Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt (20 page)

Resigned, she returned the documents to the carton and carried it back to the reference desk, where the librarian who had helped her the week before waited, smiling expectantly. “Did you find what you needed?”

“Almost,” said Gwen, unwilling to lie, reluctant to reveal her disappointment to the one person in Richardsport who had done the most to help her. “I was hoping to find an adoption record for Thomas Wainwright, but I didn’t see anything like that.”

“Have you checked at city hall?” the librarian asked. “The records might be sealed, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. While you’re there, you might want to stop by the glass case near the courtroom entrance. Judge Wainwright’s law library and some photographs from his time on the bench are on display there.”

With renewed hope, Gwen thanked her and hurried across the street to city hall, hand pressed to her belly in a silent apology for the sudden jostling. To her dismay, the same sour-faced clerk sat behind the desk. Though Gwen wore mittens, the clerk obviously remembered her, for her mouth pinched in disapproval as her gaze flicked from Gwen’s hand to her belly to her face.

Gwen quickly explained her errand, but even as the words left her lips, the clerk began shaking her head. “All adoption records are sealed,” she said. “I’m not saying that we have any papers about the Wainwright case here, but if we did, you couldn’t see them.” She lowered her voice. “You of all people should understand why the people involved would want to keep such affairs secret.”

Gwen felt a flicker of anger, but she knew she couldn’t speak her mind to this woman and still obtain the answers she sought. “I’m doing a historical research project on the Wainwrights. Is there some protocol I can follow to have the records opened?”

The clerk shook her head. “You can try to get the law changed, but that’ll take a while and you probably won’t have much luck.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Gwen tightly. “I appreciate your help.”

She turned away too soon to see if the clerk picked up on her sarcasm. Following signs posted near the front door, she left the lobby and made her way down a short hallway to the courtroom entrance. Just as the librarian had promised, a locked glass display case held several shelves of leather-bound law books, the titles embossed in gold on the spines. Framed photographs of Judge Wainwright sat here and there on other shelves, but although Gwen studied them eagerly, she discovered nothing new. Most of the pictures were reprints of photos she had seen before in the library books, and none offered any glimpses of his family or household.

Steeling herself, Gwen returned to the clerk’s desk. “Would you be willing to unlock the display case outside the courtroom so I could get a better look at Judge Wainwright’s law books?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Gwen shrugged, fighting to conceal her exasperation. “Maybe he added some notations. Maybe some of the volumes were gifts, inscribed by the giver. Would you please help me out here? It’s important for my research.”

The clerk sat back in her chair, eyeing Gwen skeptically. “Those books are very old and fragile, not to mention valuable. They’re from Judge Wainwright’s personal library.”

“That’s exactly why I need to examine them.”

The clerk jerked her head in the opposite direction from the courthouse. “If you need to read up on adoption laws, there are legal references available for the public in the reading room. Judge Wainwright’s books are out of date.”

“That’s not why I want to—”

“Anyway, they wouldn’t do you any good.” The clerk raised her voice to drown out Gwen’s. “Some idiot went through and ripped out pages from them, long before the collection ever came to us. They’re near worthless as law books, but as a memorial to one of our most prominent citizens, they’re invaluable. You’ll have to find some other way to do your research.”

“That’s all right,” said Gwen, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You’ve answered my questions. Thank you.”

There was still so much she didn’t know—the quiltmaker’s name, whether she was truly Thomas’s mother, how the quilt came to Brown Deer—but the scant details she had crafted into a story still offered a glimpse into one family’s past. She knew it was an incomplete account that hinted at more than it proved, but it was enough to convince her that the Pineapple quilt was an invaluable work of art and passion, a silent, unhappy woman’s voice.

What other stories had women’s quilts told through the generations? Denied a voice, how many other anonymous quilters had expressed their grief, their rage, their joy, their hope with needle and thread?

Gwen had never imagined that fabric could convey so much meaning.

At the next gathering of the Brown Does, Gwen held the quilters spellbound with her story of the Pineapple quilt’s secrets and her search for answers in Richardsport. A few smiled indulgently and praised her for a job well done, but she could tell from their expressions that they doubted her theory about the quilt’s origins had any merit. Most of the Does, while they found Gwen’s reasoning credible, longed for completion—the quilter’s name, some proof of Thomas’s parentage, a plausible explanation for how the quilt found its winding way to Brown Deer. Gwen wished she could give them those answers, but she suspected she might search forever without finding the historical evidence to fill in the gaps of her story.

Back home, Gwen spread the quilt facedown on the living room floor and studied the foundations, though she had almost memorized them after so much careful scrutiny. She knew she had gleaned the last grain of information from the fragile papers, and yet she did not want to consider them spent, finished.

“After uncovering so much of this quilt’s story,” she told her mother, “I hate to cover up those foundations again, but I can’t leave the quilt in this condition. I’m afraid the papers will deteriorate even faster exposed like this, and the batting definitely won’t hold together.”

“If you want to repair the quilt someday, you’ll need to know how to do it,” her mother responded. “You could practice by making a Pineapple quilt of your own. I could teach you. By the time you finish, you’ll have the skills necessary to restore the quilt and the time you need to decide if that’s really what you want to do.”

Gwen smiled. “I’d like that.”

As she awaited the birth of her child, Gwen prepared a layette, read books on childbirth and child care, and learned to quilt. On June 21, her daughter was born, a healthy, beautiful girl with a thick shock of auburn hair the same color as her own. Gwen named her Summer Solstice Sullivan, and although her parents grimaced at the middle name and the alliteration, they did not try to talk her into something more conventional.

Gwen finished her own Pineapple quilt when Summer was six months old. By then she had decided not to repair the one she had rescued from the lost and found, for even disassembled the quilt top was in perfect condition, and she could not bear to conceal the foundations. She was certain they confessed a long-held secret, and she would not silence the anonymous quilter as others had done.

When Summer was fifteen months old, Gwen returned to college. In the three years it took Gwen to complete her degree after switching her major to history, Summer lived in Brown Deer with her grandparents, and Gwen drove home to be with her on weekends and school breaks. It grieved Gwen to spend so much time away from her precious daughter, but she knew she would make a better life for them both if she completed her education. Summer was a happy, affectionate child, the light of her grandparents’ lives, and Gwen often found herself overcome with gratitude for the way they had welcomed her home, cared for Summer so lovingly, and made it possible for Gwen to seize her second chance.

Her mother cried tears of joy at Gwen’s graduation, and even her father’s eyes shone to see her in her cap and gown. A few months later, they tried to conceal their sadness for her sake when she and Summer left for Cornell, more than six hundred miles away, where Gwen had been accepted into the graduate program. Before Summer’s eleventh birthday, Gwen completed her PhD and accepted a job as an assistant professor in the American Studies department of Waterford College, in a small town that in some ways reminded her of Brown Deer.

Throughout her career, Gwen often reflected back upon her discovery of the mysterious Pineapple quilt rescued from the lost and found as the moment when she first became fascinated with women’s history. She had made it her business as a scholar and a teacher to uncover as many of those tales as possible, before they were completely lost to time. Sometimes women’s voices spoke in diaries; other times, domestic arts had been their media of choice. Inevitably, Gwen found herself in that same old tired confrontation with crusty academics who still did not offer pride of place to so-called “women’s work,” who considered it inferior not because of any intrinsic deficiencies it possessed but because it belonged to the traditional province of women. Most frustrating of all, Gwen’s detractors included many who ought to have been her allies, who should have known better, who would never allow sexism or classism to creep into any of their other most strongly held philosophies but made a hypocritical exception where women’s arts were concerned.

Sometimes Gwen felt as if she was the only standard bearer for women’s arts—or at least the only one on the faculty of Waterford College. For that reason alone she could not abandon her research even if it meant jeopardizing her career. She had to persist in pursuing women’s untold stories and hope that eventually her academic colleagues would come around.

A security guard on his rounds passed the table where she was engrossed in her work to remind her that the checkout desk would close in fifteen minutes. Gwen gathered up her things and checked out her newfound books, which had turned out to be even more promising resources than she had hoped for when she found them in the online catalog. Still, books could only tell her so much. A research trip to Chicago was in order. Their historical society would surely be a rich source of information about the 1933 World’s Fair. Summer would want to come along, for she hadn’t even found a place to live near the university, and the fall quarter would begin in a few short weeks. Gwen now understood how her parents had felt, watching her secondhand car pull out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. She would miss Summer desperately, but she was so proud of her daughter, so proud that she was breaking a new path for herself, a winding way that would surely lead to wonderful places.

Gwen was crossing Main Street with her armload of books when she stopped short in the crosswalk at the sight of her own car parked at the curb. “Lazybones,” she chided herself, unlocking the door and setting her books on the passenger seat. Her home was within easy walking distance of the library, even toting heavy books. What was she thinking, taking the car instead of getting some much-needed exercise?

At home, Gwen fixed herself a cup of tea, muted the ringer on the phone, shut off her cell so anxious students wouldn’t disturb her work, and settled down to her books and notes. Her thoughts drifted so often to the Pineapple quilt that before long she set her work aside, went upstairs to her bedroom, and removed the quilt from its protective storage. Studying the foundations, she hoped as she always did for some overlooked clue to leap out at her and answer her lingering questions, but she had learned that historical discoveries rarely traveled a straight and smooth road. She had learned to be content with a more winding way, one that curved in unforeseen directions, skirted unexpected obstacles, and often forced her to backtrack at dead ends. She had learned to persevere despite the uncertain destination, despite her own doubts, despite her critics’ gloomy predictions that none of the answers she pursued ultimately mattered.

She would not give up before her journey was complete, for herself and for all of the forgotten women whose stories had yet to be told.

Sylvia held Andrew’s hand and watched from the veranda as the Elm Creek Quilters and their husbands mingled and talked, seating themselves on Adirondack chairs, the stone steps, or old quilts spread on the lawn. Everyone, including Sylvia, made at least two trips to fill their plates at Anna’s marvelous, irresistible buffet. It was a true banquet, with dishes bursting with fresh summer flavors finished off by decadent desserts. The children played games on the lawn or skateboarded in circles around the rearing horse fountain while their parents reminisced about the early days of Elm Creek Quilts and marveled at how far their ambitions had taken them. Laughter rose in bursts to the darkening sky, despite the wistful mood lingering over the party. Each woman said a silent prayer that this would not be the last time they gathered together—for even now their circle was not complete, although none of them drew attention to the conspicuous gap Gwen’s absence created.

Agnes delayed the presentation of Judy’s gift as long as possible, occasionally strolling to the edge of the veranda and leaning over the railing to try to see into the back parking lot. The stars came out, Emily sat yawning on her mother’s lap, and still Gwen did not appear. Soon, Sylvia knew, Judy would hand off her sleepy daughter to her husband and announce that it was time to go. Sighing, Sylvia caught Agnes’s eye and gestured to indicate that they had run out of time. They must bid Judy one last farewell, with or without Gwen.

Judy, who had remained calmly dry-eyed all evening, lost her composure when Agnes made a brief, tearful speech about friendship and farewells and presented her with the quilt that they had all signed. Blinking away tears, she read each heartfelt message, sometimes smiling, sometimes pressing a hand to her heart. “Thank you,” Judy said, folding the quilt lovingly and hugging it to herself. “I’ll cherish this always. Wherever life takes me, this quilt will bring me right back here to you in my heart.”

One last embrace, and then Judy left, the quilt in her arms, her husband at her side carrying a drowsy Emily. Judy did not look back as she walked around the side of the manor to the parking lot, but Sylvia kept her in sight until the last.