Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (30 page)

Gwen’s brow furrowed as it always did when she grappled with an especially difficult academic puzzle. “It makes no sense. They take some expensive things and leave others. They take quilt blocks and leave the computer.”

“No, that makes perfect sense,” said Summer. “Bonnie’s Mac is eight years old, an antique by computer standards. I can’t imagine the thieves would have been able to sell it for much, and if they want a computer, the money they stole is more than enough to buy one of the best.”

Numb, Diane nodded along with the others when Agnes proposed they make a schedule so that anyone not immediately responsible for a class or workshop could be relieved of other quilt camp duties so they could help Bonnie set the store to rights.

She wanted to weep.

M
ary Beth read the letter a second time, fuming. How dare those Elm Creek Quilters expect the members of her guild to help them with some silly gift for that overrated old Sylvia Compson? How dare they address her guild at all after Diane’s vindictive attempt to assume the presidency? Diane had never won a ribbon in a quilt show, and yet she had thought herself fit to manage the Waterford Summer Quilt Festival. She couldn’t meet a deadline to save her life, and yet she believed herself capable of organizing a dozen different guild subcommittees. The guild had neither needed nor wanted a “change of pace” or “fresh air to chase away stale ideas,” as Diane had promised in her campaign speech, the first in the history of the guild. For ninety-three years members had been content to modestly mention their interest in the office to friends and allow word to spread, then feign surprise when they were nominated. Until Diane, no one had needed to bribe members with promises to invite better speakers or direct new workshops or spend the dues more frugally. Whoever had the most friends won, and wasn’t that the democratic way? Mary Beth would never forgive Diane for forcing her to stand at that podium explaining Diane’s inadequacies for the job as if she were begging to be reelected. And she would never forget the added humiliation of Diane’s walking out of the meeting the evening the results were announced and taking some of the guild’s most talented and dedicated members with her. Bonnie Markham owned the only quilt shop in town, Gwen Sullivan actually published academic research on quilt history, and Agnes Emberly could always be counted on to contribute the work of four quilters to the annual service project. Their resignations stung, but the guild got along just fine without them—better, in fact, without Diane to create constant discord—but the shadow they had cast on Mary Beth’s presidency that year had rankled her ever since.

“It’s just like that Diane to complain about a present for her own friend, too,” Mary Beth told her husband and son over dinner. “It’s just another sign of her malignant sense of ingratitude. That woman never appreciates anything anyone does for her.”

Brent and Roger merely nodded, so Mary Beth took that as encouragement to continue. “Those Elm Creek Quilters think their time is more valuable than ours, do they?” she said, helping herself to more broccoli, cheese, and rice casserole. “They think we have nothing better to do than sew blocks for some stupid bridal quilt, do they? Don’t they know we make a quilt a year for a real charity? They ought to try giving back to the community for a change, but with them it’s just take, take, take.”

“They make quilts for hospitals,” said Brent.

She frowned at him. “What?”

“I heard Mrs. Sonnenberg talking once. They all make quilts for the kids’ cancer ward at Hershey Medical Center and for the, what’s it called, for babies that are born too early—”

“Premature?” volunteered his father. “Neonatal?”

“Yeah, thanks. The neonatal unit at the Elm Creek Valley Hospital.”

Mary Beth bristled at the disloyalty, but she hated to criticize her son. “Then they ought to understand how much work projects like that take.”

“It’s just one quilt square,” said Roger tiredly. “It doesn’t sound like that much effort.”

“It’s not the effort. It’s the principle.” Mary Beth’s sour frown shifted into a smile as she turned to her son. “Honey, I’m sure you know better than to mention this conversation to Mrs. Sonnenberg.”

His mouth full, Brent shrugged and nodded. Of course he would never tell tales on her to that conniving shrew next door, even though she was the mother of his best friend. Mary Beth had tried to root out that friendship before it spread like stinkweed, but Brent had taken to Todd Sonnenberg despite her best efforts. Mary Beth’s only comfort was that Todd seemed a model son, and Brent shared her antipathy for his delinquent elder brother, Michael. Mary Beth saw Diane’s attitude reflected in Michael whenever she had the bad fortune to run into him, but Todd’s temperament was as unlike Diane’s as Brent’s or Mary Beth’s. Mary Beth would have guessed Todd was adopted except he did resemble Diane physically. Todd’s good characteristics must have come from his father. Tim wasn’t that bad, despite his obviously poor taste in wives.

Mary Beth wished the Sonnenbergs would move away, far away, and leave the neighborhood in peace, but she had prayed for that for years with nothing to show for it. Mary Beth was stuck with Diane the way other people were stuck with miserable allergies or chronic lower back pain. There was no getting rid of Diane permanently, so Mary Beth could only struggle to hold the symptoms in check.

There was only one way to handle this most recent outbreak of Diane nastiness: file the invitation in her quilt room and hope no one else in the guild received one. There were factions in the guild—small and powerless, but still a presence—that might actually like to participate in the bridal quilt. Some members had even attended Elm Creek Quilt Camp! When the camp was in its third year, Mary Beth and her vice president considered adding a guild-wide boycott to the bylaws, but others on the board pointed out the rule would be difficult to enforce and might raise the ire of their members.

Mary Beth had been forced to settle for passive resistance, ignoring the patronizing invitations to activities at Elm Creek Manor and taking her business to the Fabric Warehouse and mail-order companies rather than Grandma’s Attic. Fortunately, since all guild correspondence was sent to the Callahan home, she could filter out the junk before the other members discovered it.

Mary Beth put the letter out of sight but not out of mind, fuming over it whenever she saw Diane—which was far too often but inescapable since she lived next door—or any of the other Elm Creek Quilters. Once when she spotted Sylvia leaving the hair salon she was tempted to run up and blurt out the secret, but that tough-looking Sarah McClure was with her and she didn’t dare. An anonymous note would ruin the surprise just as well, but in a much less satisfying manner. Eventually, since trying to forget the letter didn’t work, she decided to return it and let those annoying Elm Creek people know once and for all that her guild was off-limits.

She waited until the first day of March, exactly one month before the quilt blocks were due—too little time for the Elm Creek Quilters to find an alternate way to reach her guild members but just enough to make them feel as if they ought to try. Let them scurry around like ants in a flooded anthill for the entire month. They deserved it.

Bonnie Markham was a soft touch and still on good terms with most of the guild and, best of all, Mary Beth could reach her in a public place. Grandma’s Attic was a tolerable walk from her front door in fair weather, but not when the temperatures hovered at barely above freezing, so Mary Beth drove downtown. It might have been more convenient to leave the letter at Diane’s house, but she could only imagine what that psycho would be capable of when provoked on her own property.

Mary Beth strode into the quilt shop and hid her consternation at the sight of Diane and a vaguely familiar auburn-haired girl looking at some quilt blocks spread out on the cutting table. She took off her hat, smoothed back her hair, and, addressing neither of them in particular, asked, “Isn’t Bonnie here today?”

“No,” Diane shot back rudely. She sat down on a stool with her back to Mary Beth and removed a padded envelope from a large carton on the cutting table. The auburn-haired girl murmured something as Diane took from the envelope another quilt block and what looked to be a letter. Diane muttered a response that Mary Beth could not make out, so she drew closer, suspicious.

The auburn-haired girl, who so strongly resembled a younger and much thinner version of Gwen Sullivan that she had to be her daughter, smiled and said, “Bonnie’s not here, but may I help you?”

“I suppose so,” Mary Beth said, reluctant. She would much rather deal with Bonnie. “You’re Summer, right? Summer Sullivan?”

“That’s right.”

“Your name is in the letter, so I guess you’ll do.” Mary Beth produced the invitation and held it out. “I believe this was sent to me by mistake.”

Summer took the page, skimmed it, and nodded. “We definitely meant to send it to you. Actually, to the entire guild. You’re listed as the guild contact, so we sent it to your home, hoping you would announce it at your next meeting.”

Summer tried to return the letter, but Mary Beth would have none of that. She explained as firmly and clearly as she could that the Elm Creek Quilters were out of line to impose on her guild when their members had so many legitimate charities to support already, but Diane kept interrupting with obnoxious objections, which only encouraged Summer to whine and beg for Mary Beth to reconsider. There was no reasoning with them, and since she was outnumbered, Mary Beth decided she had made her point as clearly as they would allow and left after insisting they remove the Waterford Quilting Guild from their mailing list immediately. The consternation and outrage on Diane’s face were priceless, and as Mary Beth sailed out the door, she was glad Bonnie had not been there after all. She paused by the front window and peeked inside for one last glimpse and was rewarded with the sight of Summer throwing the invitation into the trash where it belonged.

At supper that evening, she couldn’t resist boasting about how she had put Diane in her place. “And those blocks they had scattered all over the cutting table,” she said, “I just know those were the blocks for the bridal quilt.”

Roger and Brent nodded and continued eating.

“The ones I saw weren’t anything special,” she mused aloud. “I guess those Elm Creek people aren’t the wonderful teachers they consider themselves to be. Or the people who sent the blocks didn’t send their best work, which doesn’t say much for how they regard Sylvia.”

“Or they were beginners,” said Roger, reaching for another piece of chicken, “and that
was
their best work.”

“That couldn’t possibly be the case,” said Mary Beth. “Beginners know better than to ruin a group quilt with their sloppy blocks.”

“It’s a gift to congratulate a bride and groom, not a masterpiece to display in a show. If beginners want to express their good wishes, they shouldn’t be criticized for the number of stitches per inch they use.”

“Stitches per inch refers to quilting, not piecing,” snapped Mary Beth. “Which just shows you don’t know anything about it.”

Roger shrugged and continued eating without another word.

“Mom, you’ve been going on about this stupid quilt for months,” said Brent. “You should really just forget about it. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is a big deal. Diane and those Elm Creek Quilters think they’re the best thing that happened to quilting in Waterford since my guild was founded, and it’s not fair. They ignore everything my guild has done for this town as if it never happened.”

When she said “my guild,” she meant herself, but she didn’t want to brag.

Brent shook his head. “I still say you should just forget about it. You’re driving yourself crazy.”

When he said “yourself,” his expression suggested he meant “us,” as did the affirming grunt from his father.

Tears sprang into Mary Beth’s eyes. “This is what I get for living in a house full of men,” she said, voice shaking. She rose and gathered up her dishes. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

She saw them exchange a look of distress as she carried her dishes into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink. She worked so hard, for her family, for the guild, and all anyone ever did was criticize.

When she returned downstairs later that evening, she found that the dishes had been loaded into the dishwasher, the leftovers stored in the refrigerator, the table wiped clean. She smiled, seeing their apology in the completed chores.

As the week went by, she tried to take her son’s advice and forget the quilt, but she could not shake the uneasy sense that Diane was plotting revenge. Brent said nothing to suggest he had overheard anything unusual at the Sonnenberg home, but Mary Beth wasn’t sure if he would recognize the signs of a covert plan if he happened to stumble across them. She could never tell how much Brent absorbed and what he ignored. She might mention an upcoming appointment every night for a week only to return from it and find him genuinely surprised that she had not been home to greet him after school. Other times she might compliment only once, in passing, a book or blouse she had seen in a store, and receive it as her next birthday or Christmas present. Unfortunately, unless she came right out and asked him to spy on Diane, he wasn’t likely to uncover anything. She was tempted, but not quite willing to resort to that.

As another week passed uneventfully, Mary Beth’s sense of impending confrontation began to ebb. Maybe this time Diane realized that she was beaten, that retaliation was futile. By the third Monday of March, Mary Beth felt secure enough to savor her triumph, and as she dressed for the monthly meeting of the Waterford Quilting Guild, she decided to share her secret victory with Sandra, her closest friend and loyal vice president. Sandra didn’t care for those Elm Creek Quilters either, although her spite was reserved for Bonnie, who had refused many requests to hire Sandra to work in her quilt shop, as if it were so grand a place only experienced salespeople could be permitted to don one of those ridiculous aprons.

Not since Diane sought the presidency had Mary Beth felt so at home behind the podium in Meeting Room C of the public library. At two minutes to seven, she tested the microphone and noted the filling seats with satisfaction, then returned to the officers’ chairs long enough to bend close to Sandra’s ear and whisper that she had big news to share later. She started the meeting at precisely seven o’clock, welcoming the members who were already seated and pointedly ignoring those who scurried in late.