The Christmas Boutique

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  With a whisper of wood scraping against the grain, the plywood surface rose. Setting the file aside, Agnes slipped her fingertips beneath the plywood and gently tugged.

  The false bottom eased free, revealing something hidden beneath, something wrapped in muslin.

  Perhaps she should have paused then to call Peter over, but forgetting protocol and caution, she leaned the false bottom against the umbrella stand and removed the object. It was soft and pliant but with some heft to it. Even before she removed the muslin wrapper, she knew she held a quilt.

  “Peter,” she called, rising, the folded quilt in her arms, “Joseph, come see. I found something.”

  The urgency in her voice brought them quickly to her side. “What do you have there?” asked Joseph, his gaze traveling from the bundle in her arms to the open trunk and then to the plywood rectangle propped up against the umbrella stand.

  When Agnes explained how she had made her discovery, Peter shook his head in amazement. “I’ve had that chest for years, and I never noticed the false bottom. I never would have guessed something was concealed within it.”

  “Will you lend me a hand?” she asked, moving into the aisle, holding out the folded quilt so they each could grasp adjacent edges. Shifting position to avoid jostling the merchandise, they stepped apart, unfolding the quilt between them.

  “Honey,” said Joseph, “this is quite a find.”

  Agnes nodded, her gaze on the quilt, resplendent in rich greens, reds, golds, and ivory; sixteen identical appliqué blocks framed by a border with graceful curves and a narrow appliqué accent. She was quite sure she had never seen any block exactly like these, although the Bergstrom women’s vast pattern collection had included a few with striking similarities. Four branches of dark green reached toward the corners from the center of the square, each with five arced leaves with concave curves along the edges. Dark red, teardrop-shaped buds accented the tips, three for the longest central branch, one apiece for the smaller branches. There were four more red buds in the center of the block, closely placed but not quite touching, their wider curves turned inward, the narrow tips pointing toward the block’s edges. Although the pattern had a distinctly floral look, “branches” and “leaves” were not quite the right words, but more accurate terms eluded her. The block’s radial symmetry reminded Agnes of the paper snowflakes she and her sisters had made as children, and perhaps that fond memory along with the color palette evoked thoughts of Christmas, of cozy winter evenings with snow falling gently outdoors while a Yule log burned on the hearth.

  “It’s a work of art,” said Agnes, awestruck.

  “It’s in excellent condition, considering that it’s been folded and compressed for years,” said Peter, studying it with a more critical eye.

  Joseph’s gaze went from the quilt to Agnes’s face. “How much do you want for it?” he asked Peter. “I think it would make a great early Christmas present for my bride.”

  Agnes’s exclamation of delight was cut short when Peter shook his head. “I’m not so sure it’s mine to sell. I doubt very much the person who sold me the trunk knew a quilt was hidden inside. What if it’s a cherished family heirloom?”

  “Seller beware,” Joseph quipped. “Who crams a cherished family heirloom beneath the false bottom of a chest and forgets about it?”

  Peter inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “Even so, my conscience tells me I should contact the person I bought the chest from and confirm that they meant to sell the quilt too.”

  “Only if you want to do the ethical thing,” said Joseph, but Agnes knew that for all his teasing, he too would insist upon doing whatever was right and fair.

  While Peter withdrew to his office to search his files, Agnes and Joseph lingered over the quilt, admiring its handiwork, speculating about its origins. They agreed that it would have been impossible for the quilt to have become wedged beneath the plywood by accident. Someone must have hidden it, but why, and why had it never been removed? It seemed likely that the person who had hidden the quilt and the person who had sold the chest to Peter were not one and the same.

  Twenty minutes later, Peter returned carrying an index card. “According to my records, I bought the chest eight years ago at an estate auction in Port Allegany, about one hundred miles northeast of here,” he said, glancing at the card. “I have the original owner’s name and address, but I confess my memories of the day are a bit vague. I attend dozens of auctions every year, and nothing distinctive about this one comes to mind.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable, after so much time,” said Agnes.

  “I do recall meeting the former owner’s son, Henry Frieberg, the executor of her estate. He had moved to Harrisburg years before. He seemed rather unsentimental about parting with his childhood home and his mother’s belongings, but that might have been a stoic mask to conceal profound grief.” Peter handed the index card to Joseph, who read it over before passing it on to Agnes. “I’ve listed his address and phone number as well.”

  “We’ll call him,” said Joseph as Agnes slipped the card into her purse. “If he wants the quilt, I’ll return it to him on your behalf.”

  “Please do. If he doesn’t want it, you can make him a fair offer with a clear conscience. I hope he’ll simply let you keep it.”

  “But what about you?” said Agnes. “Shouldn’t you get your cut?”

  “I paid a fair price for an exquisite maple chest, which I still intend to sell at a profit,” said Peter. “If you hadn’t found the quilt, I never would have known it existed. As far as I’m concerned, the rule of finders keepers applies.”

  “Let’s hope Mr. Frieberg agrees,” said Joseph.

  “I think you’re being more than generous,” Agnes told Peter, smiling, “but I’m not going to argue. Why put another obstacle between me and proper legal ownership of this gorgeous quilt?”

  As soon as Agnes and Joseph returned home, she called the number on the index card, but no one picked up. She tried again an hour later, but it was not until her third attempt later that evening that Henry Frieberg finally answered. He seemed surprised to receive a call about his mother’s estate auction, and he became keenly interested when she explained that she had discovered a false bottom to the maple chest, which he remembered well. His excitement diminished, however, when she told him that the plywood board had concealed a quilt.

  “Is that all?” he asked. “Why would anyone go to so much trouble to hide a quilt?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” said Agnes. “It’s an exceptional piece, not only because of its exquisite needlework, but its artistry.” She described the quilt briefly, sensing that he was losing interest. “Could it perhaps be a long-lost family heirloom?”

  “No, it doesn’t sound familiar to me at all.”

  “Was your mother a quilter?”

  He let out a harsh, abrupt laugh. “She was, but she never made anything that anyone would describe as ‘an exceptional piece.’”

  “I see.” His derisive tone surprised her. “Are there any more talented quilters in the family?”

  “I can’t think of any who were worse, but I’m sure I never saw a quilt like the one you’ve described lying around my childhood home. You seem quite taken with it. Why don’t you just keep it?”

  It was the generous response she had hoped for—almost. “Don’t you think you should see the quilt before you make a decision?” she asked. “We’re willing to offer a fair price for it.”

  “Mrs. Emberly, let me be frank.” His voice took on an edge. “My mother was a difficult woman. She was selfish, judgmental, and cruel. Even if she were capable of making a masterpiece quilt, which she wasn’t, I wouldn’t want it in my home. As far as I’m concerned, it belongs to the man who bought the chest.”

  “I’ll let him know,” said Agnes, taken aback, “but just in case, may I send you a photo of the quilt? It would ease my conscience to know you’ve made an informed decision.”

  He hesitated, but she w
heedled a bit more and he eventually agreed. She hung up the phone and hurried off to fetch the camera she and Joseph had bought for their third anniversary, which they had celebrated with a weeklong excursion to Yellowstone. She spread the quilt upon the bed, took several shots, took a few more of the lovely autumn colors of the Waterford College arboretum to use up the film, and dropped off the roll with the developer. When she picked up the photos a few days later, she chose one of the entire quilt and one close-up of a single block and mailed them to Mr. Frieberg. A week passed before he called to confirm that he had never seen the quilt and did not consider himself the rightful owner.

  “Maybe the quilt was already hidden in the chest when my mother inherited it from my grandmother,” he said. “She passed on more than forty years ago, so I’m afraid we’ll never know.”

  “I suppose not,” Agnes replied. She thanked him for his help and hung up, curiously disappointed. Shouldn’t she be thrilled? She had done her due diligence but had reached a dead end. Mr. Frieberg did not want the quilt, and had in fact urged her to keep it. Why shouldn’t she do exactly that?

  Perhaps because in mentioning his grandmother, he had inadvertently suggested another possible quiltmaker, and Agnes believed the anonymous artist deserved to be acknowledged. Perhaps because Mr. Frieberg’s certainty that they would never know the quilt’s provenance seemed rather defeatist, considering how little time she had spent searching.

  Perhaps because she knew that every quilt offered glimpses into its own history as well as the character of its creator, from the choice of pattern and color, to the type of fabrics available, to the quality of stitches—if one knew what to look for. And she knew someone who did.

  In the four years since she had left Elm Creek Manor, Agnes had glimpsed Claudia from a distance a few times in downtown Waterford, but had never approached her. They exchanged Christmas cards every December, but never a lengthy letter, nor a phone call, since the Bergstroms had never installed a line. Agnes considered writing ahead of time to ask if they might meet, but she was afraid Claudia would refuse. So one Sunday afternoon in the second week of December, she filled a new tin with homemade spritz cookies and gingersnaps, loaded the tin and the quilt into Joseph’s car, and drove out to Elm Creek Manor to meet with her erstwhile sister-in-law, unexpected and possibly unwelcome.

  She almost missed the turnoff from the highway, but she spotted the unmarked forest road and hit the brakes just before she would have passed it. The winding way through the forest was as narrow and rough as she remembered, if not more so, but when she glimpsed the creek through the trees, she knew she was drawing near. In the old days she would have driven the long way around the barn, parked behind the manor, and entered through the back door like one of the family, but the manor was no longer her home. She took the first fork instead, crossing the stone bridge and emerging from the forest at the edge of the broad front lawn, overgrown and browning with the season.

  She instinctively slowed the car as she approached the front of the manor, where the driveway encircled a statue of a rearing horse, the old symbol of Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. As she parked the car, shouldered her purse, and took out the muslin-wrapped bundle and the cookie tin, she thought she felt eyes upon her, and yet after she climbed the stone stairs and sounded the heavy iron door knocker, several long minutes passed in silence except for the murmur of the wind in the trees, the scuttle of dried autumn leaves on the driveway, and the hoarse, distant caw of a crow. She knocked again, glancing to the windows visible from the veranda, certain she had glimpsed the flicker of a light within. Still no one answered her knock. Shifting her burdens to ease the pressure on her midsection, she was just beginning to wonder if she should try again when she heard a deadbolt slide back. The right-hand door slowly opened.

  Claudia stood on the threshold, her expression drawn and suspicious until it gave way to recognition and surprise. Though she was only thirty-six, her shoulders had acquired a slight stoop, and coarse, steel gray threads dulled her once glossy chestnut brown hair, which she wore in an old-fashioned coil on the back of her head. Deep vertical creases framed her mouth, and two more appeared between her eyebrows as she looked Agnes up and down, her gaze alighting on the bundle and tin in her arms before returning to her face.

  “Hello, Claudia,” said Agnes warmly, genuinely glad to see her again. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “It has.” Claudia drew herself up and pursed her lips. “What’s wrong?”

  Instinctively Agnes understood that Claudia assumed she had brought bad news from Sylvia. “Nothing’s wrong,” she quickly said, smiling and shaking her head. “I’m fine, Joseph’s fine, and—well, I come bearing an early Christmas gift—” Cradling the quilt in one arm for a moment, she handed Claudia the red cookie tin with her free hand. “And a mystery. A mysterious quilt, to be precise. I hoped that with your expertise, you might detect some important clues that I’ve overlooked.”

  Claudia hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, but then nodded brusquely, opened the door wider, and beckoned Agnes inside. The foyer’s marble floor looked as if it had not been swept in months, and several overstuffed cardboard cartons were haphazardly stacked in the corner where the walls of the ballroom and the banquet hall met. When Claudia led her to the parlor, Agnes hid her dismay to see more cardboard boxes stacked in a corner opposite the fireplace, newspapers and magazines scattered on every seat and tabletop, and a thin layer of dust covering all. Agnes had never seen Elm Creek Manor in such disarray. The Claudia she had once known never would have tolerated it.

  Quickly Claudia began shifting piles of newspaper from the sofa to the coffee table. “I haven’t had time to clean recently,” she said, avoiding Agnes’s eyes. “I’ve been terribly busy with the last of the harvest.”

  “The harvest?” Agnes echoed. “Do you mean—apples?”

  “What else?” With her hand Claudia brushed lint and bits of thread from the sofa cushions to the floor. “The orchard is thriving. I hire students to pick and sort, and I sell the fruit to grocery stores and the cider mill in Grangerville.”

  “Claudia, that’s wonderful.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. The orchard won’t earn me a fortune but it pays the bills.” Giving the arm of the sofa one last firm pat, raising a faint cloud of dust, Claudia straightened and regarded her expectantly. “Shall we take a look?”

  Agnes removed the muslin wrapper and together they spread the quilt upon the sofa. Claudia’s gaze sharpened and years seemed to fall away as she inspected it, first taking it in from a distance, then drawing closer, and then bending closer yet until her eyes were mere inches from the cloth. “You’ve discovered quite a treasure,” she said at last, straightening. “The block pattern is called Christmas Cactus, and I’m sure even a novice like yourself can tell that it’s quite challenging. Whoever made this was an expert with the needle. Her appliqué stitches are nearly invisible, the curves smooth, the points sharp. Her hand quilting is equally accomplished, twelve stitches per inch. The colors are harmonious, the balance of white space pleasing to the eye.” She fixed Agnes with a shrewd look. “Where did you find it?”

  Quickly Agnes explained. “The man who sold his mother’s chest insisted that she wasn’t skilled enough to make such a masterpiece,” she added. “He thought that perhaps the quilt was hidden away before his mother inherited the chest from her mother.”

  “Did he mention when his grandmother passed?”

  “Forty years ago, I believe he said.”

  “She can’t be the one who hid the quilt, then. A quilt can’t be any older than the newest scrap of fabric in it. Do you see these prints here, and here?” Claudia indicated a green Christmas Cactus in the upper right corner and several of the red buds. “These clear hues and small prints weren’t available until the 1930s. This quilt could have been made last week, if the quiltmaker had pulled older fabrics from her stash, but it definitely could not have been made in 1914.”

  “So his mothe
r must have hidden the quilt.”

  “Or someone else who used the chest did.”

  Mr. Frieberg had not mentioned anyone else, so it was safe to assume that the late Mrs. Frieberg was responsible. “Does the choice of the Christmas Cactus block tell us anything? Is it unique to a particular region or era?”

  “Not especially. I’ve seen it in photos of quilts made as far back as the 1850s, and there are many variations. These fabrics too could be found in shops throughout the United States in the thirties.” Claudia fell silent for a moment, thinking. “We could learn something from the batting, whether it’s factory-made synthetic or hand-combed cotton or a wool reused from an older, worn-out quilt. That could tell us what region of the country the quilter hailed from, whether she was poor or well-to-do. But that would require us to remove part of the binding and pick out some of the quilting stitches to take a sample, and I assume from the look of horror on your face that you wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “Definitely not,” said Agnes emphatically.

  “Perhaps it won’t be necessary. Quilters often sign and date their work, writing with a pen and embroidering over the ink.” Grasping one edge, she inclined her head to indicate that Agnes should take hold of the opposite side, and together they turned over the quilt. “Often quilters will add other information, such as where the quilt was made, for whom, and what special occasion it was made for, if any. These details can be worked into the design of the quilt top, but often they appear on the back.”

  Following Claudia’s example, Agnes knelt and examined the quilt closely, running her fingertips gently over the back in search of an embroidered message from the artist. Perhaps she had modestly chosen thread that matched the backing fabric rather than draw attention to herself, or perhaps she had chosen a contrasting thread, but the color had faded over time. Agnes had worked her way down one edge and around a corner when her thumb brushed against a small, rigid bump. Peering closer, she saw that it was a knot, a small scarlet circle tied too firmly to pick out with a needle. Scarcely a half-inch to its right was another. In the same area, Agnes spied several tiny frayed threads of the same hue. When she pinched one between her thumbnail and forefinger and gently tugged, it would not pull free, as if a knot on the other side of the backing fabric held it in place. All around were many holes not much larger than pinpricks.