Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (19 page)

Agnes chuckled to herself as she worked on the block, imagining how flustered Sylvia would be to discover her little meanness had not been a secret for decades. So as to not spoil the joke, Agnes would allow Sylvia to believe Agnes had overheard the sisters using the nickname. She would not reveal that while their menfolk were overseas, Claudia had confided the secret in a spiteful attempt to win Agnes to her side after an especially heated argument with her sister.

Next Agnes pieced a Sister’s Choice block for Sylvia’s rash and oft regretted decision to leave Elm Creek Manor upon learning that Claudia’s future husband, Harold, could have saved the lives of Richard and Sylvia’s husband, James, but, out of cowardice, had done nothing. Sylvia’s decision to abandon her ancestral home transformed her life, her sister’s, and the manor itself. Perhaps nothing more than Agnes’s own choice to marry into the Bergstrom family had influenced the course of her fate more than Sylvia’s departure from the manor. If Sylvia had remained to run the family horse-breeding business, Claudia and Harold would not have driven it into bankruptcy. If the couple had not depleted the family fortune and begun selling off parcels of land and precious family heirlooms, Agnes would not have met the history professor who advised her on antique markets and later became her husband. If she had not married Joe, she would have lived out her days in the manor that had become as full of grief and despair as it had once been blessed with love and prosperity. She would not have become a mother and a grandmother. She would not have known the greatest joys of her life.

Upon completing that block, Agnes somberly began a Castle Wall. Sylvia would know at once why Agnes had chosen the pattern. More than a year after Sylvia’s departure, in a rare moment of regret, Claudia had agreed to help Agnes complete a memorial quilt for Sylvia, whom they still believed would soon return. Together Agnes and Claudia had sorted through James’s closet, selecting shirts and trousers and ties they knew Sylvia would recognize. From the cloth they cut diamonds and triangles and squares and sewed them into the pattern whose name conveyed all that the founders of Elm Creek Manor had wanted their descendants to find within its walls: safety, sanctuary, family, home. For a year the forsaken sisters pieced the tribute to the husband Sylvia mourned, but Claudia’s own marriage had begun to crumble under the strain of grief and guilty secrets, and as she withdrew into her solitary bitterness, Agnes layered the top in the frame and quilted it alone. It had yet been incomplete when she had left Elm Creek Manor to marry Joe. After Sylvia’s return to the manor, Sylvia and Agnes had finished the quilt together, and it now hung in the library, where Sylvia and James had spent so many happy hours discussing the family business, planning for a future that would not come to pass.

Rather than evoke only sorrowful memories, Agnes next pieced a Christmas Star in celebration of Sylvia and Andrew’s Christmas Eve wedding. That pattern called to mind Sylvia’s favorite block, the eight-pointed LeMoyne Star, and all the variations that found their way so often into Sylvia’s quilts: Virginia Star, Snow Crystals, Blazing Star, Carpenter’s Wheel, St. Louis Star, Dutch Rose, Star of Bethlehem. Once Agnes completed these, she made her own favorites, the appliquéd Whig Rose, American Beauty Rose, and Bridal Wreath.

By the end of February, Bonnie had collected thirty blocks at Grandma’s Attic, which she delivered to Agnes so that she might begin planning their final arrangement. To these Agnes added her own twenty-four blocks and arranged them on the design wall Joe had put up for her when she had converted Laura’s old bedroom into a sewing room. The pieced and appliquéd blocks clung to the flannel surface where she placed them, and as she admired their beauty and variety, she decided that a border of split LeMoyne Stars would be just the thing to set them off best. She would start on it right away. She could always stitch a few more blocks later, if they were needed.

Agnes dreamed of a balmy summer day, Joe in his shirtsleeves cooking steaks and hot dogs on the charcoal grill, her daughters shrieking with delight in pink and yellow bathing suits as they ran through the sprinkler. She threw the red-and-white checked tablecloth over the picnic table and returned inside for plates and napkins, where she found Zach sitting at the kitchen table reading one of her notebooks. He looked up and smiled. “This is an important family record,” he said, grinning. “But what the heck is oleo?”

She opened her mouth to reply but was distracted by a distant ringing. She turned to find Laura, suddenly a grown woman, ringing the doorbell on the screen door. Her expression was solemn and she did not speak. Confused, since the back door had no bell, Agnes watched as Laura rang again.

“You should probably get that,” advised Zach. The summer day vanished, and Agnes woke to the dark winter night of her bedroom. She jumped and clutched her quilt, heart pounding, as the doorbell rang downstairs. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Good news never came to the door at nearly one o’clock in the morning. She put on her robe and slippers and hurried downstairs, remembering to check through the window before opening the door. What she saw made her fling it open.

“Bonnie, honey,” she said, gasping at the sudden cold. “What’s wrong?”

Hollowly, Bonnie said, “May I spend the night?”

“Of course,” said Agnes, opening the door still wider and ushering in her friend. Her mind raced with questions, but Bonnie seemed dazed, shocked, lost in an uneasy dream. “You must be exhausted at this hour,” Agnes said instead, leading Bonnie upstairs to Stacy’s old room. “I won’t need but a moment to set everything up for you. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait? A nice glass of warm milk? I like to put just a touch of vanilla in it.”

Bonnie shook her head, eyes downcast. She seemed to be fighting back tears.

At a loss, Agnes made nervous small talk as she showed Bonnie the adjoining bath and set out fresh towels for her. Bonnie would need a nightgown, she thought, noting for the first time that Bonnie had brought nothing with her. She hurried to her own room and retrieved the largest and warmest nightgown she owned, and hoped it would do. Bonnie took it and shook her head again when Agnes asked her if she wanted to try it on first, if Agnes should look for something better.

It was apparent Bonnie wanted nothing more than to surrender to a dreamless sleep. “I’ll say good night, then,” said Agnes, lingering with her hand on the doorknob. “Just call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” said Bonnie, stroking the flannel nightgown absently.

Agnes shut the door and went to her own room, where she lay awake in bed listening to floorboards creak, water flowing in the pipes, the settling of bedsprings. When all was silent once again, she drifted off to sleep.

Agnes woke at six, her first thoughts of Bonnie. What on earth had brought her friend to her door, on foot, on a cold winter’s night? It could not have been a disaster with the children; Bonnie would have remained at home with her husband and called her friends to her side. Knowing Bonnie, she would have waited until morning to trouble them no matter how she longed for the comfort of their presence. No, the most logical explanation was a fight with Craig. Trouble with a husband was what most often sent a woman from her home in the middle of the night.

Agnes bathed and dressed, then tiptoed downstairs, pausing by Bonnie’s door. When she heard nothing, she continued on to the kitchen, where she put on a larger pot of coffee than usual and fixed some waffles. She read the newspaper while she ate, and a large ad for Fabric Warehouse reminded her with a jolt that Bonnie worked on Fridays. She would surely be in no fit state to work today, especially considering that her husband would be right upstairs. Agnes waited until half past seven before phoning Diane and asking her to fill in. Diane agreed, but not before asking too many questions that Agnes evaded with difficulty. Agnes hung up, hoping she had not given Diane any reason for suspicion besides the obvious, calling on Bonnie’s behalf when Bonnie typically took care of such matters herself. With any luck, Diane’s harried morning rendered her too distracted to notice, which was why Agnes had phoned her instead of the more perceptive Summer.

Still listening for noises above, Agnes washed her breakfast dishes, then crept softly upstairs to her sewing room and gathered the fabrics for the pieced border, her rotary cutter and ruler, and a cutting mat. She set up her tools on the dining room table and cut fabric pieces in silence, working off her worries in the familiar, repetitive motions of measuring and cutting. Shortly after eleven o’clock, she heard Bonnie walking about upstairs, followed by the sound of the shower. Agnes set her work aside and met her friend in the kitchen. Bonnie appeared fairly well rested given the circumstances, but was clad in the clothing she had worn the previous night. Agnes had not thought of that or she would have searched around for an alternative.

“I overslept,” Bonnie said. She looked around the room as if she had lost something. “I have to get to work.”

“Not without breakfast,” said Agnes, leading her to the table, then turning to pour her a cup of coffee. “Do you want scrambled eggs or waffles?”

“But the shop—”

“Don’t you worry. I called Diane. She said she’d head over as soon as she could. She probably didn’t get there on time, but she got there.”

As she returned to the counter for cream and sugar, Agnes watched from the corner of her eye as Bonnie relaxed and sank back into the chair.

“Thank you,” said Bonnie softly.

As far as Agnes was concerned, it was the least she could do. She convinced Bonnie to have some breakfast, and while Bonnie ate her waffles, Agnes poured herself another cup of coffee and joined her at the table. Every ounce of willpower she possessed went into appearing nonchalant as she sipped the hot, fragrant coffee and waited for Bonnie to speak.

“I left Craig,” said Bonnie suddenly.

Agnes was not surprised, but she wondered if it was rude not to appear so. “For good?”

“I think so.”

Bonnie continued with an account of the argument that had sent her to Agnes’s for the night, and then the more heartbreaking story of the lonely, angry months that had preceded it. As Bonnie spoke, Agnes could only listen, speechless and sympathetic, her heart aching with one relentless question: Why? Why had Bonnie not shared her anguish with her friends? Each would have rallied to her side, lent her their strength. Worse yet, why had they not noticed how much she was hurting?

When Bonnie’s voice trailed off at the end of her story, she stirred her coffee idly and added, “I still have the number of our marriage counselor. I’m going to ask if he can see us—or even just me—as a sort of emergency rescue case.”

Agnes hid her astonishment. Nothing Bonnie had just told her suggested the marriage was salvageable. “That’s fine,” she said carefully, “as long as you speak to a lawyer, too.”

To her relief, Bonnie nodded.

As they cleaned up the kitchen and finished washing the dishes, Agnes told Bonnie she was welcome to stay as long as she liked, but Bonnie shook her head and staunchly assured her—or herself—that she fully intended to sleep in her own bed that night. In the meantime, she had to return home for a change of clothes. Agnes offered to accompany her, and prepared to insist upon it, but Bonnie nodded almost before Agnes finished speaking.

But Bonnie’s intentions would not be fulfilled. They arrived at the condo to find that Craig had changed the locks; when Bonnie tried to buy new clothes, they discovered he had canceled her credit cards. Agnes would have put the purchase on her own account, but Bonnie handed over the Grandma’s Attic corporate card impassively, as if she had expected such vindictiveness from her husband. Agnes was so shocked she hardly knew what to do, but on the walk home, she certainly knew what to say.

“Come home with me,” she said. “You can change clothes and call your lawyer.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“I do. He’s a wonderful young man. His father looked after our affairs for years, and he took over the firm after his father passed.”

“Does he handle divorces?”

“If not, he’ll know someone who does.”

She gave Bonnie his card as soon as they returned home. Bonnie nodded and took it upstairs with her shopping bags, but when she returned in her new knit pants and sweatshirt, she shrugged when Agnes asked her when her first appointment with the lawyer would be.

“You didn’t call him?” asked Agnes.

“I don’t feel up to it.” Indeed, Bonnie looked as if she needed a good soak in a warm tub, preferably with a huge plate of chocolate chip cookies within reach. Or, failing that, a strong right cross capable of knocking Craig on his rear.

“Bonnie, honey, I don’t think you should delay.”

“I’m not even sure if I want a divorce. I don’t know if I could go through with it.”

“Maybe not, but a lawyer could at least tell you what your options are. And your rights.”

Bonnie nodded and wandered into the dining room. Agnes followed and found her fingering the strips of fabric cut for the bridal quilt’s border. Agnes did not want to add to the pressure already weighing down her friend, but Craig had proven to be more spiteful and cruel than Agnes could have imagined, and she was certain he wouldn’t demur when it came to getting a lawyer on his side. “He nearly cleaned out your bank accounts,” said Agnes. “He canceled your credit card. He locked you out of your home and gave you nothing to live on. That can’t possibly be legal.”