The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (11 page)

She decided she would rather be thought rude than ignorant, so she shrugged, stared fiercely at her plate, and willed the tears away. “I was only trying to help.”

“Some help you are,” snapped Claudia, shoving back her chair. “You’ve already broken your own New Year’s resolution, and it isn’t even nine o’clock!”

Miserable, Sylvia sank down in her chair as Claudia marched from the room, probably on her way up to Mama’s bedroom to tell her what Sylvia had done. Sylvia wished she could run after her sister and beg her to stop, but Claudia would assume Sylvia’s only concern was to avoid their mother’s disapproval. Claudia didn’t know about that letter from Grandmother Lockwood, and how sad their mother certainly was, no matter how well she hid it. Now Sylvia had made everything worse. The doctor said unpleasant news was not good for Mama and the baby, and because of Sylvia’s thoughtlessness, Mama would wake to learn that her daughters had already spoiled the bright, fresh new start of the New Year.

From the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw her father shaking his head in exasperation, while Great-Aunt Lucinda rested her chin on her hand, ruefully watching the doorway through which Claudia had departed. Great-Aunt Lydia sighed and stirred sugar into her coffee, as if that would rid the morning of its bitter taste. Only Grandma did not seem concerned. Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were imagining blazing fireballs swinging in brilliant arcs against a starry night sky.

Nine days later, Sylvia’s mother gave birth to a robust, cheerful little boy. In the excitement and joy that surrounded his arrival, everyone forgot about Sylvia’s ribbon-tied scrolls—everyone except Claudia, who never forgot a slight. Whenever the girls disagreed about whose turn it was to rock their darling baby brother to sleep or sing him a lullaby, Claudia reminded Sylvia of her resolution not to fight with her. What choice did Sylvia have then but to give in? Claudia kept a running tally of how many times Sylvia broke her resolution until spring, when she lost count as well as interest and found new ways to annoy Sylvia instead.

Although Sylvia had to share baby Richard with Claudia the way she had to share everything, she doted on him. From the start she resolved that she would make up for her mistakes as a little sister by being the loving and protective big sister he deserved. Her resolution would be no less binding for all that it came on January 10 instead of the first day of the year.

Sylvia never mentioned New Year’s resolutions in her sister’s presence again. In years to come, whenever Sylvia made a resolution for herself, she wrote it on a scroll of paper and tied it with a ribbon as a reminder of that unhappy morning and how she should look to her own faults and failings before trying to correct others’. Every New Year’s Eve, she would untie the scroll of the year before and read over the vows she had made. Sometimes she noted with pride how she had kept her resolution and had reaped the rewards of her diligence and self-discipline; more often she looked back ruefully upon her optimism of a year ago, when the hope and promise of the New Year had made high goals seem within reach, and difficult resolutions easier to keep than they would prove to be.

With the excitement of the wedding and their sorrow over Andrew’s children’s disapproval, Sylvia had been too distracted to give much thought to New Year’s resolutions that season. She had a few she wished Andrew’s children would make, but as she had learned all too well that New Year’s morning so long ago, she could not make those decisions for anyone but herself. If she ever forgot, the New Year’s Reflections quilt would remind her, for she had sewn the lessons learned into the quilt. A Wandering Foot block called to mind the dangers of blindly fearing superstition, for what one person shunned as misfortune could be welcomed as a blessing by someone else. A Year’s Favorite pattern honored her brother’s birth, reminding her of her mother’s patience and endurance, and the great happiness that was her reward. And the Resolution Square block reminded her that she could wish for positive change in another person, she could even lovingly nurture it, but ultimately, she could control no one’s behavior but her own, and often that was where the real problem resided.

As the taxi pulled up in front of the theater, Sylvia imagined her mother as a little girl boldly stepping out into a festive night, welcoming the turn of the century with curiosity and excitement. She thought of her Grandma, entranced by her own mother’s stories of the New Year in a faraway land, longing to see those wonders for herself but never venturing forth, so she had only her mother’s stories and no memories of her own to pass down to her granddaughter. What would those two beloved women think of the turns Sylvia’s life had taken, of the resolutions made and broken, of the adventures she had gladly embarked upon and those she had been drawn into unwillingly?

Andrew paid the driver and helped Sylvia from the taxi. “You were lost in thought the whole drive over,” he said, escorting her into the warmth of the theater lobby. “Adele’s story was amazing, wasn’t it? It’s funny to think what can come of a simple New Year’s resolution.”

Sylvia was too ashamed of her childhood foolishness to explain the real reason for her reverie. “Adele made the right resolution at the right time for the right person,” she replied instead, “and that made all the difference.”

T
he next morning, Sylvia and Andrew woke beneath Adele’s antique quilt in the elegant four-poster bed in the Garden Room, well rested and refreshed despite their late night at the theater. After the show, they had wandered along Broadway arm in arm, stopping for dessert and coffee at My Most Favorite Dessert Company. “We can’t go wrong at a place with a name like that,” Andrew said, opening the door for Sylvia with a flourish.

He turned out to be right. The three-layer chocolate ganache cake Sylvia enjoyed was so rich and heavenly that she swore she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite for breakfast, but in the morning, delicious aromas from Adele’s kitchen beckoned her from Andrew’s arms. She kissed him good morning, then folded back the beautiful quilt, gave it an affectionate pat, and hurried off to the shower. They had a full day planned, and Sylvia could not wait to begin.

The other guests were just sitting down at the table when Sylvia and Andrew arrived. As Adele and Julius served the meal, everyone introduced themselves and chatted about their excursions in New York. Most were holiday vacationers, some from overseas; Sylvia was pleased to learn that one of the couples, Karl and Erika, resided in a small village not far from Baden-Baden, Germany, the ancestral home of the Bergstrom family. “You must tell me all about it,” Sylvia exclaimed, delighted.

“Have you never visited?” asked Karl.

Sylvia was embarrassed to admit that she never had. She had always meant to, but as the years passed, it had seemed increasingly unlikely that she ever would. Erika promised to act as Sylvia’s own personal tour guide if she ever did make the journey, and in the meantime, she would be happy to show Sylvia the pictures of her hometown stored on her digital camera.

One couple from upstate was in town visiting relatives who did not have room in their cramped apartment for extended family. “I’d rather stay here anyway,” the woman confided. “My daughter-in-law couldn’t make a breakfast this tasty with four cookbooks and two days to prepare, and I know, because she’s tried.”

Sylvia smiled politely as the other guests chuckled, resisting the urge to point out that the woman was fortunate her daughter-in-law was willing to go to so much trouble for someone who clearly would not appreciate her efforts. One cookbook and a couple of hours was all Sylvia had ever been willing to put into a meal. But Sylvia held her tongue, unwilling to ruin the friendly mood around the table. She knew, too, that the woman had only meant to compliment their hostess—and that she herself was too easily provoked of late by any show of disapproval between in-laws.

The conversation turned to the holiday season and the upcoming New Year. Sylvia told Karl and Erika about the German traditions her family had celebrated in America—eating pork and sauerkraut to bring good luck, enjoying delicious sweets like
Pfannkuchen
, indulging in the rum punch made over the fire, and trying to glimpse the future by interpreting lead shapes in a bowl of water.

“Not so many people make
Feuerzangenbowle
anymore,” said Karl with regret. “It is so much easier to open a beer.”

“My uncles still make it every New Year’s Eve,” said Erika. “But lead pouring is out of favor. No one wants their children playing with lead near the fire, breathing in those toxic fumes! Nowadays, one uses melted candle wax, and I suppose the predictions are no more or no less accurate than they used to be.”

Sylvia smiled, but her heart sank a little. She knew it was foolish, but she had always imagined the place of Great-Grandfather Hans’s birth to be frozen in time, exactly as it had been when he departed for America, exactly as the family stories had preserved it. Of course it had grown and changed with the times, just as Elm Creek Manor had.

“We still enjoy the Sylvester Balls,” Erika assured her, perhaps sensing her disappointment. “And dinner for one.”

“That doesn’t sound very festive,” said Andrew. “In America, no one wants to spend New Year’s Eve alone.”

“Nor do we, necessarily,” said Karl. “We gather together with family and friends and watch together.”

The motherin-law from upstate looked confused. “Watch what?”

“The television,” said Erika. “Or video, if you have other plans and don’t want to schedule everything around a broadcast.”

Sylvia was utterly lost. “So…you eat supper alone, and later you meet to watch television?” She did not want to insult their new German friends, but she thought they would have done better to stick to
Pfannkuchen, Feuerzangenbowle,
and
Bleigiessen
.

Karl’s deep laugh boomed. “No,
Dinner for One
, the television play, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Andrew, but his expression of utter bewilderment told Sylvia he was no better enlightened than she.

“It wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve without it,” said Erika. She glanced around the table at the other guests. “Surely you’ve seen it. It’s in English, after all.”

“Miss Sophie? James?” Karl added helpfully. “The same procedure as every year?”

His question met with blank stares. Incredulous, the German couple fired off other names—Sir Toby, Admiral von Schneider, Mr. Pommeroy, Mr. Winterbottom—only to learn that their native English-speaking companions did not recognize a single one. “Everyone in Germany watches
Dinner for One
on New Year’s Eve,” said Karl. “I myself have seen it at least fifty times.”

“It’s a television skit,” Erika explained. “It was written in the 1920s for the British cabaret, but the version we Germans know best was filmed in the early 1960s in front of a live audience in Hamburg. It’s been shown on German television every New Year’s Eve since the 1970s.”

“All the stations broadcast it,” said Karl, searching their faces as if he still could not believe they were unaware of the tradition. “It’s almost impossible to avoid seeing it on the holiday.”

Not that anyone
tried
to avoid it, the German couple added. The comical black-and-white skit was as integral to a German New Year’s celebration as they assumed dropping the ball in Times Square was to New Yorkers. The heroine of the story—Karl and Erika broke into fits of laughter as they explained—was Miss Sophie, an elderly British aristocrat celebrating her birthday as she did every year, with a dinner party attended by four dear old friends, blissfully ignoring the unfortunate truth that the men had passed away years ago. Rather than ruin the celebration, Miss Sophie’s butler, James, not only serves the meal but also fills in for the absent gentlemen—mimicking their voices, offering birthday toasts, and draining their glasses. As each course begins, James inquires, “The same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?” to which the lady replies, “The same procedure as every year, James.” With each course and round of drinks, James becomes more and more intoxicated—stumbling about, tripping over the tiger skin rug, sending a platter of chicken flying through the air. At the end of the meal, Miss Sophie announces that the party was wonderful, but now she wishes to retire. James links his arm through hers and repeats the now-familiar refrain: “The same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?” Miss Sophie answers, “The same procedure as
every
year, James.” James steadies himself on the staircase banister, declares “Well, I’ll do my very best,” and gives the unseen studio audience a broad wink before escorting Miss Sophie upstairs.

Sylvia found herself smiling, not because the broad slapstick sounded particularly funny, but because Karl and Erika’s inexplicable fondness for the show was amusing to see. “It’s a bit ribald at the end, isn’t it?” she said.

“I don’t get it,” said the motherin-law from upstate.

“I think it’s probably one of those shows that gets funnier the more times you watch it,” said Andrew, ever the diplomat.

“Absolutely,” Erika agreed. “It’s funnier with a group of friends, too. Some people watch in bars, and shout out all the lines with the characters. Others watch at home and prepare the same meal James serves Miss Sophie—Mulligatawny soup, North Sea haddock, chicken, and fruit. Still others use the show to play a drinking game, finishing a beer every time the refrain comes around, or drinking the same liquors James does as he makes each guest’s toasts to Miss Sophie.”

“I don’t recommend that unless you want to start your New Year very, very ill,” warned Karl. “Although some say the skit is most humorous when one is as drunk as James.”

“Too much imbibing on New Year’s Eve is an American tradition, too,” said Sylvia. “I never found anything amusing about that, myself.” For all that the Bergstroms had enjoyed her father’s rum punch, drunkenness had been unacceptable in their family, and it was not something Sylvia tolerated in others, either. She could never have married Andrew if he had been what in their day had been called “a drinking man.”

“Where are you going to watch
Dinner for One
this year?” Andrew inquired.

Karl and Erika exchanged a look. “We thought we would watch on the television in our room,” said Erika, “but I suppose that won’t be possible.”

“We assumed everyone in the States watched it, too,” said Karl, with a shrug that asked, why wouldn’t you?

“I don’t think that show has ever been broadcast here,” said Adele. “I’ll look into it and see what I can do.”

“We’ve seen it so often that we can miss it once and still have a happy New Year,” said Erika, but she did not sound convinced. “You shouldn’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Adele. “That would be nothing compared to last year, when a Danish family stayed with us. On the morning of December thirty-first, they suddenly absolutely had to have dishes. You know, dinner plates and such. I offered them several from our cupboard, but for some reason those wouldn’t do. I assumed they wanted some to take home for souvenirs, so I offered directions to Tiffany’s and Bergdorf Goodman. That wasn’t what they wanted, either. Finally I directed them to the Arthritis Foundation Thrift Shop at Third and Seventy-Ninth, where they found some old dishes on sale. I had never seen anyone so happy over old dishes, and I thought it was a very odd souvenir, but of course I didn’t say anything. Later that night, I learned that in Denmark, it’s the custom to throw old dishes at the doors of your friends’ homes on New Year’s Eve. The more shards of broken dinnerware on your doorstep on January first, the more popular you are. Our Danish guests had been worried that the neighbors would think Julius and I had no friends, so they smashed all those old dishes on our front stoop. It was a mess, but I didn’t want to offend them by not respecting their tradition.”

“At least they said it was a Danish tradition,” Julius broke in. “We wouldn’t have known. They might have been playing a New Year’s Eve prank on us.”

“Maybe practical jokes are the real tradition,” said Andrew, and the other guests laughed.

“How do you suppose we’ll spend New Year’s Eve?” asked Sylvia as she and Andrew returned to the Garden Room after breakfast.

“I’m not sure,” said Andrew. “Amy never made a big deal out of the New Year. She loves Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Halloween, Arbor Day—”

“Arbor Day?”

“She likes to plant trees,” Andrew explained. “But she never got too excited about New Year’s Eve.”

Sylvia found it difficult to believe that someone who enjoyed holidays—including the most obscure—would be indifferent to the New Year’s celebrations. “What about when Amy and Bob were young? Your family must have kept some New Year’s traditions Amy has passed down to her own children.”

“Well, sure, we had a few. When Amy and Bob were kids, they could never stay awake long enough to ring in the New Year at the proper time. Katy would set the grandfather clock in the hall ahead so they could hear it strike midnight, and we’d toast the New Year with apple juice at nine o’clock. That routine fell by the wayside as the kids grew up. When Amy was a teenager, she babysat for other families in the neighborhood so the parents could go out and celebrate. She and my wife used to spend New Year’s Day watching home movies while Bob and I watched football, but I don’t know if you’d call that a tradition. If Amy’s ever made a New Year’s resolution, she’s kept it to herself.” Andrew searched his memory for a moment, but then shook his head. “If you’re looking for a big celebration, we should stay in New York and watch the ball drop in Times Square. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I won’t be disappointed unless Amy leaves us standing on the front porch with our suitcases,” Sylvia promised. To her dismay, Andrew snorted as if he considered that a realistic possibility.

Sylvia’s thoughts of New Year’s celebrations—and fears that she and Andrew might indeed be left outside in the snow upon their arrival in Hartford—soon faded as she and Andrew embarked upon what Sylvia was sure would be the highlight of their stay in New York.

They hailed a cab and drove through the crush of morning traffic toward Fifth Avenue. As they rode along Central Park, snow falling lightly upon the windshield, Sylvia reached for Andrew’s hand and held it tightly. She had no idea why she was so nervous. This visit to her mother’s childhood home was long overdue, and why she had not at least driven past the old Lockwood house on one of her previous visits to New York, she could not say. It was not a lack of curiosity that had prevented her. Perhaps it was a sense that her mother had not been happy there, and that she would not have wanted to burden Sylvia with her unhappiness.