An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (92 page)

“I won’t be alone,” Vinnie replied firmly. “I’ll be with other quilters.”

The moment Vinnie stepped on the grounds of Elm Creek Manor, she knew she had made the right decision. That evening, at the Candlelight welcoming ceremony, she told the other campers why she had come and was warmed by their sympathy. On the morning of her birthday, Sylvia Compson, a widow herself, hosted a delightful birthday breakfast. As she blew out the candle on her blueberry muffin, Vinnie made another wish and a promise: a promise that she would come back to Elm Creek Manor each year to celebrate her birthday as long as she was able, and a wish that she would always find herself among friends. She kept that promise, and every year Sylvia and her staff rewarded her with a surprise birthday party.

This year they made her wait in suspense all day, so long that Vinnie began to worry that perhaps they had forgotten. But when she entered the banquet hall for supper, the lights were out and the curtains drawn. And when the lights suddenly came on—

“Surprise!” the campers shouted, showering her in confetti. They blew noisemakers and broke into a chorus of “Happy Birthday” while she stood in the doorway reveling in the attention. Almost too late, she remembered to open her eyes wide and let her jaw drop.

“My goodness,” she exclaimed. “You should know better than to scare an old lady so.” Everyone laughed, because no one could imagine considering Vinnie an old lady, a fact that pleased Vinnie beyond measure.

Dinner was wonderful—stuffed pork chops, her favorite, though she couldn’t imagine how Sylvia had known that. The quilt campers were delightful company, just as they were every year, and this time there were two celebrities present. Julia Merchaud hugged her and gave her a lovely pin as a gift, which told Vinnie, to her relief, that the television star had forgiven her.

As the guest of honor, Vinnie sat at a special table with Sylvia and two other co-founders of Elm Creek Quilts, but she insisted that her newest quilt buddies join them. Everyone applauded when Sarah wheeled out a birthday cake large enough for all the campers to share.

As she blew out the candles, Vinnie glanced at Megan, smiled secretly to herself, and made a wish.

After breakfast Thursday morning, Grace retreated to the formal parlor with a box full of photographs Sylvia had provided. All that week in photo transfer class, Grace had managed to avoid any actual hands-on work by observing the other quilters as they practiced the various techniques. Sylvia must have told the instructor, an auburn-haired young woman named Summer, to permit Grace to proceed at her own pace, for although Summer urged the other students forward, she left Grace alone, merely checking now and then to see if she was enjoying herself or if she had any questions. Grace, who would have balked if she were pushed, appreciated Summer’s patience. Best of all, it had paid off. Grace now felt ready to do something she hadn’t done in over eighteen months: begin a new project.

First, however, she would need a photo. Class members who had registered in advance had brought pictures from home, but aside from a few wallet-sized snapshots of Joshua and Justine, Grace had none. When she explained her dilemma to Sylvia, she suggested Grace choose a photo from a previous session of quilt camp. Alone in the parlor, Grace curled up on an overstuffed sofa and began sorting through the box. Many of the photos were candid shots taken during classes; in others, campers posed in various locations around the estate, their arms around each other, smiling happily for the camera.

Grace held one photo thoughtfully, studying the smiling women. She, too, had made friends that week at camp, something she had never expected. She had Sylvia to thank for that. Just that morning at breakfast, she and Donna had had a long heart-to-heart about their daughters. How refreshing it had been to commiserate about the trials of motherhood as if those were the only problems on her mind. She had even managed to forget about the other problems for a little while.

Grace set the photo aside. Although today’s project would be merely an exercise in which any photo would do, she wanted a more meaningful image than a group of strangers. What a shame she couldn’t use one of Megan’s photos. During the evening festivities she was rarely without her camera, but of course, her film wasn’t developed yet. Megan had offered to get multiple prints and send them each a set after they returned home, but Grace needed something now.

She took out another handful of photos and thumbed through them. A frontal view of Elm Creek Manor would be perfect, if she could find one. It was hard to believe that someone as organized as Sylvia would store her photos so haphazardly. Grace would have expected them to be neatly mounted in scrapbooks in chronological order according to subject.

She paused at a picture of Sylvia and the rest of the Elm Creek Quilts staff sitting on the front veranda. She thought it must have been taken in autumn, judging by the fallen leaves scattered in the foreground.

“Are you having any luck with those?”

Grace looked up to find Sylvia standing in the doorway. “I just found one of you and your staff,” she said, showing Sylvia the photo. “I’m surprised at you. What do you call your filing system? Random or chaos?”

“Don’t blame me. Those are Sarah’s photos, not mine.” Sylvia sat beside her to get a better look at the photo. “Hmm. Oh yes, I remember that one. Camp had ended for the season weeks earlier, and we were just about to leave on a road trip to the International Quilt Festival in Houston. That was the year I had my stroke.” She settled back against the sofa cushions. “It’s funny how I mark time these days—before Elm Creek Quilts and after, before my stroke and after.”

Grace nodded, uneasy, wondering if Sylvia had guessed more than she let on. She knew exactly what Sylvia meant. She had her own demarcation, the time when she thought she was merely overtired or stressed out, and the bleak, sterile months that followed the doctor’s diagnosis.

But Sylvia continued. “I was thinking, after your classes today, perhaps you’d like to join me in searching for those old Civil War quilts I told you about? If my sister didn’t sell them, they could be up in the attic. I know the exact trunk they would be in, but we might have to move some boxes around before we unearth it.”

Grace wanted to see those quilts so badly she almost agreed—but then she thought of all those flights of stairs, of the strain from moving boxes, and knew she wouldn’t make it. She’d been pushing her luck all week, and although she longed to spend a leisurely afternoon exploring the manor’s hidden treasures, she couldn’t risk another exacerbation. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Sylvia asked. “Don’t you have free time this afternoon?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid attics aren’t good places for me.”

“We don’t have any bats that I know of,” Sylvia said. “Are you allergic to dust?”

Grace nodded, but her conscience stung from the lie.

Sylvia sighed and rose. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to find those old quilts.”

“I would like to see them.” Grace hated to see Sylvia so disappointed, so puzzled by her ostensible lack of interest. “If I had brought my medication, I’d be up there in a second, believe me.”

“I understand. I can hardly take a breath around cats, myself. Perhaps I can drag Matthew up to the attic today to shift some clutter. If I find the quilts, I’ll bring them down to you.”

Grace thanked her, and with a promise to see her later, Sylvia left. Grace set the photo of the Elm Creek Quilters aside and returned to the box. She hated keeping secrets from a trusted friend and she hated lies, but she hated pity even more. Justine had said she was too proud, and maybe Justine was right, but it was her life, and she was determined to live it on her terms as long as she was able.

Just then, her fingertips brushed another photo, jostling it loose from the box. As the picture fell to the floor, she glimpsed a patch of cheerful red, in the midst of which, to her surprise, was Vinnie. She sat in the gazebo in the north gardens, a red straw hat perched jauntily on her white curls. Draped over her lap was a cheerful Ohio Star quilt in bright rainbow colors. Vinnie’s mouth was slightly open, and she had a mischievous look in her eye as if she had been interrupted while telling a joke.

Grace couldn’t help smiling. It was hard to believe that spirited woman had just turned eighty-two. If Grace had half her energy, she’d probably whip out a dozen quilts a year.

Suddenly Grace had an idea. She would use this picture for Summer’s photo transfer workshop. After the photo’s image was reproduced on fabric, Grace would frame the portrait in Ohio Star blocks pieced from the hand-dyed fat eighths she had won Monday night. She could machine quilt the finished design and make a small wall-hanging, which she would present to Vinnie as a belated birthday gift.

With a newfound thrill of anticipation, Grace returned the other photos to the box and hurried off to class. Granted, this quilt wouldn’t be museum quality or win praise from art critics, but at least she would be creating again.

The more Julia learned about quilting, the more she realized a week’s worth of classes wouldn’t be enough to enable her to pass herself off as a master quilter. She had never known how much work was involved in making a quilt, from piecing the top to stitching the three layers together. What once seemed a simple, even mundane bed covering now took on a new meaning as a true work of art. She felt a new respect for those who managed to finish even one full-size quilt in one lifetime, though only weeks before she would have dismissed them as pitiable women with nothing better to do than waste their time on tedious hobbies.

She had finished her Friendship Star block and was well on her way to completing the Whig Rose when Megan suggested she try other patterns, enough to sew a small sampler. Julia knew she would need to practice her skills after camp ended, but when she thought of all the work involved in sewing an entire quilt, even a wall-hanging, she grew discouraged. “Don’t think about the entire quilt,” Megan said. “Just take it one block at a time.”

“Sounds like a twelve-step program,” Julia said, but she agreed to try. Megan suggested other patterns that would teach her various quilting techniques: the Drunkard’s Path for learning to piece curves, the Stamp Basket for setting in pieces, and a few others. Donna, Grace, and Vinnie contributed ideas of their own, and by Thursday afternoon they had helped her design a sampler of nine blocks arranged in a three-by-three grid, separated by strips of fabric Vinnie called sashing.

“The studio should hire you four as consultants,” Julia teased them.

Grace laughed, but Donna asked in earnest, “Do you think they would?”

“Don’t be silly,” Vinnie admonished. “How will Julia keep her secret if we’re hovering around telling her what to do?”

They all knew Julia’s predicament by now, and while they didn’t quite believe that her career could be in jeopardy, they were eager to teach her all she needed to know for the role. Instead of one tutor, Julia found herself with four. Sometimes she wondered exactly what they hoped to gain from helping her, but eventually she decided to accept their assistance for what it appeared to be, kindness and generosity. Since she desperately needed them, she didn’t have much choice.

She would have practiced late into the night if left to herself, but the others insisted she join them for the evening program. Her fingertips were so sore from hand-quilting that her pace had slowed considerably, so with more relief than reluctance, she agreed to meet them in the ballroom.

When she arrived, she saw that some of the classroom partitions had been removed to make room for several rows of chairs in front of a raised dais at the far end of the room. “What’s all this?” she asked her new acquaintances as the rows began to fill with excited, chattering quilters. The news that the Campers’ Talent Show was about to begin made her wish she had stayed in her room. The last thing she wanted was to endure a hapless amateur hour when she had so much work to do.

Vinnie must have sensed her reluctance, for she pushed Julia into a folding chair. “You’re not leaving,” she said. “Not until you give me your professional opinion of my acting. Your honest opinion, mind you.”