kitchen, the sounds of conversation grew louder, the tantalizing aromas of molasses and spice more irresistible.
Sylvia entered the kitchen just ahead of Andrew and paused to admire the cheerful scene. It was fair to say that no other place in the manor had undergone a greater transformation since Sylvia’s return than the kitchen. In addition to the rubbish Claudia had left behind, she had found dated appliances, not a single one of which had come off the assembly line post-1945 except for a tiny microwave on the counter, possibly the first ever invented, by the look of it. Poor lighting, clogged pipes, broken stovetop burners—the list of essential repairs and recommended upgrades had gone on for pages, but after the launch of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, Sylvia had settled for making the place clean and functional. For several years, the Elm Creek Quilters had managed to feed dozens of quilt campers three meals a day by adapting to what Sylvia euphemistically called the kitchen’s charming quirks, but conditions were far below professional standards. When the time came to add a chef to the staff, Sylvia was not surprised when Anna made the promise of a total remodel a condition for accepting the job.
Sylvia knew that drastic improvements were long overdue, so in early September after the camp season ended, she had arranged to fulfill Anna’s wish list. Contractors transformed the kitchen by gutting the space, knocking out a wall and expanding into the adjacent sitting room. They installed state-of-the-art appliances, marble counters, efficient workstations, a central island, spacious cabinets, a walk-in pantry, and eight cozy booths perfect for faculty and campers alike to catch up with friends over a cup of tea and a decadent dessert.
The blank wall above the nearest booth awaited the quilt Sylvia and Anna were making together from scraps of fabric from Great-Aunt Lydia’s collection of feed-sack aprons. They had set the quilt aside recently to work on holiday projects—Sylvia, her promised contribution to the Christmas Boutique; Anna, a Hanukkah gift for her friend Jeremy. They planned to resume their collaboration after the holidays, and when their quilt was finished, it would boast an appliqué still life of fruits and vegetables framed by blocks that reminded them of the kitchen: Broken Dishes, Cut Glass Dish, Honeybee, Corn and Beans, and several yet to be decided.
Now, Sarah sat at another booth, her back to the doorway, an empty plate at her right hand, a file of what appeared to be camp documents lying open on the table before her. Sylvia muffled a sigh. Sarah ought not to be sitting alone. One of the manor’s other permanent residents should be seated across from her—her husband, Matthew. But on the day after Thanksgiving, he had told Sarah that his father, Hank, needed him to take over the family construction company while Hank recovered from a flare-up of an old back injury. He could not afford to turn down jobs during such poor economic times, nor could he manage without someone he trusted on site to supervise the work. Sarah had been surprised and hurt to discover that Matt had already agreed to go.
“Without discussing it with you first?” Sylvia had exclaimed when Sarah had confided in her afterward. He should have consulted Sylvia too, as his employer, but it seemed unkind to mention it.
Sarah had nodded, disconsolate. “That’s what hurts the most.”
“But Uniontown is a three-hour drive away—and you’re thirty weeks pregnant!”
“Thirty-one on Monday.”
“But what about your childbirth classes, and your preparations for the nursery?” Sylvia had forced herself to pause and take a breath. This was no time to compound her young friend’s distress. “We can figure that out together, I’m sure.”
“Gretchen offered to step in as my labor coach.”
“Gretchen?” What she wanted to ask was why she would choose a relatively recent friend, the newest member of the Elm Creek Quilts faculty, instead of her own mother? Carol lived some distance away, but she was a nurse.
“She has more experience with this than you’d expect. She nominated Joe to take care of babyproofing the manor.”
“Andrew would be happy to assist, I’m sure.”
“As for the rest of it, I’ll manage somehow.” Sarah had shrugged, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “What else was I supposed to do? If I asked him not to go, he’d probably stay, but he’d blame me if his father’s business failed. I just—I don’t want that on my conscience.”
Sylvia had squeezed her hand and murmured encouragement, but Matthew’s choice mystified her. And what was Hank thinking, putting his son in such an impossible position? Privately Andrew agreed with her. Though he usually kept his opinions to himself unless he was asked to offer them, he could not conceal his disapproval of Matt’s decision. He appreciated filial loyalty as much as the next man, but he thought it irresponsible of Matt to leave Sarah during her pregnancy, since it wasn’t absolutely necessary. “It’s not like he’s in the service or something,” he had said to Sylvia, incredulous and disappointed, after Matthew had loaded his pickup truck and departed for Uniontown on the Monday after Thanksgiving.
Matthew had returned as promised for the weekend, but the tension between the two expectant parents was evident in their strained smiles, in the new, stilted politeness in their conversation. Now another Monday morning had come. He must have left for Uniontown already or Sarah would not be seated alone, engrossed in camp work. Sylvia decided to sit with Sarah while she ate her breakfast and try to cheer her up. Andrew would understand, and he had other friends there to keep him company.
One relic of the olden days remained in the newly modernized kitchen—a long wooden table and benches placed squarely in the center of the dining area. The Bergstroms had considered it an antique even when Sylvia was a child, and it was too full of sentimental value and family history to discard.
Two more of the manor’s permanent residents sat across from each other at the far end of the table. Gretchen Hartley, the newest member of the faculty, had taken her first quilting lessons from none other than Sylvia herself, as a high school student in Ambridge, Pennsylvania. Gretchen wore a thick navy cardigan buttoned over an ivory blouse, but the formality of her tan corduroy skirt was offset by her comfortable fleece slippers, their size exaggerated by her thin ankles. She was in her sixties, with steel-gray hair cut in a pageboy and a frame that seemed chiseled thin by hard times, but Sylvia was pleased to see that her careworn look lessened with each week she spent at Elm Creek Manor.
Across from Gretchen sat her husband, Joe, a former steelworker who had lost his job years before after an accident at the mill left him with a broken back. His inherent determination and Gretchen’s unwavering support had compelled him to work tirelessly to regain his mobility, and in the years since, he had built a second career as a skilled carpenter and expert restorer of antique furniture. He and Andrew had become good friends, and when he and Sylvia entered, Joe looked up from the newspaper spread on the table and grinned in welcome, his weathered, calloused hands cupped around a steaming mug.
“Good morning,” Sylvia sang out, returning Joe’s smile. “What is that marvelous smell?”
“Gingerbread waffles with apple-raisin compote,” said Anna, smiling too as she deftly turned two golden-crisp waffles from the iron onto a platter. Tall and robust with dark, sparkling eyes, she wore her long, dark hair in a French braid beneath her white chef’s toque. Her white apron was smeared with whole-wheat flour and molasses, but her sleeves were immaculately clean. “Are you hungry?”
“You bet,” said Andrew, making his way to the coffeepot on the nearby counter. “Coffee would hit the spot too.”
“Then you’re in luck,
because I just brewed a fresh pot,” said Gretchen.
“Sylvia, the kettle’s on for your tea,” said Anna, inclining her head toward the gleaming eight-burner gas stove on the far wall.
Sylvia thanked her, helped herself to a waffle and a hot cup of Earl Grey, and made her way around the long wooden table to Sarah’s booth, while Andrew joined the Hartleys. “Good morning, dear,” Sylvia said, setting down her breakfast and easing herself into the seat across from her young friend. “Did you sleep well?”
Sarah smiled wanly and rested a hand on her abdomen. “More or less. Barnum and Bailey woke me a few times with their gymnastics.”
Sylvia laughed lightly, amused by the image and the whimsical names. Sarah and Matthew did not know whether their twins were boys or girls or one of each, and they didn’t want to know until the babies were born. Most of their friends understood and respected their decision, but some of the Elm Creek Quilters hoped they would change their minds because, they said, it would be easier to make quilts and other gifts if they knew whether the babies were girls or boys. Diane Sonnenberg was the most persistent in her complaints, as she was about most things. Convinced that Sarah and Matt had glimpsed the truth during one of Sarah’s ultrasounds, she scrutinized the couple’s words and actions for clues. To tease her, Matt began calling the babies various paired names, usually silly phrases that drove Diane crazy and amused everyone else. Sylvia’s favorites included Sugar and Spice, Zig and Zag, and Needle and Thread.
“Did Matthew set out early?” Sylvia inquired casually, cutting a small bite of waffle.
“He heard that snow is on the way and he wanted to beat the storm.” Sarah pushed her folder aside and rested her arms on the table. “That’s what he said, but I think he wanted to get away before we had another argument.”
“Oh, Sarah, surely not.”
“I’m annoyed with him for being away and I took it out on him when he came home.” She glanced away, blinking as if warding off tears. “If he’s trying to avoid me, it’s my fault.”
“What? Why would you think such a thing?”
“I made him promise that regardless of any other consideration, he won’t miss the birth of our children.”
“A perfectly reasonable request.”
“I also warned him that if his father insists he can’t manage without him after the twins are born, and if Matt agrees to stay on, I’m not leaving Elm Creek Manor to go with him.”
For a moment Sylvia was speechless. “How did he take it?”
Sarah gestured to the window between them, where a few flakes of snow drifted lazily down upon the rear parking lot. “He left early.”
“I see.” Sylvia took a careful sip of tea, thinking. “Try not to make too much of that. He probably wanted to beat the storm, just as he said.”
Frowning skeptically, Sarah titled her head toward the window. “What storm? All I see are a few flurries.”
Before Sylvia could reply, Joe spoke up. “Are you two talking about the nor’easter?”
“What nor’easter?” Sarah repeated, with a pointed look for Sylvia.
“I know it doesn’t look like much now, but I heard on the radio that we’re supposed to get up to fourteen inches of snow.”
“Again?” Anna lamented. “Didn’t we get our share over Thanksgiving weekend?”
One could not blame her for thinking so. The Elm Creek Quilters had come to the manor the Friday after Thanksgiving to enjoy their own special holiday, a marathon day of quilting to work on holiday projects, with a potluck lunch made from Thanksgiving leftovers. Sylvia had made excellent progress on her quilt for the Christmas Boutique, a striking combination of Star of the Magi, and Chimneys and Cornerstones blocks in rich shades of green, red, gold, and ivory. The party had unexpectedly turned into a sleepover when the storm worsened and the roads became impassable.
“Fourteen inches of snow,” marveled Gretchen, shaking her head.
“After the storm passes, temperatures are expected to plunge,” said Joe, remarkably cheerful given his dire report. “Three days of subzero temps with wind chills near forty below.”
“Goodness,” said Sylvia, shivering at the very thought of it. “And when is this storm expected to arrive?”
“By late morning.”
Sarah inhaled shakily. “Maybe Matt was right to leave early,” she said, for Sylvia’s ears alone. “Maybe I’m overthinking this.”
Sylvia reached across the table for her hand and smiled encouragingly. “I’m sure that’s so.”
“I hope no one was planning to go out today,” said Andrew. “Sounds like we should all just hunker down and wait out the storm.”
“The pantry’s well stocked,” Anna remarked. “We’ll be fine even if the roads are closed for days. Sarah, could I borrow some pajamas again?”
“Of course, and you can take your pick of the guest rooms.”
“But I do have plans to go out,” said Sylvia. “I need to drop off my quilt for the Christmas Boutique at Good Shepherd Church.”
“Must you do that today?” asked Gretchen. “I thought the sale began next week.”
“It does, but they need our donations ahead of time so they can take inventory and arrange the displays.” Sylvia sighed, considering. “I suppose it can wait. Likely the volunteers who would be collecting the donations have heard the same forecast and will be staying home too.”
Sylvia turned her gaze toward the window. Perhaps it was her imagination, but already the flurries seemed to be thickening.
She decided to heed Andrew’s sound advice and deliver the quilt when the weather improved. In the meantime, she would enjoy the comfort of her beloved ancestral estate, the company of good friends, and the picturesque view of the snowfall through the window. She knew how extraordinarily fortunate she was to have them.
2
Mary Beth
Glancing uneasily at the low, mottled gray sky, Mary Beth Callahan dug her keys from her coat pocket and hurried across the parking lot to her car, a Fabric Warehouse shopping bag dangling from her arm. She had run out of delft-blue thread the previous evening, and she could not finish her last quilt for the Christmas Boutique without it. If the approaching storm turned out as bad as expected—and in Mary Beth’s experience, grim forecasts tended to be the most accurate—she was not about to be stuck at home without the supplies she needed. Her holiday prep schedule was so packed that even an emergency as ostensibly minor as running out of thread could utterly ruin all her carefully crafted plans.
The oncoming blizzard had already wreaked enough havoc on her day, obliging her to squeeze in errands she had meant to complete later in the week into these fraught few hours before the storm forced her to take shelter at home, waiting anxiously for her husband to make his precarious way back from work, hoping that her son and only child was safe in his dorm at Penn State. She understood why Melanie Tibbs had moved the Good Shepherd Church facilities committee meeting from tomorrow evening to that afternoon, for they had many time-sensitive matters to discuss, but the change raised the stakes on an already challenging day. Still, serving the church and the community allowed her to atone for past mistakes, and she was determined to follow through, even if it left her feeling perpetually distracted and pulled in twenty different directions at once.
Fabric Warehouse took up an entire wing of a strip mall on the northwest fringes of Waterford, where nearly every tenant was a big-box store and all the restaurants chains. The vast acreage of parking was ominously full, more likely due to anxious citizens preparing for a wintry siege than holiday shoppers unwilling to let a little blizzard come between them and a bargain. A dark tan minivan stalked Mary Beth all the way back to her car, but she ignored the driver as she stowed her purchases in the trunk, climbed in, adjusted her rearview mirror, and checked her seatbelt twice before pulling out of her parking spot and heading toward the exit.
A light dusting of snow on the highway whirled in icy cyclones in the wake of passing traffic, both of which gr
ew heavier as Mary Beth approached the downtown. The fastest route to Good Shepherd Church would take her along Main Street between the college campus and the town, but she hesitated before taking the proper off-ramp. In recent months she had deliberately avoided those particular blocks—not because the area was often congested when classes were in session or because distracted student pedestrians with no instinct for self-preservation were annoying, although both offered reason enough, but because the sight of a certain empty storefront made her head throb and her heart plummet with guilt and remorse.
Some wrongs simply couldn’t be put right, no matter how desperately she wanted to.
Steeling herself, she drove on, resisting the temptation to take a roundabout way, one easier on her conscience. Part of her self-imposed atonement was to bear witness to the harm she had caused others. That she had never meant for it to happen and would give anything to undo it mattered not at all. That she had not personally rendered the final blow was irrelevant. That the one who had suffered the most had offered forgiveness did not lessen her culpability.
Her heart thudded as she reached the busiest intersection on Main Street, where the main entrance to the Waterford College campus faced the town’s most popular retail and entertainment district. As fate would have it, a red light brought her to a halt right in front of the building she most dreaded to see.
She forced herself to look.
The upper levels of the three-story redbrick building were almost unrecognizable behind a framework of scaffolding, the doors to the ground-level businesses inaccessible behind rubbish bins and construction equipment. Those shops and offices were empty now, the former tenants persuaded by the new landlord’s exorbitant rents to relocate.
One small-business owner had resisted, but eventually she too had been forced to close the doors to her beloved shop, not merely until she could reopen elsewhere, but forever. And although she apparently did not blame Mary Beth for her misfortune, she would not be wrong to do so.
The Christmas Boutique Page 4
