The Giving Quilt (6 page)

“Most days,” her sister broke in.

“Most days,” Linnea agreed. “Good health, wonderful children, a loving husband, a roof over my head. I have it all, or at least I have everything that truly matters. I look around at the world—actually, I don't even have to look much farther than my own neighborhood—and I see so many others who are struggling just to make ends meet from day to day. How could I not share what I have in abundance?”

Around the circle, the quilters nodded, their gazes faraway as they sank into private reverie, considering, perhaps, not only the anonymous children who would benefit from their Quiltsgiving project, but other people of all ages whom they knew, friends and neighbors and family, who were in need in those difficult times.

After a moment, Sylvia took the candle from Linnea and indicated the quilts surrounding them with color, beauty, and the promise of warmth. “All of the quilts you see here were made with giving in mind,” she explained, walking around the circle. “Some are Giving Quilts from past Quiltsgivings. Others were made to express love or affection.” She paused by the twelve-block sampler Sarah had made for Matt in honor of their first anniversary. “Others were made in memory of a loved one to comfort the grieving.” Her voice caught in her throat as she paused by the Castle Wall memorial quilt her late sister, Claudia, and Agnes and had made for Sylvia from scraps of her first husband's clothing after his tragic death in the Second World War. “I hope that these quilts and the stories we've shared tonight will inspire you to give, this week and always.”

And with that, the first day of Quiltsgiving came to an end.

Early the next morning, the real work would begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Pauline

P
auline woke before sunrise on Monday morning, but instead of anticipating the fun and potential new friendships awaiting her in Elm Creek Manor on that first full day of Quiltsgiving, her thoughts flew to the Château Élan on the outskirts of Atlanta and what the Cherokee Rose Quilters might be doing at that very moment.

They were probably still in bed as she was, but sound asleep, wiped out from a late night of talking and laughing and sewing and indulging in wine from the resort's own vineyards. A record ninety quilters had signed up for their annual benefit retreat, the most important of the guild's many significant charitable activities, which raised money for several homeless shelters and soup kitchens in impoverished Atlanta neighborhoods. Quilters would travel hundreds of miles and pay not-insignificant fees for an inspirational week of workshops, lectures, and trunk shows offered by the guild's renowned members, proud to know that the proceeds would support worthy causes. Pauline would bet her Bernina that not one of the Cherokee Rose Quilters had given her a second thought since setting foot on the resort's beautiful grounds. In such glorious surroundings among their most creative friends, they were surely too busy—and having too much fun—to waste a moment missing her.

She wished she could say she didn't miss them.

Dispirited, Pauline sat up, reached for her cell phone on the nightstand, and called home. Her husband answered on the third ring. “Good morning, sugar,” he said. “Did you get any sleep or did you stay up all night quilting?”

The warmth in Ray's voice always made her smile. “This'll probably shock you, but I got a full night's sleep. Yesterday evening we had a banquet and a rather dramatic welcome ceremony, and then it was straight to bed.” For Pauline, anyway. Judging by the sounds from the hallway that hadn't ceased entirely until after midnight, many campers had stayed up quite late, going from room to room to reunite with old friends and meet their neighbors. Someone had knocked softly on Pauline's door around ten o'clock, but by that time she had already brushed her teeth, put on her pajamas, and curled up in bed with a few quilting magazines, so she had ignored the friendly gesture. “The serious quilting starts after breakfast. Are the kids ready for school yet?”

“They're getting there,” said Ray. They chatted for a bit about how Colton had overslept and Kori had eaten only half an orange for breakfast, again, but they were both more or less ready to head out for the bus. Then Ray, who knew her through and through, abruptly changed the subject. “Sugar, you'll have fun this week. Just push Brenda right out of your head. Don't let her miserly spirit ruin your vacation.”

“You're right,” said Pauline, raking a hand through her long, wiry hair, tangled and tousled even more than usual thanks to her restless night. “I shouldn't.”

“Get out of bed, go for a walk, and put a smile on your face when you go down to breakfast. You're going to have just as much fun at Thanksquilting as you would've had at the guild retreat. You'll see.”

She had to smile. “It's Quiltsgiving, not Thanksquilting.”

“What's the difference?” They both laughed. “I love you, sugar, and I miss you. Take care of yourself.”

She promised him she would, and she assured him she loved and missed him too, and then they said good-bye.

Ray was absolutely right. She was at Elm Creek Manor, for crying out loud. What was there to regret? Resolute, she flung back the pretty pink-and-yellow Friendship Knot quilt and climbed out of bed, vowing to have a wonderful Quiltsgiving from the get-go. And if she couldn't manage that, at the very least, she would stop wallowing in self-pity. She couldn't waste another second longing for the circle of friends that had broken and reformed without her—and imagining Brenda, self-satisfied and smug, privately gloating over Pauline's absence.

She changed into her sweats—the thickest, warmest she owned but untested against a northern climate—laced up her walking shoes, tugged on a knit hat and gloves, threw on her coat, and left her room, greeting the few other campers she passed along the way as she descended the grand oak staircase to the foyer. When she opened the front door, a cold gust of wind made her shiver, and when she stepped out onto the verandah, the sight of frost on the crisp green lawn gave her pause. As the heavy door closed behind her, she might have given in to the temptation to hasten back inside if she had not spotted two campers at the foot of one of the curved stone staircases, bundled up as she was for cold-weather exercise. Their heads were bent close together over a map of the estate, and when the taller of the pair straightened and pointed off to the north, Pauline recognized them as the two blond sisters she had met at the Candlelight ceremony the previous night. The taller, elder sister was Linnea—Linnea the librarian from Los Angeles, Pauline had noted when she introduced herself at the Candlelight ceremony, the better to remember her. She prided herself on her quick, sharp memory, and she didn't consider it cheating to resort to mnemonic devices from time to time.

The librarian must have felt Pauline's eyes upon her, for she glanced up. “You look like a woman who knows where she's going,” she called. “Are there any walking trails around here?”

“I'm not sure,” Pauline admitted as she descended the stairs. “I was going to walk through the north gardens and the orchard, trail or no trail.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” said the shorter sister, and with no further ado the three women fell into step as if they had planned to walk together all along, striding briskly along the circular driveway before stepping off onto the lawn.

“You're the 911 operator, right?” asked Linnea. Her thick, ash-blond hair was blunt-cut at the chin and held back from her face by a wide, black knit band that served as earmuffs. “From Georgia? Paula?”

“Pauline,” she corrected with a smile. “And yes, I am, and I am.”

“I'm Linnea.” She indicated her sister with a casual wave of a mittened hand. “And this is my sister, Mona.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Pauline. “Mona the manager from Minnesota.”

The sisters smiled at the alliteration, but then Mona's face turned rueful. “I am for now, anyway.”

“Which are you planning?” asked Pauline, curious. “A name change or a new career?” Mona had mentioned a husband and children the previous evening, and she seemed too young to contemplate retirement.

“A career change, but not voluntarily.”

“Same here,” said Linnea, more grimly than her sister.

“Oh, you are not,” scoffed Mona, nudging her as they walked along. “You love those kids. You wouldn't last a day without them, and the children's department wouldn't last a week without you.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” said Linnea. “You're the only one of us with job security, Pauline. There will always be emergencies and people calling in to report them.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. I'm sure I'll be replaced by a robot eventually. But you two . . .” She looked from one sister to the other, smiling encouragingly. “Offices will always need managers to keep them running smoothly, and where would we be without librarians?”

“Ignorant beyond any hope of redemption,” declared Mona, throwing her sister a proud smile.

“Sometimes I think half the population is already there,” Linnea said dryly. “‘A person who won't read has no advantage over one who can't read.'”

“Mark Twain,” said Pauline automatically.

“Very good.” Linnea nodded in approval. “If we play Trivial Pursuit at Games Night this evening, I want you on my team.”

“It's a deal,” said Pauline, delighted. In such a scenario, a librarian would be a formidable ally.

“I can only imagine how stressful your workdays are,” Linnea remarked. “If I have a bad day on the job, I might shelve a book in the wrong place or recommend a novel that a kid just can't get into, but if you have a bad day . . .” She shook her head as if unable to give voice to the nightmare scenarios that might unfold.

“I try not to have too many bad days,” said Pauline, smiling.

“But your job must be very rewarding too,” said Mona.

“It's both, actually—rewarding and stressful—but quilting and exercise help me relieve a lot of the stress.” Spending time with her small, invitation-only quilt guild had once helped too, but recently the Cherokee Rose Quilters had become a greater source of stress than her job.

“Quilting and chocolate are my two favorite stress relievers,” Mona said with mock dismay. “Hence the need for long, vigorous walks, even on vacation.”

Their laughter rang out merrily, and the frosted blades of grass crunched crisply beneath their running shoes. As they passed in front of the manor, they chatted about the previous night's Candlelight ceremony and the lovely quilts displayed on the dais. Pauline was pleased to learn that the sisters had signed up for the Giving Quilt class, and she resolved to grab a seat beside them later that morning, even if it meant not sitting in the front row as she had promised the instructor.

At the corner of the manor, they passed a thicket of denuded lilac bushes surrounding a broad patio that appeared to be made of the same gray limestone as the manor. A pathway of similar stones continued into a stand of bare-limbed elms, oaks, and maples, and after a quick glance at Linnea's map, they followed the meandering path until it broadened and opened upon an oval clearing. At the near end of the garden, four round planters holding pruned rosebushes and frost-withered ivy were spaced evenly around a black marble statue of a mare prancing with two foals. It was a fountain, Pauline realized, though the water had been shut off, likely in deference to the temperatures, which in that season dipped well below freezing at night and didn't climb particularly high during the day. The lower halves of the planters were two feet thicker than at the top, forming smooth, polished seats where visitors could rest, but Pauline and her companions strode briskly past them without pausing. They circled a large, white wooden gazebo, passed several bare flower beds and terraces cut into a gently sloping hill, and followed another gray stone footpath to the west, nearly hidden amid a grove of evergreens. Before long the stone gave way to hard-packed earth, the smoothness broken every few paces by tree roots that seemed to reach for their ankles like gray, gnarled fingers. By unspoken agreement, the women slowed their pace and made their way more carefully. They were all breathing hard from exertion by then, and as they passed beneath the leafless canopy, Pauline felt the first rumblings of hunger and hoped they wouldn't return too late for breakfast.

Their conversation naturally turned to quilting and why they had come to Elm Creek Manor for Quiltsgiving. The sisters, lamenting the miles that usually separated them, explained that they reunited for a vacation every year, just the two of them, to spend time together before the whirlwind of the Christmas holidays set in and throngs of family and friends descended. Mona admitted that she was an inexperienced quilter, which was why she had enrolled in the Giving Quilt class rather than bringing any UFOs—Unfinished Fabric Objects—from home to work upon. “A simple and easy pattern, that's what the course description promised,” Mona said, her breath coming in faint white puffs as she spoke. “And I'm going to hold them to it.” Linnea, a longtime quilter, had signed up for the class to keep her sister company.

Both sisters were impressed when Pauline mentioned that she had recently celebrated her twentieth quilting anniversary, and they marveled when she explained her ambitious plan to complete five quilts before the week was over. She worried that they would think her an irritating show-off—an accusation she had once overheard Brenda make, when she may or may not have known Pauline was in earshot—but they seemed genuinely admiring. Even so, Pauline decided not to divulge her plans to anyone else, just in case.

After meandering through the forest for a mile or perhaps two, the path led them to a footbridge that crossed a narrow stream, which Linnea surmised aloud was probably a tributary of Elm Creek. Another forested mile set them to pondering the question of whether they had left the Bergstrom estate far behind and were trespassing on a neighboring farm, but eventually the path ended at the apple orchards, rows upon rows of trees bare of all but the most tenacious brown leaves, fluttering crisply in the chilly breeze that blew steadily from the southwest.

From the orchard, where they spotted several other campers who had sought exercise or quiet contemplation outdoors, it was but a short distance past the red banked barn, over the bridge across Elm Creek, and up the four stairs to the manor's rear entrance. Pauline was breathless from trying to match the taller women's long strides, and the tip of her nose and fingers felt numb from the cold, but she was sorry the excursion was over. She had enjoyed their tour of the estate, which had proved to be lovely even in the waning days of autumn, if not as ostentatiously glorious as Château Élan was in that season.

In the rear foyer, the manor's welcoming warmth enveloped them, carrying tantalizing aromas from the kitchen a few paces down the hall. “Showers before breakfast or breakfast first?” asked Mona, glancing first to her sister and then to Pauline as she stripped off her mittens.

“I'm fine either way,” said Pauline, pleasantly surprised to be included in the sisters' plans.

“Showers first,” said Linnea firmly, with as much implied necessity as if it were a muggy afternoon in mid-August and they had run a half marathon. Mona laughed indulgently, and they agreed to meet at the foot of the grand oak staircase in the foyer in a half hour. Pauline fairly sprinted off to get ready, but not without a fleeting twinge of worry that she might be intruding upon the sisters' reunion. She considered leaving them to themselves, but her reluctance to walk into the banquet hall alone won out. If she were at the Cherokee Rose Quilters' Benefit Retreat, she could have chosen from among a dozen longtime friends who would have been happy to have her take an empty seat at their table. Here, she knew no one.