Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt (35 page)

“That’s the question, though, isn’t it?” Bonnie sipped her water, lost in thought. “I loved Grandma’s Attic, but it’s gone. I can’t save it, only resurrect it, and a new shop couldn’t duplicate all that Grandma’s Attic meant to me.” Bonnie rose and smiled wistfully at her friends. “I think I need to move forward, not back, but I’ll need some time to decide. I need to get away and clear my head. I can’t make the decisions I need to make so close to everything I’ve lost.”

With a sudden pang of worry, Sylvia said, “You aren’t thinking of following Summer or Judy’s example, are you?”

Bonnie shook her head. “I can’t imagine leaving Elm Creek Quilts for good. It’s all I have.”

“Not all,” said Agnes. “You have your children and grandchildren. And you have us.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t have made it through the past year if not for that.” Bonnie gestured to the door. “I have a classroom full of students waiting. I have to go.”

Bonnie left the ballroom, head held high. For a moment Sylvia glimpsed in her proud carriage the woman from the sepia-toned photograph Bonnie had once displayed so proudly on her desk in the office of the quilt shop.

Saturday morning found Sylvia and Sarah in the kitchen helping Anna prepare the last Farewell Breakfast of the season. The departure of Brent and Will for college had left them short staffed, but Sylvia had not expected to feel the loss of their reluctant conscripts so sharply. Apparently they had worked harder than any of the Elm Creek Quilters had realized, which Sylvia found encouraging. Perhaps in their own way, the young men had learned a lesson and had sincerely tried to pay their debt to Bonnie. She had been kinder to the young men than any other member of the staff. If the young men had any sense of shame, the worst part of their punishment would not have been bussing tables or scrubbing out trash cans, but getting to know the very real woman they had harmed. They might have felt the pangs of conscience less had she been angry or vengeful, but instead they would be forced to face what their actions had cost a good woman.

Just as Anna directed Sylvia and Sarah to carry the serving dishes outside, Diane appeared in the doorway and beckoned to Sylvia. “Can we talk?”

“Just for a moment.” Sylvia started to remove her apron, but on second thought, she snatched another one from the hook beside the pantry and tossed it to Diane. “We can chat while we work.”

Quickly Diane tied it on, and as Sylvia picked up two baskets of croissants, Diane pulled on two oven mitts and hefted a stainless-steel tray full of miniature Denver omelets. “I invited a few guests to breakfast,” she said, following Sylvia down the hall to the cornerstone patio exit. “Was that all right?”

“That’s fine, as long as we have enough food to feed everyone. When you say you invited a few guests, do you mean three or thirty?”

“Two, actually.”

“That’s no trouble at all, then.” Sylvia thanked a camper who held the door open so they could step outside onto the cornerstone patio. Insects droned in warm, heavy air that promised a humid day to come, but their guests, soon to depart, would miss the worst of it. Matt, Andrew, and Joe had set up the tables and chairs on the gray stone patio, and with the help of a few campers, Summer was draping each table with a tablecloth. “What’s the occasion?” Sylvia asked Diane. “Family visiting from out of town?”

“No, it’s more like a summit meeting kind of thing.”

Sylvia set the croissants on the buffet table and gave the scene a nod of approval before turning a wary eye upon Diane. “And that inscrutable description, when translated into plain English, would mean…?”

Diane hesitated, grimaced, and set down her tray. “Maybe I should just introduce you.”

“We don’t have time for games,” Sylvia protested as Diane yanked off the oven mitts, linked her arm through Sylvia’s, and led her around the north side of the manor to the parking lot out back. On the back steps, conversing in hushed voices, stood three women: Agnes; Diane’s troublesome neighbor, Mary Beth; and Nancy, the new president of the Waterford Quilting Guild, whom Sylvia recognized from her stay at quilt camp a few weeks earlier. Surreptitiously, Agnes shot Sylvia a look clearly conveying that although she had carpooled with Diane, she’d had no part in arranging this unexpected gathering of adversaries.

“Welcome to Elm Creek Manor,” Sylvia greeted them, thrilled to find them chatting pleasantly rather than tearing one another’s hair out. “Breakfast is almost ready on the cornerstone patio, if you’d like to follow me.”

“Sylvia?” said Mary Beth when Sylvia started to lead them back the way she had come. “If you don’t mind, could we go through the manor? I’ve never seen it and I’m dying of curiosity.”

“It’s shorter to go around the side yard,” objected Diane, but as if determined to be agreeable, she quickly added, “but we have time for the scenic route. Why not?”

“Very well, then.” Sylvia gestured up the stairs to the back door. “Please, go right inside. You can say hello to our new chef, Anna, in the kitchen to the left. We’ll pass through the original wing of the building, built by my great-grandparents in 1858. The exit to the cornerstone patio was once the front door, but when my grandfather added the new wing, he changed the front entrance to the eastern exposure to take advantage of the morning light.”

As the most unlikely tour group in the history of Elm Creek Manor followed her down the hallway, Sylvia promised Mary Beth a longer tour another day.

Her heart rejoiced when both Mary Beth and Nancy nodded, as if they too expected this to be the first of many visits to Elm Creek Manor.

Before long, all of the campers had gathered on the cornerstone patio for breakfast, their mood subdued and nostalgic. Sylvia could read the thoughts on their faces: They missed their families back home, but Elm Creek Quilt Camp had fulfilled their fondest wishes and exceeded every expectation, and they couldn’t bear to see the week end. They were surely wondering whether they would ever enjoy another time such as this, another week full of perfect moments. Sylvia hoped they understood that they could return next year, and every year thereafter, to find inspiration and respite within the strong, gray stone walls of Elm Creek Manor.

After another of Anna’s sublimely delicious breakfasts, the campers gathered in a circle for show-and-tell. Each quilter displayed something she had made that week and shared her favorite memory of Elm Creek Manor, often referring to the hopes expressed at the Candlelight welcoming ceremony and how they had been fulfilled, or not. Even the newest quilters proudly displayed their simple pieced blocks or partially assembled tops and received ample praise and encouragement. But it was the stories each quilter shared of the moments she would cherish when the summer sunshine was but a memory that sent the campers into gales of laughter and sometimes made them blink away tears. The Elm Creek Quilters, founders and newcomers alike, looked on proudly from outside the circle, honored by the guiding roles they had played in each quilter’s journey.

To Sylvia’s surprise and delight, Mary Beth spoke up after the last camper showed off a beautiful Rosebud quilt top. “I haven’t shared this week with you, but I can see in your eyes that you had a wonderful, glorious time,” she said, then she smiled and wagged a finger at them. “My son has been cleaning up after quilters just like you all summer long, and oh, the stories he could tell the folks back home about what you’ve been up to.” Everyone laughed. “The folks back home wouldn’t believe you, though, would they? They wouldn’t understand how restful it is to be among people who understand your passion for quilting, who understand that the bonds that unite us are so much stronger than the dozens of petty differences that divide us.” She glanced at Diane and Nancy before looking around the circle. “I hope someday to learn what you’ve learned.”

Everyone murmured gentle encouragement, though they were unaware of the long story of Mary Beth and Diane’s feud and her more recent estrangement from the Waterford Quilting Guild, and thus they had no idea what had prompted Mary Beth to speak. Then a hush fell over the circle, and someone sighed. Every quilter had taken her turn to share her handiwork and her memories. The week of camp was over. Another season had come to a close.

As the Elm Creek Quilters cleared away the dishes and tidied the cornerstone patio, the campers returned to their suites to finish packing and bid their newfound friends sad good-byes. They carried suitcases and tote bags downstairs, Sarah collected room keys, and Matt loaded luggage into the Elm Creek Quilts minivan for the first shuttle ride to the bus station and airport. Mary Beth and Nancy departed together, after promising to call Sylvia soon to arrange a guided tour of the manor. Gradually the upstairs halls fell silent, the back parking lot emptied. The Elm Creek Quilters collected linens, emptied trash, discovered forgotten items under beds or in drawers. They broke for a simple lunch of salads and sandwiches, which they enjoyed in the shade of the veranda, reminiscing about the season past, sharing odd or amusing stories about their favorite campers and unexpected classroom mishaps. Afterward, they resumed their work for another two hours until Sylvia decided that they had accomplished the most necessary tasks. Since they did not need to prepare for a new group of campers right away, the rest of the work could wait until Monday.

The other Elm Creek Quilters agreed, and so they returned cleaning supplies to storage closets, washed the dust and sweat from their hands and faces, and congratulated one another on another successful year. One by one they made their way downstairs to the kitchen for lemonade and iced tea, where they lingered, reluctant to part.

“Before you go,” Sylvia said, “I have something to show you upstairs in the library.” When Summer let out an involuntary groan, she added, “Never fear, Summer. I’ve obeyed your wishes. I promise you, there’s no surprise farewell party waiting for you upstairs.”

Summer sighed, obviously relieved. “You had your party a few years ago, remember, kiddo?” Gwen teased.

Gretchen, who had not been among them in those days, said, “A few years ago? Wasn’t that a bit premature?”

The others laughed, and as Gwen and Summer talked over each other in their urgency to explain, Sylvia thought of all the Elm Creek Quilts history Gretchen and Anna—and Maggie, come January—would need to learn over time.

Then, suddenly, her heart cinched.

She had forgotten the newcomers. As she had pieced and pinned and sewed all summer long, she had thought only of the founding Elm Creek Quilters and not of the newest members of their circle.

It was too late to take back her cryptic announcement that a surprise awaited them upstairs, and her friends were too curious to forget. What could Sylvia do but lead them upstairs to the library? There she urged them to seat themselves, hoping they wouldn’t notice the nine hanging quilt rods Andrew had installed in three rows of three on the southern wall to the right of the fireplace, or her own section of the quilt, hidden beneath the desk.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised, and hurried off to her suite for the seven gift bags tied with raffia bows she had prepared earlier that day for her friends. What could she do? She couldn’t bear the thought of Gretchen and Anna looking on politely, excluded while the others were honored.

Quickly she put the eighth section into an extra gift bag and hoped that her explanation would be enough to spare her new friends’ feelings.

Her friends’ animated speculation broke off as Sylvia returned to the library, her arms through the loops of the gift bags. They exclaimed in wonder as she distributed the bags and admonished them not to peek until everyone had theirs. To Anna and Gretchen, she explained, “This is for both of you, and for Maggie, and for anyone else who follows.” They nodded in puzzlement but seemed as pleased by the unexpected gift as the others.

At last, Sylvia announced that they could open their bags, and the library rang with exclamations of surprise and delight as each of her friends discovered a nine-block Winding Ways quilt, identical in arrangement and size, differing only in the fabrics chosen to reflect their individual styles or interests or personalities.

“Winding Ways,” mused Gretchen, admiring her tie-dye and floral quilt. “An appropriate and evocative choice, Sylvia, considering the block name and the secondary pattern of overlapping circles it creates. When I think of all the different paths I could have followed in my life, all the twists and turns that could have led me anywhere, it’s something of a miracle that I ended up here, surrounded by loving friends.”

“It’s a miracle for all of us,” said Bonnie. “I only wish I knew where my winding way is going to lead me.”

“If you knew your destination, you might be tempted to take a shortcut, and then you’d miss all the beautiful scenery on the way,” Diane pointed out.

Bonnie smiled, admiring her quilt top, tracing a circle created by homespun wedges and arcs and curves. “I suppose you’re right.”

“There’s more,” Sylvia said, taking her own nine-block section from its hiding place and beckoning her friends to join her at the southern end of the library. In the center was the fireplace; to the left hung the Castle Wall memorial quilt Agnes and Claudia had begun so many years before; Sylvia’s newest creation would have a place of honor on the right. Demonstrating with her own quilt, which favored jewel-toned purples, greens, and golds, Sylvia instructed her friends to hang their quilts from one of the rods, placing her own in the upper left corner and Gretchen and Anna’s in the center. The lower right corner remained empty, a place for Judy’s quilt, still in its gift bag.

When eight sections of the quilt were at last properly aligned on the wall, the Elm Creek Quilters stepped back to take in the display. An electric murmur passed through them as they admired the mosaic of overlapping circles and intertwining curves, the careful balance of dark and light hues, the unexpected harmony of the disparate fabrics and colors. Together the separate quilts created a wondrous design, many winding paths meeting, intersecting, parting; concentric circles like ripples from a stone cast into a pond, overlapping, including, uniting. Sylvia had ingeniously quilted the different sections so that the meticulous stitches seemed to flow from one section into the next, drawing them together, creating the illusion that they composed a single quilt. Gazing upon Sylvia’s creation, each woman could now see that her individual section was beautiful in and of itself—but was also part of a larger, more magnificent whole, a single quilt harmonizing their differences, embracing all that made each of them uniquely themselves.