The Quilter's Legacy (34 page)

“She wasn't content to return it to Claudia because she was afraid your sister would just sell it again,” said Howard.

“If the secret bothered your mother for roughly fifty years, she must have passed away in the 1960s,” said Sarah. “Why didn't you return the quilt to Sylvia as your mother requested?”

Sylvia thought she knew the answer, and Phil confirmed it. “No one knew where Sylvia was. Claudia didn't know, and the rest of the Bergstrom family had either moved away or passed on. We always assumed she would return to Elm Creek Manor some day, and we planned to return the quilt to her then.”

“As the years went by, we all sort of forgot about it,” said Edna apologetically.

“Then I moved away to Iowa.” Howard frowned and shook his head. “I should have left the quilt here, but it was packed away with other things my mother had left me, and I never gave it a second thought. I found it when I was clearing out the basement after my wife passed away. I knew it ought to be in Waterford in case you came home, but I didn't want to ship it, so I decided to bring it the next time I came to visit.”

And yet here he was, without the quilt. “What happened to it?” asked Sylvia.

Edna said, “I'm sure you heard about all that terrible flooding in the Midwest a few years back.”

Sylvia could guess the rest, but she nodded.

“I lost nearly everything when the Mississippi crested,” said Howard. “I'm sorry, Sylvia, but your mother's quilt couldn't be salvaged.”

“I
t was so waterlogged and encrusted with mud that they didn't recognize it as a quilt,” Sylvia told Andrew when she and Sarah returned home. “They discarded it with the rest of the soiled clothes and bedding.”

“There probably wasn't anything you could have done to restore it even if they hadn't thrown it away,” said Andrew.

“Probably not,” she admitted, but she still wished they had saved it. Soiled or not, it was still the work of her mother's hands, rare and precious, if only to her.

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Sylvia and Andrew drove west in the Elm Creek Quilts minivan, which they favored over the motor home when the twists and turns of the Pennsylvania roadways were dusted with snow. Sylvia preferred not to travel in foul weather at all, but she was impatient to pursue this lead, and the owner of the Horsefeathers Boutique had not returned her calls. Sylvia wanted to believe that the owner either never received the messages or had been too swamped by the Christmas sales rush to call her back, but it was equally likely the owner had not called because she no longer had the quilt. Sylvia would have waited another week before going to see the shop in person, but the drive to Sewickley was reasonable and her need for answers urgent.

Sylvia's anticipation grew as they approached Sewickley. She had lived there for nearly forty years, from the time she first accepted a teaching position in the Allegheny School District until the lawyer called with news of her sister's death. When Sylvia went to Waterford to settle her sister's affairs, she had planned to sell Elm Creek Manor, return to Sewickley, and live out her days there. She never imagined she would return to Sewickley only to sell her house.

She happily pointed out her former home as they passed by it on Camp Meeting Road. “Goodness, they painted it robin's egg blue,” she said, twisting in her seat and staring out the window. “When I lived there, the house was a deep brick red, with black shutters. It used to disappear into the trees.”

“No danger of that now,” said Andrew, carefully maneuvering the minivan down a steep, curving hill. Sylvia directed him to turn left on Beaver Street and into the downtown area, where several blocks of Victorian homes, shops, and restaurants were already decorated for Christmas, with colored lights in the storefronts and holly twined about the lampposts.

The familiarity of the sight warmed her, which was why the changes to her former hometown struck with unexpected surprise. Her favorite café had become a men's clothing store, she saw as they passed, and the old Thrift Drug store was now a Starbucks. “The quilt shop is gone,” she exclaimed with dismay, staring in disbelief as they passed a shoe store.

“They probably went under after you moved away,” said Andrew. “What you spend on fabric could keep three or four quilt shops in the black.”

“Just for that, I'm not treating you to lunch,” Sylvia teased. “And I know all the best places around here.”

They parked the minivan in a public lot and put on their coats and gloves, for although Horsefeathers was just around the corner, the wind blew cold and the air smelled of snow.

“I'm surprised they're allowed to use that color,” Sylvia remarked as they approached the fuchsia storefront.

“I'm surprised anyone would want to.”

“No, I mean I believe they have a board that regulates those sorts of things. At least they did when I lived here. The downtown district tries to maintain a certain aesthetic. You should have seen the uproar when McDonald's tried to move in.”

By then they were close enough to read the bright gold letters painted on the storefront window. “
HORSEFEATHERS BOUTIQUE. ART FROM FOUND OBJECTS
,” read Andrew. “That disqualifies your mother's quilt, since it's a lost object.”

“One person's lost is another person's found,” said Sylvia absently. Her hand was on the doorknob, but the assortment of oddities displayed in the window had captured her attention. A chandelier made of antique doorknobs. A men's trench coat pieced from velvet Elvises. Several picture frames embellished with everything from coins to insects trapped in amber. The whimsical collection had been arranged to set off each piece to its best advantage, obviously by someone quite fond of her creations.

“Whoever the owner is,” said Sylvia, pulling open the door, “she must have a sense of humor.”

Inside, the shop was almost too warm, but the heat was a welcome respite from the cold wind. Sylvia removed her hat and tucked it into her pocket, looking around in amazement. The aisles were stuffed with items that defied description—a sculpture made from stacks of old newspapers, a refrigerator transformed into a grandfather clock, a dress sewn from small, white rectangles of fabric that appeared to have printing on them. Sylvia leaned closer for a better look, and laughed. “‘Under penalty of law this tag is not to be removed except by the consumer.’”

“That doesn't look very comfortable.”

“I don't think that's the point, do you? I'm sure the artist was making a statement.” She paused. “What sort of statement, I honestly couldn't say.”

Andrew found the price tag. “An expensive one. This will set you back six hundred bucks.”

“And here I was going to put it on my Christmas list.” Sylvia looked around the shop. She didn't see any quilts amid the clutter, but a stout woman in a purple caftan had emerged from a backroom and was making her way toward them. Her dark brown hair hung nearly to her waist and, unless Sylvia's eyes were deceiving her, her earrings were made from pasta embellished with silver paint and glitter.

“Can I help you find something?” the woman asked.

“I hope so,” said Sylvia. “Are you Charlene Murray? My name is Sylvia Compson. I left a message—several messages, actually—about an antique quilt that I believe may be in your possession.”

“A quilt?” The woman's brow furrowed, and then she brightened. “Wait. Are you the woman from Waterford?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“I'm so glad you stopped by,” exclaimed Charlene. “I meant to call you back, but I lost the sticky note with your phone number.”

“Maybe you sewed it into a pair of pants,” offered Andrew.

Sylvia nudged him. “Your associate said that the quilt sounded familiar. Did she tell you about it? It was made in the medallion style, with appliquéd elm leaves, lilacs, and intertwining vines. The hand quilting is quite superior, fourteen stitches to the inch, except in a few places where my sister and I helped.” She tried not to, but she couldn't help adding, “My stitches were nine to the inch back then. Any larger than that were my sister's.”

“I know exactly the piece you mean.” Charlene beckoned for Sylvia to follow her deeper into the shop. “It wasn't in the best condition when I took it on, but it was fabulous material, and it cleaned up nicely in the washing machine.”

Sylvia winced. “I hope you used the gentle cycle. It
is
an antique.”

“No, I just threw it in with the rest of my laundry,” said Charlene airily. “I had to treat it as I know my customers would to see if it would hold up. No one hand washes anymore, no matter how many times I tell them this is wearable art and not something they picked up at the Gap.”

“But you do have the quilt, right?” asked Andrew.

Charlene beamed. “I do, and wait until you see what I've done with it.” She stopped at a clothing rack, pushed aside a few hangers, and gestured proudly to a quilted jacket. “You're in luck. This is the last one.”

Sylvia took in appliquéd flowers and leaves, exquisite quilting—“Good heavens.”

“Thank you. It's absolutely one of my favorites. I already sold one size small, two larges, and an extra-large.” She removed the jacket from the hanger and held it up to Sylvia. “I was tempted to keep this one for myself, but it's a medium, and as you can see, I'm not. It should fit you, though.”

Sylvia closed her arms around what remained of her mother's quilt and tried to think of something to say. All she could manage was, “Why?”

Charlene's laughed tinkled. “I get that question all the time. I take my inspiration from many sources, but I admit this one is a little more pragmatic. I had a friend who fought with her sisters over a quilt their late mother had made. Since they all wanted it and no one was willing to let the others have it, they took a pair of scissors and cut it into four pieces. My friend doesn't sew, so she asked me to repair the edges of hers so the filling wouldn't fall out. But since her little quarter of a quilt wasn't big enough for a bed anymore, I made her a vest instead.”

Sylvia wanted to bury her face in the jacket and weep. “She let you do that?”

“Are you kidding? She was thrilled. Two of her sisters had me do the same thing to their pieces.” Charlene peered at her inquisitively. “Do you want to try it on?”

Sylvia shook her head, but Charlene pretended not to notice and within moments had Sylvia out of her winter coat and into the jacket. She led Sylvia to a full-length mirror, where she gushed about how much the jacket suited her. Sylvia ran her hands over the jacket. It fit her well, and her mother's handiwork had retained much of its beauty despite its transformation. But the jacket was less than what the quilt had been, and Sylvia could not speak for the ache in her heart.

Charlene's chatter had ceased, and she regarded Sylvia with perplexed worry that deepened as the awkward silence dragged on. Finally, Sylvia took a deep breath. “Did you save the rest of it?”

“You mean the scraps from my sewing?” Charlene shrugged. “I saved all of the filling and some of the fabric, but it's long gone now, used up in other projects.”

“And the other jackets—do you know where they might be?”

Charlene chuckled, flattered but bemused. “Why, are you planning to outfit a basketball team?”

“Please, do you know how I might find them?”

She shook her head. “My records aren't that detailed. I could ask my assistants if they remember, but we get mostly tourist traffic in here. The jackets most likely weren't purchased by anyone from Sewickley.”

Sylvia's hopes of reassembling the quilt faded.

“What do you want for it?” asked Andrew.

Sylvia fumbled for the price tag dangling from her sleeve. “Four hundred.” She shrugged off the jacket and handed it to Charlene. “Quite a return on your investment.”

“It might seem expensive, but it
is
a one-of-a-kind work of art.”

Andrew regarded her, stern. “By my count you made four others.”

“Not in size medium, and the appliqués are arranged differently on each jacket,” countered Charlene, but she looked sheepish. “Okay, I'll tell you what. Since you came such a long way, I'll give you ten percent off.”

“I'll take it,” said Andrew.

“No, Andrew,” said Sylvia, thinking of his pension. “Let me get it.”

But he insisted, and within minutes she was on her way back to the minivan, one arm tucked in Andrew's, the other clutching the handles of a shopping bag with the quilted jacket inside. A light snow had begun to fall. Andrew steadied her so she would not slip on the pavement, and she burrowed her chin into her coat when a sudden gust of wind drove icy crystals into her face.

Once they were in the car, Andrew asked, “Do you want to head home or find a place to stay overnight?”

Sylvia had lost all interest in Christmas shopping. “Would you mind if we went home, or is that too much driving for one day?”

He assured her he was up to the trip if she was, and as he pulled out of the parking lot, she spread the jacket on her lap and sighed, running her hand over lavender lilac petals and faded green elm leaves, tracing a quilted feathered wreath with a fingertip. Considering the fate of the whole cloth quilt and the Ocean Waves, she was fortunate to find any part of the Elms and Lilacs. “I suppose a mutilated remnant of my mother's quilt is better than nothing at all.”