The Quilter's Legacy (27 page)

They walked in silence toward Grandma's Attic. “Well, that's one more task to cross off our list,” said Andrew.

“True enough.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “But?”

“But we could have put it off until later.”

“Don't tell me you're siding with Amy.”

“The very fact that you would make this an issue of choosing sides tells me you know you're in the wrong.”

“What?” He placed a hand on her arm to bring her to a halt. “You're the one insisting we have to go on about our own lives without worrying about their concerns.”

“Yes, but that's altogether different from flaunting our decision in your daughter's face. We could have come downtown any day, and you know it. Why did it have to be today, especially after Amy was so helpful sorting through those dreadful files? She was trying to give us a chance, and I think if we had given her more time, we might have won her over. But now …” She shook her head and resumed walking. “Now we're worse off than before.”

After a moment, Andrew caught up to her. “I wasn't trying to goad her. Honest.”

Sylvia could manage only a shrug. She wasn't sure she believed him.

Sarah and Amy were not waiting in the van when Sylvia and Andrew arrived, but they appeared fifteen minutes later carrying shopping bags from Grandma's Attic. Sylvia was thankful that Sarah had attempted to distract Amy until tempers cooled, but there was no mistaking Amy's lingering anger. She barely looked at her father or at Sylvia as she climbed into the van, and she made only monosyllabic replies to Sylvia's attempts at conversation. As they pulled up behind Elm Creek Manor, Sylvia heard Amy quietly offer to help Sarah prepare supper. Sylvia quickly volunteered herself and Andrew, but Amy frowned, and Sarah told her that they were entitled to a rest after their long trip. “You have some phone calls to make, too,” she pointed out.

Andrew wanted to unpack, so Sylvia went alone to the library, welcoming the relief of solitude after the tension that had marred their homecoming. She seated herself at the desk that had been her father's and flipped open the phone book to the business pages. She found numbers for Goodwill and St. Vincent de Paul easily, but Lutheran Outreach and St. Michael's Society were not listed. There was a St. Michael's Catholic Church, so Sylvia hoped for the best and dialed.

The young woman who answered the phone had never heard of St. Michael's Society, but she offered to ask around and call Sylvia back. Sylvia thanked her and hung up, and then, although she was reluctant to tie up the line, she called Goodwill. As she had feared, they told her it was highly improbable that they would still have her mother's quilt after so many years. “But you never know,” said the woman on the other end of the line, and offered to search for it. This time Sylvia said she would hold, and about ten minutes later, the woman returned to report that the only quilts currently in their possession were pieced or appliquéd, and since they did not maintain detailed records of individual purchases, there was no way to know who had bought the quilt, or when. She promised to call Sylvia if any whole cloth quilts were donated to their collection site in the future. Sylvia appreciated her helpfulness and her sympathy, but as she recited her phone number, she doubted the woman would ever have reason to call it.

Her luck was no better at St. Vincent de Paul, except to rule out one possible destination for the quilt. The man who took her call noted that back when Norman's father would have made his donations, their branch had handled only large durable items like furniture and appliances, and customarily had advised donors to take items such as clothes and bedding to other charities, such as Goodwill and Lutheran Outreach. Sylvia said that she had spoken to Goodwill but could not locate the Lutheran Outreach; the man told her that they had closed down in the early seventies, and that as far as he knew, no one affiliated with the organization remained in Waterford.

Disappointed, Sylvia thanked him for his time and hung up; she was crossing St. Vincent de Paul off her list when the phone rang. The young woman from St. Michael's Catholic Church had called back to report that the parish priest knew of St. Michael's Society, a community service and social justice organization founded in the early 1960s by a group of Waterford College students. For nearly fifteen years, they had served impoverished families, especially single mothers of young children, throughout the Elm Creek Valley, and eventually had become an official organization of the college and was still in existence under a different name. “One of the founders is the emeritus director of Campus Ministry,” said the young woman, and since he was also one of their most active parishioners, she didn't think he would mind if she gave Sylvia his name and number.

To Sylvia's delight, he was home when she called, but while he seemed to be a thoroughly charming man and his tales about St. Michael's Society were intriguing, he had no information on the whereabouts of the whole cloth quilt. “All donations were either passed along to needy families or sold to raise money to purchase necessities,” he explained.

Sylvia's heart sank, but she persisted, inquiring whether the campus organization might have some record of the donations from the consignment shop. No such records existed, she was told, and he regretted that he could not help her.

Sylvia assured him he had been very helpful, and hung up the phone with a sigh. She fingered the list of crossed-off names and phone numbers for a moment before tossing it on top of the responses to Summer's Internet posts. She studied the pile before beginning to leaf through it, and as she worked her way through the letters, each promising her the whole cloth quilt, frustration and disappointment stole over her. Last of all, she examined the printouts she had obtained at the Thousand Oaks Library, and as she did, she forced herself to accept two unavoidable conclusions she had been trying her best to ignore ever since the discovery of the pattern.

The Mrs. Abigail Drury identified in the magazine as the designer must have created the whole cloth quilt pattern. What Sylvia had always thought of as her mother's original design was nothing more than a reproduction of someone else's work. That surely explained why Mother had neglected to embroider her name and the date on this quilt alone, out of all those she had completed over the years.

Worse yet, since the pattern for the quilt had been published in such a popular magazine, hundreds if not thousands of quilters must have stitched quilts indistinguishable from her mother's. Even if Sylvia purchased every one of these she could track down, she would never be able to determine which one, if any, had belonged to her mother.

No matter how long she searched, the lovely whole cloth quilt would remain forever lost to her.

Later, at supper, she did not share her realization with her friends, because she could not bear to hear them agree with her conclusion. As the meal ended, Sylvia rose from her chair with relief, longing for a good night's sleep. She noticed, too late, that Amy alone had remained in her chair. “If you don't mind,” she said quietly, fingering her water glass, “I have something to say.”

Sylvia shot Andrew a warning look, but he knew enough to keep quiet until Amy had a chance to speak.

“I'm leaving in the morning.”

“Why?” asked Andrew. “Honey, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I didn't intend to taunt you.”

“It's not just that.” Amy caught Sylvia's gaze and held it. “With all due respect, what you're doing is wrong. You're asking too much of my father, and I simply can't support your decision to marry. Under those circumstances, I no longer feel comfortable accepting your hospitality.”

“Please stay,” urged Sylvia. “In the morning we'll have a good talk and sort this thing out.”

“What's to sort out?” Amy shook her head and rose. “I don't approve of your marriage. I can't. Please don't ask me or my family to witness it.”

“Amy, please—” Andrew reached out for her, but she waved him off and hurried from the room. He turned to Sylvia, stricken. She took his hand in both of hers, dumbfounded and heartsick, and utterly at a loss for what to do.

Chapter Eight

1918

W
ith Claudia squirming on her lap, Eleanor tore another long strip from the faded sheet and rolled it into a tight, neat bundle. Claudia crowed and grabbed at it, knocking it from Eleanor's hand. It bounced across the floor, unrolling in a long, narrow streamer that ended at Lucinda's feet.

“I swear she unrolls one bandage for every two you finish,” said Maude. “Why don't you just set her on the floor, for heaven's sake?”

Eleanor spread Claudia's Four-Patch quilt on the rug and gently placed Claudia on it. No one argued with Maude anymore, and not even Lucinda retorted when her tongue grew too sharp. Louis's death had left Maude bitter and angry, as if he had not died in a muddy trench in France but had abandoned her. She seemed to believe he could return to her if he wanted to.

Eleanor could almost understand it; even now she found it difficult to imagine handsome, mischievous Louis choking on mustard gas. But she
could
imagine it, so she had come to believe it. Her heart went out to Maude, who could not, and to poor Lily, who could imagine her own husband's death too vividly. Richard had been the first of the brothers to enlist and the first to die, barely three days after his arrival at the French port of Bordeaux. He had gone off to war so proudly, so eager for adventure. Lily had not wanted him to become a soldier, but she could not deny him the chance to distinguish himself when he wanted it so badly. Soon, as patriotic fervor swept over the nation, his elder brothers found their own reasons to battle the Hun. First the Waterford Chamber Orchestra announced they would no longer perform any works by Bach or Beethoven. Then Waterford College suspended the teaching of the German language. Then Eleanor was turned away by the cobbler who muttered that he would not work his craft for any friend of the Kaiser.

Eleanor did not care what an ignorant cobbler said or did. She could not bear for her darling husband to sacrifice himself to pride. She begged him not to go; she implored him not to leave her now that their longing for a child seemed likely to be fulfilled at last. But he was resolute. “No one must ever doubt the loyalties of the Bergstrom family,” he had said as he and Louis went off to enlist. “We are not German, but American, and we will fight for America.”

Louis died within weeks of Richard. The family prayed for Fred's safe return and thanked God that William was too young to fight and that Clara was a girl. These children, at least, could be protected. They would be safe, and so would Claudia, the only Bergstrom grandchild to remain at Elm Creek Manor after Lily took her boys back to her own family and the home of her youth. Eleanor missed Lily's gentle innocence and the laughing, tumbling happiness of her sons. She did not expect they would ever return.

When Claudia realized her mother no longer held her, she waved her limbs frantically in protest, her face screwing up in scarlet fury. “Hush, my angel,” murmured Eleanor, stroking her downy hair. Clara joined them on the floor and playfully dangled a strip of fabric within the baby's reach, bringing it close and then far. Claudia squealed with delight when she managed to seize the end in her tiny fist.

Eleanor returned to her chair, hungry for the joy that watching her beloved little girl brought her. Claudia was nearly five months old and had never seen her father—might never see him.

That was why Eleanor rolled bandages instead of escaping into the solace of quilting. What if Fred were wounded and perished for the lack of a single bandage? What if he faltered from hunger and cold when he most needed strength? She knew, logically, that nothing she did could directly preserve her husband. Her bandages would go to other wounded; the sugar she did not buy would feed other doughboys. And yet she knew, too, there was connection in the greater whole; she sensed it as she doggedly rolled bandages and bought Thrift Stamps and war bonds and conserved every scrap of food and fabric. She could not wield a gun, but she would do all she could to put wind in the sails of the Allied victory and hasten her dear Freddy's safe return home.

“I think Claudia looks like Fred,” said Clara suddenly, picking her up. “They have the same eyes.”

Lucinda snorted. “She has the Bergstrom chin, but other than that, she's the very image of her mother.”

“What did Fred think when he saw her picture?” asked Elizabeth. Like Maude, she was clad all in black, but she had faced the death of her two sons with more resignation than Eleanor thought she could manage in her place.

“He thought she resembled me,” said Eleanor, and felt heat rising in her cheeks. Along with the photograph of the baby, she had sent a picture of herself holding up her most recent quilt. She had chosen the Ocean Waves pattern for the ocean that separated them, blue and white fabrics for the crashing storm he faced abroad and the churning sea her life seemed without him. “Hurry home and help me use this, darling,” she had written on the back, blushing as she imagined how his buddies would tease him. The photo did not do the quilt justice, but he had written back that it was her most magnificent creation next to the baby. In fact, he liked it so much that when he returned, he might stay beneath it for a month straight, assuming she would keep him company. After all, he had written, they needed to get started making Claudia's baby brother.

Eleanor had implied that no one would use the quilt until his return, and knowing that the idea held special meaning for Fred, it was difficult to look across the room at Elizabeth without embarrassment. Fred's mother was nursing a head cold, and she sat in her favorite chair with the Ocean Waves quilt draped over her, sipping lemon tea sweetened with honey. To ward off a sore throat, she had wrapped her neck with a poultice of her own invention. It smelled like burnt licorice, but Eleanor had no desire to learn its true ingredients. Lucinda decried Elizabeth's remedy as useless for anything but frightening away unwelcome guests, and David slept in a spare bedroom whenever she wore it, but Elizabeth insisted that it worked.