The Second Sister (14 page)

What was it doing here, hidden away in Great-Grandma's hope chest? What had Alice been hoping for when she made it?

I started taking out the other quilts and unfolding them one at a time. They were all so different in style, in pattern, in color scheme, and in size—some were small enough to fit in a baby's crib, others large enough to cover a queen-sized bed. As I looked more carefully at the complexity of the patchwork and the quality of the stitching, I could see how Alice's skills had increased with each new creation. But from the simplest to the most detailed, every quilt was stitched with skill and artistry, revealing yet another layer to the contradictions of my sister, whose handwriting was illegible, but whose drawings were exquisite, who couldn't balance a checkbook, but could perform complex functions of geometry while making a quilt, who talked so often and so long, but said so very little that I could relate to. The sister I had known for a lifetime. And not at all.

What could have inspired Alice to make all these beautiful quilts and then shut them up in a trunk? They deserved to be used and appreciated.

I decided to take one of the lap-sized quilts, made from rows and rows of brown and orange rectangles in graduating sizes stitched around center squares of red, downstairs to lay over the back of the sofa. It would be nice to sit under while watching TV at night. And I chose a larger quilt, the blue and red star design, to put on the bed in Alice's room . . . our room.

I began carrying the remaining quilts back to the hope chest, but as I passed the window something caught my eye, a flicker of movement. I hugged the quilts to my chest and ducked my head as I approached the low, gabled window and peered into the yard, which, despite all my raking, was carpeted with newly fallen leaves. At first, all I saw was the grass, the leaves, the bright blue sky, and the silver-gray waters of the lake glinting platinum in the sunlight. But then, where the yard gave way to the water, I saw something moving again and realized that someone was sitting in the old wooden glider, the once white-painted wood now exposed and faded to gray, staring out at the lake and rocking back and forth with slow, small movements.

The long hair and slim frame belonged to a woman, or perhaps a young girl, but I couldn't tell who it was or why she was sitting in our glider, looking at our view. Not that I was bothered by her presence, but it seemed unusual that someone would choose to sit in someone else's yard when everybody else's property looked out on a similar scene.

After a moment, she stopped rocking and tossed her head, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, turning just slightly to the right. It was a quick movement, but gave me a chance to see her face and realize that she was the same girl I'd seen in the consignment shop, the girl with the clingy boyfriend. She must live nearby. But why was she sitting in our yard?

Though I glimpsed her face for only a moment, she seemed sad to me. I thought about going outside to ask if she was all right. About then she jumped to her feet and ran off through the trees, making the glider swing vacantly for a long time after she was gone.

I went back to work and placed the first stack of quilts back into the chest before folding up the others. I grasped one of the larger quilts, with a pattern of rustic pine-tree blocks on an ivory background, and shook it out flat so it would fold more evenly. As I did, I noticed something was written on the back left corner of the quilt.

I flipped back the corner and took a closer look. The writing was small, black, and wobbly and definitely belonged to Alice. It said, “To Maeve” and the year, 2011. Nothing more.

Pushing the pine-tree quilt aside, I took hold of one of the smallest quilts, with bright, cheerful blocks in hourglass shapes on a background of white with hot-pink polka dots, and checked the back.

“To Maeve.” This time the year was 2001.

I examined the back of every quilt, even those I'd already folded and put away in the hope chest. Every single one of them, eighteen in all, was labeled “To Maeve”; the words were all written in that same cramped hand, painstakingly penned by my sister, exactly the same except for the year. The years were all different, never two in the same year, from 1999 until 2016.

To Maeve.

In my entire life, I'd never known anyone by that name. But Alice had.

Alice had known her well enough to make eighteen beautiful quilts that she had never been willing, or ready, or able to give to her . . . Maeve.

Chapter 22

W
hen I went downtown later that afternoon, I ran into Peter Swenson. He smiled when he saw me lugging
The Definitive Biography of Eleanor Roosevelt
.

“Was it any good?” he asked doubtfully.

I nodded. Of course it was good. Six people with advanced degrees had given cover quotes testifying to this. The fact that I found it unreadable wasn't worth mentioning.

Peter fell into step next to me, shortening his long stride to match mine.

“Hey, I'm glad I ran into you. I was in Milwaukee all week on a case, but I was going to call to firm up the Thanksgiving plans. You're coming, right? Mom's planning to serve dinner at three, but she said to tell you and Barney to come at noon so you can watch the game. Fair warning—take it easy on Mom's cheese spread and pigs in a blanket. She always puts out way too many snacks and then gets all miffed if people don't take second helpings at dinner. If you've got some pants that are a little too big in the waist, wear 'em. Otherwise, you could end up in some serious pain by the time she brings out the pies. Pecan, pumpkin, and apple. If you don't try some of each she'll be devastated.”

I smiled. All the talk of Mrs. Swenson overfeeding him aside, his eyes sparkled with an almost boyish enthusiasm, and it was really pretty cute. I'd always pegged the Swensons as being that kind of family, very close, with specific traditions, rituals, and recipes for different holidays. It must have been nice to grow up surrounded by that kind of stability.

“Peter, you're very nice, but your family really doesn't want Barney and me horning in on your holiday.”

“Are you kidding? They're thrilled. Mom's so excited that she's talking about re-carpeting the dining room in honor of the occasion. Uncle Hugh can't wait to talk to you. Or at least chew you out a little. He voted for the other guy. Seriously, Lucy. You're kind of a big deal around here.”

“Stop it.”

“You are!” he protested. “Nobody from Nilson's Bay has ever been interviewed on CNN. And you're going to work in the White House. Everybody in town is talking about it.”

I stopped at the bottom of the stone stairs in front of the library and turned toward him. “How do they know that? What have you been saying to people?”

Peter stopped, too, frowning at me as if he didn't understand the question.

“Nothing. You worked for the campaign. Everybody assumes you'll work for the administration as well. Of course they're talking about it. You know how people are in Nilson's Bay, Lucy. Everybody talks about everybody.”

I took my eyes from Peter's, looked over his shoulder and across the street. Two old men in feed caps stood talking to each other. A mother with a set jaw was dragging her screaming toddler out of the drugstore and toward her car. One of the old men looked in my direction and then said something to his buddy, who turned his head to stare.

“Yeah, I remember,” I mumbled. “That's part of why I left.”

Peter's lips went flat. “So people don't gossip in DC?”

There was no need to respond. We both knew the answer. But the gossip was different in Washington. It wasn't about me.

“Don't be so sensitive. They're talking about you because they're proud of you. You're an inspiration. In fact,” he said, sounding a little sheepish, “Mom's going to ask if you'd be willing to speak to the kids at the high school.”

“What?” My head snapped toward Peter. “No! I'm not a good public speaker. I work
behind
the scenes. That CNN interview? I almost passed out after it was over. I am not speaking to a bunch of high school kids, Peter. No way.”

“You don't have to,” he assured me. “But Mom's going to ask you about it, so I thought I'd better warn you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, great.”

“But you're coming for Thanksgiving, aren't you? C'mon, Lucy. You have to. Mom is counting on you.” He paused for a moment, and then, in a softer voice, he said, “So am I.”

I looked at him and laughed.

“Oh, man. You really know how to lay it on thick, don't you? Does that really work?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Especially if I add the puppy dog eyes.” He pulled a pathetic-looking face. “But . . . uh, no. Not really. Could explain why I'm thirty-six and still single.”

“That might have something to do with it.”

I glanced over Peter's shoulder again. The old guys were still staring. I considered sticking my tongue out at them, but decided to give them something worth talking about instead.

I pushed up on my tiptoes and gave Peter a kiss on the cheek—a kiss, not a peck, leaving my lips pressed against his skin for just a nanosecond longer than propriety and friendship dictated. I looked back toward the old guys and arched my eyebrows into a “How'dja like that?” expression. They ducked their heads with embarrassment and quickly turned away.

Pleased with myself, I returned my attention to Peter. “Thanksgiving with the Swensons sounds terrific. What can I bring?”

The boyish sparkle came back into Peter's eyes.

“Not a thing,” he said. “Just show up.”

 

As I came through the library door, a woman with three slightly scruffy, jabbering little girls in tow pushed past me.

I recognized Daphne Olsen from the funeral. I thought about saying hello, but then, recalling my unpleasant encounter with Rinda, I decided against it. She didn't look like she was in the mood to talk anyway. The little girls bickered and whined and tugged at her jacket, demanding a ruling on whose turn it was to ride shotgun. Daphne, who was digging into her purse in search of cigarettes and a lighter, cuffed them away with her free hand like a mother bear batting away a bunch of unruly cubs and wearily uttered a series of benign threats.

Hardly anybody I know smokes anymore, especially if they have little kids. But on the other hand, if I had three yappy little girls dogging my every step, I might feel the need for a jolt of nicotine too.

I went inside, my footsteps echoing across the small stretch of marble that led from the lobby to the checkout desk, and plunked down
The Definitive Biography
. A big white cat with patches of black sauntered out from behind the desk, rubbed up against my ankles for a moment, then jumped up onto the counter and started sniffing at the spine of the volume as if it were a fish that might have gone deliciously bad. I scratched him on the head.

“You must be Mr. Carnegie. You're awfully friendly,” I said. “Why don't you come over to the cottage and give Dave some lessons?”

Mrs. Lieshout, who had been alerted to my presence by the ponderous thump of
The Definitive Biography,
approached the counter.

“How did you like it?” she asked brightly.

“I couldn't get through it,” I admitted. “I kept dozing off.”

Mrs. Lieshout leaned toward me. “So did I,” she whispered, then opened the book cover and swept a scanning wand across a bar code inside the book.

“We've got another biography of Mrs. Roosevelt, you know. It's not as detailed as this one, but is far more readable. Would you like to check it out?”

“Not today. I was wondering if you had any books about quilting.”

“What kind? Quilting history? Quilting as art? Quilting novels? Quilting instruction?”

“Instruction,” I said, before adding, “They have novels about quilting?”

“Oh, yes. Very popular with our patrons, even the ones who don't sew.”

She picked up the unreadable book, lifting with both hands, and dumped it into a wheeled bin with other books waiting to be re-shelved.

“Are you thinking of following in Alice's footsteps? She was a very talented quilter. Did you know she made a quilt for my granddaughter, Ashley, when she was born?” I shook my head. “So sweet of her,” Mrs. Lieshout said and blinked a few times.

“I don't know if I'll be any good at it,” I said quickly, moving the conversation into a less emotional direction. If Mrs. Lieshout started crying here in the middle of the library, I probably would too.

“But I've got some time on my hands, so it's worth a try. I've got everything I need as far as fabric and tools, but I couldn't find any books of patterns or instructions, and I looked everywhere. I thought maybe Alice got her instruction books here.”

“No,” Mrs. Lieshout said. “Alice mostly checked out movies, music, and books with animal photographs. She wasn't much of a reader. As far as I know, she didn't use any patterns for her quilts, or instructions. I think it was almost instinctual to her, the same way her drawing was. You know how much value I place on education, but I do think that some people possess a kind of wisdom that can't be found between the covers of a book. Alice was one of them.”

A minute before, I had been the one focused on trying to keep Mrs. Lieshout's emotions in check, but the tables had turned. Her eyes were dry and her tone almost philosophical, but my eyes were full and my throat so tight that I knew I was only inches away from launching into the full-blown ugly cry.

Mrs. Lieshout whipped two tissues out of a pink plastic dispenser standing next to the stapler and handed them to me. Then, without missing a beat, she scooped Mr. Carnegie up off the desk and carried him next to her chest like an infant waiting to be burped.

“Craft instruction books are all on the second floor,” she said briskly. “If I'm not mistaken, quilting arts should be found in section 746.46. Follow me.”

I did as I was told and trailed up the stairs after her, dabbing at my eyes with the tissues. Mr. Carnegie, his front paws resting daintily on her right shoulder like two white kid gloves, stared at me and flicked his tail.