The Quilter's Legacy (39 page)

Freddy would not mind sleeping beneath an incomplete quilt, Eleanor told herself as she slipped her thimble on her finger. In fact, it would be more fitting that way, as the first quilt they had shared had also been a work in progress. So much had happened since that night on the train when they dreamed beneath the Rocky Mountain quilt together.

She sewed until her eyes grew too tired to see the stitches clearly, then rested before resuming her work. An hour passed. Richard would be waking soon, the girls were due home from school. They would be expecting her to chat with them as they had their afternoon snack. She knew she should join them, but if she descended those stairs she doubted she would be able to climb them again until Freddy carried her upstairs for bed.

That she would not let her mother see.

“Mama?”

Eleanor lifted her head to find Sylvia in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Were you sleeping?”

“No, just resting.”

Sylvia crossed the floor and leaned against the armrest of Eleanor's chair. “Why didn't you come down for a snack? Weren't you hungry?”

“No, dear. I'm sorry I didn't keep you company. But as you can see …” She smiled ruefully and lifted the quilt. “I'm running out of time.”

Sylvia studied it. “It looks like you're almost done.”

“It might seem so, but I have to complete the binding, and then embroider my initials and the date.” Eleanor sighed and adjusted the folds of fabric on her lap. “I often feel like a quilt is never truly finished, that there's always a little something more I ought to do. Your great-aunt Maude used to say I was too fussy.”

“That's not true. You're not the least bit fussy.” Sylvia hated to hear anyone she loved criticized, unless she herself was doing the criticizing. She watched Eleanor work for a moment. “Can I help?”

“‘May I.’”

“May I help?”

“Of course you may.”

Sylvia pulled up the footstool, threaded a needle, and began sewing the unattached end of the binding opposite her mother. They sewed toward the middle in silence. Sylvia looked up the first time Eleanor paused to rest, but she resumed her work without questioning her. Eleanor watched her small dark head bent over the quilt and wondered if any of her children would ever understand how deep, enduring, and profound was her love for them.

“Why did you give the Bible to Claudia?” asked Sylvia, without looking up.

“I have not given it to her yet,” said Eleanor gently. “It belongs to the whole family.”

“But Claudia will get it someday.”

“Someday. Years from now.”

“Why Claudia? Why not me?”

“Because she is the eldest daughter. That is the tradition.”

“You weren't the eldest daughter,” Sylvia pointed out. “Neither was your father.”

Eleanor had to laugh. “No, he certainly was not, but he was an only child, so his mother had no daughters to leave it to. In my case, the Bible would have gone to my sister if she had not died.”

“Why don't you ever talk about her?”

“I don't know.” Eleanor sat back and thought. “I suppose because I miss her very much.”

“Maybe if you talked about her, you wouldn't miss her so much.”

Eleanor smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

Sylvia set down her needle and took a deep breath, and, in a flash of panic, Eleanor realized she was going to ask if Eleanor was going to die. She dreaded the question, but she would not lie.

Sylvia's eyes were on her face, searching.

“What did you want to ask me, Sylvia?”

“Nothing.” Sylvia picked up her needle and bent over her work. “Will you tell me about your sister?”

Eleanor took a deep, shaky breath. “Of course.

“Your aunt Abigail was four years older than I,” she began, and as she spoke, she recalled what her mother had said earlier that morning. Mother was wrong. Eleanor did not favor Claudia out of guilt for any long-buried resentment, but because she had almost lost her. The image of her darling baby suffering from influenza made her choke back reprimands and punishments even when they were deserved.

If there was a grain of truth in Mother's accusation, it was that Claudia did remind Eleanor of Abigail, with the gifts their parents had not nurtured and the faults they had allowed to flourish. Claudia needed Eleanor's guidance more than her younger sister, who reminded Eleanor of herself, except that Sylvia was strong and resilient and beautiful.

W
ith Sylvia's help, Eleanor finished the Elms and Lilacs quilt by late afternoon.

They hurried downstairs, late for supper, to hide the quilt in Eleanor's bedroom closet. Later that night, while Fred slept beside her, Eleanor stole from bed, carefully lifted away the light coverlet they slept beneath on warm summer nights, and tucked in her beloved husband beneath his anniversary gift.

Something woke her before dawn—a noise, a stillness, a touch on her hair. She opened her eyes to find Fred sitting up and gazing at the quilt with shining eyes.

“Happy anniversary,” she whispered, and reached out for him.

He brought her hand to his lips. “It's beautiful.”

“The girls helped.”

He grinned. “I'm sure they did.”

He lay down beside her again and held her. They reminisced about their first years together as husband and wife, marveling at how swiftly twenty years had passed. They talked about the children, the funny and heartbreaking things they had done, muffling their voices so their family would sleep on, undisturbed, leaving them this time to themselves. They left other memories unspoken—their arguments, their angry bursts of pride, the demands that had seemed so important once but now stood plain and bare for what they were, a senseless squandering of precious time, moments they longed to go back and collect and spend more wisely, like shining silver coins fallen from a tear in a pocket.

They talked until the sun began to pink the sky. Then Fred kissed Eleanor and told her to get dressed so he could give her his gift.

She did, quickly, and though she was not tired, he lifted her up and carried her downstairs, across the marble foyer she thought too grand, into the older west wing of the manor and out the door to the cornerstone patio, and on, until they reached the stables.

With the sure skill of a man who loved horses, he saddled his own stallion and a mare Eleanor had long admired but had never ridden. Her heart quickened, but she hesitated. “Freddy—”

“Have you forgotten how to ride?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you want to ride again?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “I long for it. I dream of it.”

He held out a hand to assist her. “Then what's stopping you?”

“I shouldn't. The doctors say—”

“Eleanor, if you and I did no more than what was allowed, then right now you would be Mrs. Edwin Corville of New York and I would be an old lonely bachelor with only these horses to keep me company.”

Eleanor smiled, but her heart ached with sorrow. “You would have married someone else.”

“That's where you're wrong. You are the only woman I ever could have loved, Eleanor. I knew that from the time I was fourteen and I saw you tearing around the corral on a horse.”

She felt tears spring into her eyes. “You could have loved someone else.” She took a deep breath, and, instinctively, placed a hand on her heart to calm it. “You still could love someone else.”

His face darkened. “No, Eleanor. Not on our anniversary.”

“You are still a young man, Fred. The children will need a mother.”

“They have a mother. You.”

“I heard you talking to Dr. Granger.”

He held perfectly still, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “What did you hear?”

“That I will be lucky to live another year.”

Fred busied himself adjusting her horse's bridle. “Doctors,” he said gruffly. “According to your doctors, you've been at death's door for almost thirty-eight years.”

“We have to talk about this. We have to prepare the children.”

“Nothing will prepare them. How could anything prepare them for life in a world without you?”

His voice broke, his pain was laid bare, but she knew she must say what she needed to say, for they might never broach this subject again. She had tried too often to tell him what he would not hear. “I want you to know you have my blessing if you should choose to remarry.”

“I don't want your blessing,” he said helplessly. “I want you. Twenty years is not enough. It went too fast.”

He bowed his head and turned away. She went to him and brushed away the tears he had not wanted her to see.

He pulled her into an embrace. The time for words had passed, she thought, but it would come again. She would make him hear her, and if it could not prepare him it would at least ease her own passing. She would tell him that twenty years had not been enough. She would tell him that she would not have traded these twenty years with him for a hundred lifetimes without him. She would tell him she was grateful for every single moment of her life.

She blinked away her tears, smiled, and reached for the mare's reins.

In the meantime, she was going to live.

Chapter Eleven

S
ylvia and Andrew did their utmost to convince Amy and Bob to bring their families to Elm Creek Manor for Christmas. It was the most central location, they argued. They had plenty of room for everyone. The snowfall was particularly excellent that year for cross-country skiing and tobogganing, and if that didn't interest the older grandchildren, Waterford had plenty of theaters and clubs that would be open even while the college was on semester break. More important, if Andrew and his children did not spend the holidays together, it would be the end of a tradition that had endured since Amy and Bob were babies. The Coopers always celebrated Christmas as a family, no matter what distances separated them, no matter the demands of their jobs and school. Until this year, it had been a tradition each of them had been happy to keep.

By the second week in December, their persistent invitations had worn away at Bob and Cathy's resolve, and they promised to come if Amy would. When Amy's resistance seemed to weaken at this announcement, Andrew appealed to her husband, Paul, for help. He seemed a likely ally, since he had added a note beneath Amy's signature on their Christmas card congratulating Sylvia and Andrew on their engagement. Moreover, the last time Andrew spoke to him on the phone, Paul had told him he wished his late father, a longtime widower, had found a “neat lady” like Sylvia with whom to spend his golden years.

Andrew called Paul to find out how close Amy was to changing her mind, and what, if anything, they could say to bring her around. Paul confided that she had been very unhappy on Thanksgiving without them, and that as recently as two days ago, she had told him she regretted giving her father an ultimatum. Unfortunately, he added, “You know Amy. Once she thinks she's right, she refuses to back down. She's afraid that if she agrees to see you, you'll think she approves of your marriage.”

“We respect her right to disapprove of us,” said Andrew. “We don't understand it, but we accept it. What I can't accept is being shut out of her life, especially when she admits she wants to see us.”

“She won't be able to keep this up for long,” Paul consoled him.

“No one in your family has the stomach for a long-drawn-out fight. Give her more time. She'll come around long before June. I hate to give up on Christmas, but I don't see any way to convince her by then.”

“It's not just about Christmas,” said Andrew. He glanced helplessly at Sylvia, who stood nearby, listening in on the cordless extension. She nodded, and as they had arranged beforehand, Andrew asked Paul how he and Amy would feel about having the family gather at their home in Connecticut instead. It would throw their arrangements into an uproar, but it was their plan of last resort, and they were running out of time.

Paul asked them to hold on, and they waited anxiously throughout the long silence until he returned. They were not surprised to learn that Amy had refused. Not only that, she came to the phone herself to tell them that she, Paul, and their children had decided to spend a quiet family Christmas at home, and she would appreciate it if they would accept this as the last word on the subject.