The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (16 page)

Sylvia glanced around, uncertain what distinguished that place from any other in the city. The elegance of the classical architecture was striking, but in that it was not unlike many other buildings they had passed along the way. “Where’s here, exactly?”

Adele gestured toward the marble cornerstone. “You might not recognize it, but I think your mother would.”

Her heart quickening, Sylvia drew closer to read the bold engraving on the stone. “The Lockwood Building. 1878.” She gasped and turned to her friend. “Do you mean—”

“This was the site of your grandfather’s store,” Adele confirmed. “Lockwood’s took up the entire block, once upon a time. The interior has been subdivided and resold many times over since then, but the exterior hasn’t been changed since your grandfather’s day except for repairs and maintenance.”

“I almost can’t believe it really exists.” Sylvia traced the engraving with a fingertip. “Lockwood’s always seemed like nothing more than a setting from a story to me, just like…”

“Just like your mother’s childhood home?”

Sylvia nodded. “Until this morning, anyway.” She stepped back and gazed skyward to take in the entire building her grandfather had built, not caring if she looked like a wide-eyed tourist to the more sophisticated passersby. “One of my mother’s favorite memories of this time of year was coming to the store with her father and being allowed to pick out any toy she wanted for Christmas.”

“Perhaps this photo was taken on one of those occasions.” Adele reached into her bag and pulled out a large padded envelope. “Here’s the second part of your surprise. Merry Christmas, a little late. Happy New Year, a little early.”

Sylvia pressed a hand to her lips before setting her shopping bags on the sidewalk dusted with snow and accepting the envelope with a trembling hand. She lifted the flap and spied the edge of a photograph, protected between two sturdy pieces of cardboard. Carefully she withdrew a black-and-white photograph of a New York street scene in what appeared to be the early 1900s. A man and woman dressed in turn-of-the-century coats and hats stood with two girls in front of a storefront window emblazoned L
OCKWOOD’S
D
EPARTMENT
S
TORE
in elegant script. The elder girl, who looked to be around twelve years old, held her father’s hand and beamed into the camera as if caught by surprise, a delightful surprise. The mother stood somewhat apart from her husband at the front of the group, while the younger brought up the rear, peering curiously at the photographer. She wore a dark coat with fur trim around the collar and carried a white fur muff, and her thin legs were clad in heavy black stockings.

Sylvia studied the younger girl’s face. In her delicate features, she saw the woman her mother would become. “I have no photographs of my mother as a child,” she said. “None except this.”

“Not even one?” asked Adele. “I would have assumed the Lockwood family had their photographs taken often. They were considered celebrities in their day.”

Perhaps the family had once had many photographs, but Sylvia’s mother had brought none with her to Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia was beginning to suspect there was more to her mother’s story of her decision to marry Sylvia’s father than had been revealed. “Where on earth did you find this picture?”

“In the archives of
The New York Times
. I have a friend on staff. This picture appeared in the society column. I included a printout of the newspaper page in the envelope, if you can tear yourself away from the photo long enough to look.”

Sylvia gazed at her mother’s family, her voice catching in her throat. “Adele, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“It’s just a reprint, not the original,” Adele said, almost apologetically. “They wouldn’t part with that. But since it isn’t the authentic photo, you don’t have to worry about it disintegrating before you can get it home. You also won’t have to treat it like a museum piece, with archival matting and protective glass.”

Sylvia might not have to, but she would. Reprint or not, this photo of the Lockwood family was the only one she possessed, and she would not trade it for a dozen museum pieces.

T
he next morning at breakfast, the resourceful Adele reported that she had found
Dinner for One
on the Internet. Pleased, the German couple invited the other guests to join them around the computer on New Year’s Eve. Only Sylvia and Andrew declined, with some regret, because they would be leaving New York later that day.

They bade their fellow guests good-bye and Happy New Year; they parted from Adele and Julius with warm embraces and promises to get together again soon. They enjoyed a morning of exploring museums, shopping, and savoring a delicious lunch, then they packed up the Elm Creek Quilts minivan and continued on to Amy’s home in Hartford, Connecticut.

As Andrew drove, Sylvia once again took up her needle to finish sewing the binding on Amy’s quilt. She had not made as much progress during their stay in New York as she had planned, but she hoped to make up for it on the two and a half hour drive.

“Do you think you’ll finish it by New Year’s Eve?” Andrew asked as they pulled on to I-95.

“I’ll take until New Year’s Day if necessary,” she said, “but I hope I won’t offend anyone if I sneak away from family gatherings now and then to work on it.”

Amy might prefer, in fact, for Sylvia to leave the family to themselves. It was difficult not to be hurt by the younger woman’s sudden disapproval. Amy had liked Sylvia well enough when she and Andrew were dating; Amy had been a gracious hostess whenever the couple visited and she had even asked Sylvia to teach her to quilt. But Amy’s friendliness had evaporated the moment she heard of their engagement. Andrew had anticipated this and had decided to break the news to his children in person. First the couple had driven to his son’s home in southern California, where Bob and his wife had taken the news with surprise and concern. Although the visit had ended badly, Bob had agreed to say nothing to his sister so that Andrew could be the one to tell her. Andrew had forgotten to secure that promise from Bob’s wife, however, so when Sylvia and Andrew returned to Elm Creek Manor, they had found Amy waiting for them.

Andrew frowned and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel. “That’s fine with me as long as you’re only sneaking off to quilt, and not because anyone has made you feel unwelcome.”

“I’m not expecting a warm welcome,” Sylvia said. “Please don’t feel you have to rush to my defense over the tiniest slights as you did in California.”

“You’re my wife, and I expect my children to treat you with respect.”

“They’re more likely to do so if you let them do it on their own terms, and not because you’ve scolded them into it.”

“I guess you’re right. Maybe.” Andrew tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “Maybe we should make a plan. How should we break the news?”

“I don’t think we need to worry about how Daniel will take it.” Amy’s husband had approved of their engagement from the beginning. Sylvia and Andrew were counting on him to help bring Amy around. “I think it’s best to tell her right away, but delicately. We should be sensitive to her feelings, but at the same time she needs to know that there’s no longer any point in trying to convince us to cancel our plans to marry.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Andrew, reaching for her left hand and pressing it to his lips. Her thimble fell into his lap, and she laughed as she retrieved it. Andrew’s smile faded into a sigh. “I don’t understand these kids. Why shouldn’t they want us to get married? We love each other. They ought to be happy for us.”

“They should be,” said Sylvia. “Unfortunately, in my experience, people in love almost always stumble over objections thrown in their path by one side of the family or another. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ as the poet said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘almost always,’ ” said Andrew. “Do you really believe that?”

“Almost every marriage I know of has offended someone,” said Sylvia. “And I’m not talking about envious former sweethearts, but friends and family who ought to have the couple’s best interests at heart. Sarah and Matt McClure, for example.”

Andrew shrugged in acknowledgment. Sarah’s mother’s antipathy for her son-in-law was as infamous in Elm Creek Quilts circles as it was perplexing, for Matt was a fine young man. “All right, that’s one.”

“My parents,” said Sylvia. “Agnes and my brother.”

“Who objected to their marriage?”

“Her parents,” said Sylvia. “Don’t you remember? And…I admit I did, too.”

Andrew grinned. “That’s because you didn’t want to share your baby brother with anyone.”

“That’s not the reason. They were too young.”

“Richard was about to be shipped out,” Andrew protested. “It was wartime. Lots of young couples rushed off to get married back then.”

“Fair enough.” Sylvia knew he was right, and if Agnes and Richard had not seized that moment, they never would have married. “John Colcraft and Harriet Beals.”

“Who?”

“The couple who built the 1863 House.”

Andrew laughed. “Okay, that’s three, spanning two centuries. I can’t call that a trend.”

“My cousin Elizabeth and Henry Nelson.” Sylvia couldn’t admit that she was the only person who had objected to that pairing, but Andrew had heard enough of her childhood stories to figure that out for himself. “My sister and Harold Midden.”

Andrew scowled, for he had good reason to dislike Harold. He had been outraged to learn that Claudia had married him. “Sometimes it’s right to object to a marriage.”

“Your son and daughter think this is one of those times.”

“They’re wrong.”

“I know that, dear. You’re preaching to the choir.”

Andrew fell silent, lost in thought, and Sylvia returned her attention to the New Year’s Reflections quilt. Even if Andrew couldn’t detect a trend, Sylvia could, and she couldn’t ignore it. It seemed that nearly all married couples of her acquaintance had encountered some disapproval of their marriage, and sometimes Sylvia herself had been the source. She would never change her mind regarding Harold Midden’s unsuitability, but in hindsight, she wished she had been more generous to Agnes and Richard and to Elizabeth and Henry. She could not help wondering if her resolute lack of acceptance then had come around to haunt her now.

She might have believed it, except for one thing. Out of all the couples she had known throughout her life, one had been blessed with a marriage welcomed with unabated joy on both sides of the family.

The fortunate couple had been Sylvia herself and her first husband, James.

They had met at the State Fair when Sylvia was sixteen and James eighteen. Although James’s father was her father’s business rival, the men shared a mutual respect and approved when James began courting Sylvia. When they married and James came to Elm Creek Manor to live, as Sylvia had planned since childhood, Mr. Compson celebrated their happiness even though it meant that his son had joined the family business of his chief competitor. The Compson family never failed to treat Sylvia as a beloved daughter and sister, and the Bergstroms extended the same love and acceptance to James.

The first years of their marriage were as blissful as any young couple could have hoped for, the only unfulfilled promise the absence of children. But they had plenty of time, they told each other, years and years in which the blessing of a baby might be granted to them.

Then the war came. Richard and Andrew, whom in those days Sylvia thought of only as her brother’s friend, left school and enlisted. In hopes of looking after them, James promptly enlisted, as did Harold, Claudia’s longtime suitor, perhaps bowing to pressure from his fiancée. Within weeks of the men’s deployment to the South Pacific, Sylvia learned that she was pregnant.

Sylvia, Claudia, and Agnes waited out the lonely, anxious months together at Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia and her father, who had all but retired from Bergstrom Thoroughbreds after teaching James all he knew, held together the family business as best they could. Winter came, and although it was difficult with their loved ones facing unimaginable dangers so far away, those left behind managed to find joy and hope in the Christmas season and faced the New Year with resolve. Nineteen forty-five would be the year the war ended and the boys came home, they told one another as they toasted the New Year, but their voices were wistful. Nineteen forty-five was the year Sylvia’s child would be born and Claudia would marry. Their only resolutions were to keep up their courage, to pray for peace, to make any sacrifice they could to speed the end of the brutal war.

But 1945 saw the destruction of all their hopes. A few months after Christmas, James died attempting to save Richard’s life after a horrific attack on a beach in the South Pacific. The shock of the news sent Sylvia into premature labor. Her daughter succumbed after struggling for life for three days. Unable to bear the shock of so much loss, her father collapsed from a stroke.

Sylvia remembered little of those dark days. Devastated by grief, she remembered lying in a hospital bed, holding her baby’s small, still body and weeping. She recalled begging the doctors to release her so she might attend her father’s funeral. She remembered calling out for James and when he did not come, screaming at Agnes until her sister-in-law wept.

Eventually Sylvia was released from the hospital. At first, the numbness of shock protected her, but all too soon it receded, to be replaced by the most unbearable pain. Her beloved James was gone, and she still did not know how he had died. Her daughter was gone. She would never hold her again. Her darling little brother was gone. Her father was gone. The litany repeated itself relentlessly in her mind until she believed she would go mad.

The war ended. Andrew went home to family in Philadelphia, while Harold returned to Elm Creek Manor thinner, more anxious, and aged beyond the months he had spent in the service. As if to cast off the grief and sorrow shrouding the home, Claudia threw herself into their wedding plans. As her maid of honor, Sylvia was expected to help, but although she wanted to please her sister, she often forgot the tasks Claudia assigned to her. Sylvia’s heart was not in the celebration. She had lost her heart when she lost James and her daughter.

A few weeks before the wedding, Andrew paid an unexpected visit on his way from Philadelphia to a new job in Detroit. Sylvia was glad to see him. Like Harold, Andrew had changed. He walked with a limp and sat stiffly in his chair as if maintaining army regulations. He was kind and compassionate to the grieving women, but he coldly shunned Harold, who seemed all too willing to avoid Andrew in turn. Though Sylvia would have thought the men unified by wartime experiences, perhaps, she decided, seeing each other dredged up unbearable memories.

It fell to Andrew to tell Sylvia how her brother and husband had died, although he warned her she would find no comfort in the truth. Haltingly, every word paining him, he described the terrible scene he had witnessed from a bluff overlooking the beach, how Richard had come under friendly fire, how James had raced to his rescue, how he would have succeeded with the help of one more man, how Harold had hidden himself rather than risk his own life.

Andrew begged for her forgiveness. He had run straight down the bluff to the beach where his friends lay dying, knowing that he would never make it in time. Sylvia held him as he wept, the heart she thought she had lost hardening to cold stone within her. She told Andrew she forgave him for his sake, but there was nothing to forgive. The blame was not his. Andrew had tried to save her brother and husband. He had risked his own life despite knowing that he would likely fail. Harold had not even tried.

Andrew left Elm Creek Manor the next morning, and Sylvia brooded over the burden of Harold’s secret. As the days passed and the plans for the wedding progressed, Sylvia eventually realized that she could not possibly allow her sister to marry Harold unaware of his role in James’s and Richard’s deaths. But to Sylvia’s astonishment, Claudia accused Sylvia of lying out of jealous spite and insisted that the wedding would go on. Sylvia left Elm Creek Manor that day, unable to bear the sight of the man who had allowed her husband and brother to die, unable to live with a sister who embraced a lie.

Into two suitcases she packed all she could carry—photographs, letters from Richard and James, the sewing basket she had received for Christmas the year before her mother died. Everything else she left behind—beloved childhood treasures, favorite books, unfinished quilts. Everything except memories and grief.

She left the manor not knowing where she would go. She walked miles to the bus station in Waterford, where she purchased a ticket to Harrisburg. She spent the night at Aunt Millie and Uncle George’s hotel, conscious of their surprise at her unexpected appearance and their concern for her fragile state. She burned with rage and grief, but she told them nothing of Andrew’s devastating account of Harold’s betrayal of the Bergstrom family, the family he did not deserve to join.

Mercifully, her aunt and uncle were satisfied with her explanation that she needed time away from the manor, and they did not inquire too insistently about her itinerary. Instead they shared recent letters from Elizabeth, cheerful accounts of Henry and the children and Triumph Ranch. The bright sunshine and warm breezes of southern California seemed impossible in a world without Richard and James and her daughter and father.

As she drifted off to sleep that night, Sylvia considered taking a train west as Elizabeth had done so many years before. Her cousin would take her in. Sylvia could work herself into exhaustion on the ranch and drop off to a dreamless sleep every night. Love for her young niece and nephews could fill the void in her heart. But when she woke in the morning, Sylvia knew she could not find refuge with any Bergstrom, even one as far away as Elizabeth. A Bergstrom would send word to Claudia and urge her to return home, and that Sylvia could not bear.