An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (83 page)

“If it’s replenishment you need, I’ll see that you get it,” Sylvia said. “Perhaps I was wrong about our staff not having anything to teach you. Why don’t you sit in on some of our advanced classes? We have some delightful workshops in color theory, photo transfer, computer pattern design—all sorts of exciting techniques to explore.”

“Photo transfer?”

“Yes, techniques for transferring images from a photograph onto fabric. You’ve always been fascinated with quilts as historical artifacts and documenting quiltmakers’ lives. Perhaps photo transfer could help you discover a new way to explore that area of your craft. And it’s not just the information that might stir your creativity,” Sylvia added. “The interaction with other quilters is what I find most invigorating about a class, whether I’m the student or the teacher. You never know what new ideas might come to mind when you brainstorm with other quilters.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Grace felt a flicker of hope, and suddenly she realized that for the first time in months, she wasn’t dreading the thought of approaching a stack of uncut fabric. “Sign me up.”

Sylvia laughed. “Consider it done. But Grace, don’t forget that the most important thing you can do this week is to relax and enjoy yourself. Think of your quilting as play, not work. Take the pressure off yourself and remember the joy quilting brings you. You have all the time in the world. Be patient and have fun.”

Sylvia spoke encouragingly, but the words felt dull and empty to Grace. She didn’t have all the time in the world. Despite the difference in their ages, she might have less time than Sylvia. Any project she began now might remain incomplete, like so many of the anonymous, abandoned relics from generations past she documented at the museum.

“Grace!”

Grace started and realized that she couldn’t feel the teacup in her hand. Too late, she tried to hold the cup upright, but the warm liquid sloshed onto her lap. She gasped and instinctively tried to leap to her feet, but her ankle twisted under her clumsily, and she fell back onto the sofa.

“Goodness, dear,” Sylvia exclaimed, handing her another napkin. She hurried into the kitchen and returned with a damp towel. “Did you burn yourself?”

“No … no, I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. She was shaken badly, and her hand was still numb. She grasped the towel and tried to blot the tea stains from her slacks.

“Are you sure?” Sylvia’s gaze was piercing.

“Quite sure.” Grace laughed shakily. “Annoyed at myself for staining my favorite slacks, but otherwise unharmed.”

“Hmph.” Sylvia studied her a moment as if waiting for more, but when Grace said nothing, she sighed. “Well, you run upstairs and change, and I’ll have one of my helpers wash those for you.” She glanced at her watch and then out the window, where twilight was descending. “If you hurry, you won’t miss our welcome ceremony.”

“Welcome ceremony?”

“You’ll see. You’ll enjoy this. In fact, it might be just what you need to call that wayward muse back where she belongs.” Sylvia rose, but she paused, looking down at Grace with a fond but troubled smile. “And if later you decide you want to talk, I’m always willing to listen.”

Wordlessly Grace nodded and rose, wondering if anyone could keep a secret from Sylvia for long.

The sun was just beginning to set when a staff member named Sarah McClure knocked on Donna’s door and invited her to the welcome ceremony. Donna joined several other campers in the hallway and followed Sarah downstairs. “What’s the welcome ceremony like?” Donna asked Vinnie. “There wasn’t anything about it in the brochure.”

But Vinnie refused to tell her. “I won’t spoil the surprise,” she said. “You first-timers will have to find out the hard way, like the rest of us.”

A young woman beside Donna asked, “Is it an initiation? It won’t hurt, will it?”

She looked so alarmed that the others laughed, but secretly Donna had been wondering the same thing.

Just as they were crossing the foyer, one of the front doors swung open and a slender woman entered, carrying a suitcase. She had light brown, shoulder-length hair and looked to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her gaze traveled from the empty registration table in the center of the room to the group of quilters obviously interrupted in the middle of an activity. With dismay, she asked, “Is it too late to register for camp?”

Although Donna had never seen her photo or heard her voice, she knew at once who the latecomer was. “Megan?”

“Donna?”

Megan barely had time to set down her suitcase before Donna had raced across the room and embraced her. “Megan! It’s so wonderful to meet you in person! I was afraid you had changed your mind.”

“No, I just misplaced it temporarily.” She laughed, but she sounded exhausted.

Sarah joined them and welcomed Megan to Elm Creek Manor. She led Megan to the registration table, and within a few moments, Megan had signed in and received her room assignment. “I’m sorry you missed the welcome banquet,” Sarah said, “but I could fix you something to eat in the kitchen.”

“That’s all right. I stopped at a diner on the way.” Megan looked at Donna and added in an undertone, “Wait until I tell you about
that.
”

To Donna’s delight, Megan’s dry tone sounded exactly the way Donna had always imagined it, and suddenly she was certain that joining Megan at camp had been a good idea.

Donna waited with the others as Sarah took Megan to her room to drop off her suitcase. When the pair rejoined them, Sarah led the group through the west wing and outside, onto a gray stone patio surrounded by evergreens and lilac bushes. The other guests had gathered inside a circle of forty chairs, where they sipped glasses of lemonade or iced tea and munched cookies. Donna spotted Sylvia Compson standing somewhat apart from the group, chatting with another woman who looked familiar, although Donna didn’t remember meeting her earlier that day.

Megan clutched her arm. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Who?”

“The woman over there with Sylvia Compson. Is she Grace Daniels?”

Megan’s prompting stirred Donna’s memory. “She could be.”

“I’m sure it’s her.” Megan glowed with excitement. “I didn’t know there would be famous quilters here.”

“That’s not the least of it. Rumor has it Julia Merchaud is here, too.”

“Julia Merchaud, from television?”

“The one and only. I didn’t see her myself, but other people on our floor swear they saw her go into the room at the end of the west wing.”

“That’s right across from my room,” Megan gasped, then hesitated and scanned the faces of the other guests. “But why isn’t she here for the welcome ceremony?”

“I don’t know. I hope it’s not because she’s so high and mighty she can’t associate with us commoners.”

Megan laughed. “Maybe she thinks we’ll pester her for autographs instead of letting her enjoy camp.” Then she frowned. “Okay, I’ll admit it; that’s exactly what I was going to do. Maybe she’s right to stay away.”

“If we see her, we’ll treat her like any other quilter,” Donna resolved. “Unless she wants us to treat her like a big star. Then we’ll just leave her alone.”

Megan agreed, and, eyeing the table near the door, suggested they get themselves some refreshments before it was too late. Just as they picked up their cups and plates of cookies, Sylvia clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Let’s have everyone take a seat so we can begin,” Sylvia said. “It’s getting late and I don’t want any of you nodding off during the ceremony.”

The campers laughed, some nervously because they didn’t know what was coming next, others because they were far too excited to sleep. Their voices fell silent as Sylvia lit a candle and placed it in a spherical crystal holder. She moved to the center of the circle and looked around at the faces of her guests. “One of our traditions is to conclude the first evening of quilt camp with a ceremony we call Candlelight. Originally we intended this as a way for you to introduce yourselves to us and to each other; we’re going to be living and working together closely this week, so the sooner we get to know each other, the better. But our ceremony helps you to know yourselves better, too. It helps you focus on your goals and wishes and helps prepare you for the challenges of the future.”

Donna felt a thrill of expectation. Sylvia made it sound as if they were embarking on a journey together, when all Donna had planned for was a simple week of quilting with a friend.

Sylvia continued by explaining the ceremony. The campers would pass the candle around the circle, and as each woman took her turn to hold the candle, she would explain why she had come to Elm Creek Quilt Camp and what she hoped to gain that week. There was a pause after Sylvia asked for the first volunteer. Donna froze, heart thumping, and relaxed only when a woman two seats to her left raised her hand. Since the candle would be passed clockwise, Donna would have some time to prepare her remarks. She certainly couldn’t tell the truth, that she was at camp because she was too cowardly to face her daughter’s engagement.

The first woman held the candle for a long moment in silence. Around them, unseen, crickets chirped in the gradually deepening darkness. “I’m Angela Clark, from Erie. I’m a new quilter. I’ve only made little things, pot holders and baby quilts. I came to camp to improve my skills because …” She took a deep breath. “My oldest son died in a car accident two years ago.” A murmur of sorrow and dismay went up from the circle. “His best friend was driving. He was drinking—they were both drinking. He smashed the car into a tree. My son was killed instantly. His friend had a few broken bones, but otherwise he was fine.” Someone murmured a scathing rebuke of the young driver. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t hate him. He made a terrible, terrible mistake, and my son paid for it. They both paid for it. My son died that night, but his best friend has been dying ever since, a little each day.” She looked around the circle. “He’s grieving, but he won’t allow himself to heal. He can’t forgive himself, and he can’t believe that my husband and I and my other children have already forgiven him. He was Jeremy’s best friend. Jeremy loved him as much as he loved his own brothers. I can’t bear for him to be in such pain.” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “A lot of people want me to hate him, but I can’t do it. I can never excuse what he did, but I want him to get on with his life. I’ve read about memorial quilts—the kind made from pieces of someone’s clothing. I saved a lot of my son’s T-shirts from school and other activities, and thought I would piece them into a quilt for my son’s friend, to help him remember the good times he and Jeremy shared, and to help him find some closure. I don’t know if it will work, but I’m going to try.” With that, she passed the candle on to the next woman in the circle.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to follow
that
,” the woman said in mock displeasure as she took the candle. “I just came because I saw an ad in a magazine.” A smattering of soft laughter went up from the circle, and Donna felt the tension and nervousness leaving her as she joined in.

She listened as one by one the others told their stories. One woman had come to learn how to quilt the pieced tops her late grandmother had left her; another, noticeably pregnant, had come to enjoy one last trip on her own before assuming the responsibilities of motherhood. “Also because my husband’s nesting instinct kicked in,” she said with a naughty grin. “He decided to paint every room of the house, and the fumes make me ill. At least, that’s what I told him.” Everyone laughed as she passed the candle to Vinnie.

“My name’s Lavinia Burkholder, but everyone calls me Vinnie—except for my grandchildren, who call me Nana. I came to celebrate my birthday. I have the distinction of being one of Elm Creek Quilts’ first campers.” She rose and bowed as to a round of applause, then handed the candle to the woman on her left.

Before long the candle came to Grace Daniels. Like most of the others, she held the candle for a long while before speaking. “I’m Grace Daniels, from San Francisco,” she eventually said, confirming what everyone else there had already guessed. “I’m an old friend of Sylvia’s. She’s been after me to visit her camp for years now, and I finally decided to indulge her.” She smiled at Sylvia as the others chuckled. But then her smile faded. “What do I hope to gain this week? Some inspiration, I hope. I feel like I’ve run out of ideas, and … and I hope to discover some here.” With that, she handed the candle to Megan.

“My name is Megan Donohue, and I’m from Monroe, Ohio. I came because my watercolor charm quilt won
Contemporary Quilting
magazine’s quilt contest, and the first prize was this trip.” She smiled at Donna. “I also came to meet my friend Donna, whom I met on the internet.” And with that, she passed the candle to Donna.

Donna smothered a moan of dismay. Megan’s story had been the shortest one yet, and Donna had planned on at least another minute or two to come up with something to say. “I’m Donna Jorgenson, and as Megan told you, I came to camp to meet my internet friend.” Then she could think of nothing more.

She looked around the circle of faces. Some of them would become her friends that week, she realized, confidantes as dear to her as Megan. She thought of how they had opened their hearts, trusting in the sincerity and support of their listeners. How could she do any less?