Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (3 page)

The early lunch crowd was just beginning to gather as Sarah joined the line. She bought herself a large latte and ordered a hot cocoa with whipped cream to appease Sylvia. As she stirred sugar and vanilla into her steaming cup, she glanced up and saw a familiar figure at a corner table. She didn’t have time to chat, but just as she turned to go, Judy caught her eye and froze.

Sarah smiled and waved, but Judy appeared so discomfited that Sarah realized her friend must have noticed her attempt to avoid her and wondered at the cause. A cup in each hand, she made her way to the table Judy was sharing with a shaggy-haired man in a business suit.

“Judy, hi,” she said, smiling at Judy and her companion in turn. “I thought I’d get my caffeine fix while Sylvia’s getting her hair done.”

“You must have had a late night,” said Judy, noting the two cups.

“Oh, no, this one’s a peace offering for Sylvia. I’m late.”

“Sorry you can’t join us,” said the man with a smile.

With a start, Judy quickly introduced him as a colleague visiting from the University of Pennsylvania. Sarah set down her coffee long enough to shake his hand, then made a hasty exit. She would be even later now, but at least she had a truthful and, better yet, believable excuse.

To Sarah’s surprise, when she arrived, Sylvia wasn’t waiting by the front door in her coat and hat. Sarah found her in the back of the salon with her hands beneath a nail dryer. “Sarah, dear,” Sylvia greeted her. “You were so late they talked me into a manicure.”

Sarah apologized and offered her the hot cocoa, which Sylvia couldn’t pick up at the moment anyway. Sarah rambled through an account of Grandma’s Attic and the Daily Grind, which was mercifully cut short by the timer on the nail dryer. “Do you know I never get my nails done?” said Sylvia, admiring her hands. “Quilting is so hard on them that I usually don’t bother, but the young lady was so persuasive. You showed up just in time or they would have convinced me to let them do my toes, too.”

Sylvia paid the manicurist and gave her a healthy tip, then happily took her cocoa. She lifted the lid and inhaled the fragrance of the still-steaming chocolate. “If this is real whipped cream, don’t you dare tell Andrew.”

“It’s the real thing and I wouldn’t breathe a word.”

Sylvia laughed and tucked her arm through Sarah’s and, to Sarah’s deep satisfaction, nothing in her manner suggested she doubted Sarah’s ability to keep their little secret. It wasn’t until they were halfway home that Sarah realized she had forgotten to ask Bonnie what Greg Krolich had been doing in Grandma’s Attic. She resolved to phone Bonnie that evening and inquire, but at supper, Matt quickly made her forget all about the unexpected encounter.

“You look great, Sylvia,” he began as he passed the bread basket to Andrew. “Did you do something different with your hair?”

Sylvia touched her hair, pleased. “Why, thank you for noticing, Matthew. My stylist talked me into some highlights.”

“Take a look at those nails,” said Andrew. Sylvia obliged by regally extending a hand. “My bride’s gotten herself all dolled up, and I keep scratching my head wondering what special occasion I forgot.”

Sylvia laughed. “The only special occasion is that Sarah was late picking me up.”

Matt turned to Sarah, his eyes wide with false innocence. “Sarah, late? Usually she’s the one keeping us all on schedule. What kept you?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” Sarah gave him a look of warning. “I stopped for some coffee—”

“And fabric,” added Sylvia. “You can’t forget that, although why you left with such a small purchase I honestly don’t know. Bonnie could use the business.”

“That is strange,” exclaimed Matt. “What were you doing at Grandma’s Attic all that time if you weren’t shopping?”

“You know how it is. I got started talking with Bonnie, and then, well, I looked up at the clock and I barely had enough time to get coffee before Sylvia expected me.” Sarah set down her fork and glared at Matt. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll go back tomorrow and spend all the money for your Valentine’s Day present on fabric for myself.”

Matt could barely hide his grin. “You don’t have to go that far.”

“Sarah, dear, relax,” said Sylvia, astounded. “Goodness. Everyone’s allowed to be late once in a while. He’s only teasing you. There was no harm done.”

“You’re right.” She smiled sweetly at Matt so that he would be sure to know the real harm was yet to come. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Sylvia seemed satisfied, but Matt could only manage a weak grin.

She cornered him by the kitchen sink after Sylvia and Andrew retired to the parlor to watch the news. “All right,” she said, snapping a dish towel at him. “We’re adding a codicil to our wager. If Sylvia finds out about the quilt because of you, it doesn’t count.”

“I’m not going to tell her,” he protested.

“That’s not good enough. If you force the truth out of me in front of her, or trick any of our friends into revealing the secret, or accidentally on purpose leave one of the quilt blocks on her chair, I win the bet.” She extended her hand. “Shake on it.”

He took her hand gingerly. “No kiss?”

“Not this time.”

“Does this mean you’re not getting me a Valentine’s present?”

“Oh, no. You’ll get exactly the present you deserve.”

Two days later, a still-contrite Matt brought Sarah breakfast in bed, and he gave her a thorough foot massage while she read the paper. Only afterward did he mention that he was trying to make up for all the breakfasts in bed she would not receive once he won the bet. Sarah didn’t take offense. Instead she made him a Dutch apple pie to compensate for the apple trees she had no intention of buying him.

The first day of the new season of quilt camp was rapidly approaching, and Sarah’s days were filled with the minutiae of the business: processing registration forms, scheduling classes, ordering supplies, mailing out welcome packets, assigning rooms and sometimes roommates. Amid the chaos, Sarah wondered how the campers could not fail to notice how she scrambled to make everything run smoothly. Summer assisted her by planning evening entertainment programs and inviting guest speakers, and together they wrestled with the problems of last-minute course adjustments. Already it seemed apparent that Gwen’s Hand-Dyeing and Agnes’s Baltimore Album courses would not be filled throughout March, while Diane’s class for beginners and Judy’s seminar in computer design were in heavy demand. It was no small feat to adjust the schedule in a way that would please everyone.

When Sarah and Summer decided they had done the best they could, Summer phoned the instructors involved to see if they would agree to the changes. In the meantime, Sarah went through invoices and contacted the distributors who—for reasons they could not explain—had still not delivered supplies Sarah had ordered months before. Summer hung up the phone in defeat long before Sarah had sorted out her own problems. “What is wrong with everyone this year?” asked Summer, dropping into a chair in front of the library fireplace, which still held a few logs in cynical mistrust of the calendar. “Agnes was home, of course; you can always count on Agnes. But Diane, Judy, and my mom are incommunicado. My mom won’t even pick up her cell phone.”

“She’s probably in class.”

“Not all day. She ought to be in her office by now.” Summer let her head fall back against the cushions. “People could try to be a little more accessible at this time of year.”

“Diane’s so stressed out about Todd’s college acceptances that she’s probably too jittery to sit by the phone. Judy’s either at work or with Emily, and you know better than anyone how busy your mom is.”

Summer snorted in grudging acceptance.

“Besides, if anyone’s inaccessible, it’s you,” remarked Sarah. “You rarely answer your email anymore and never answer your phone. All anyone can ever get is your machine. By the way, I think it might be broken. There’s no outgoing message anymore, just a beep.”

“Oh. Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

“You should. Last week I called three times in a row just to make sure I had the right number.” Sarah leafed through a pile of registration forms and sighed. “How does Agnes feel about canceling her appliqué class?”

“She’d rather not. She doesn’t care if there are only four students. If they want to learn to appliqué, she’s willing to teach them.”

“I guess we should keep it on the schedule, then.” Better that than writing apologetic letters to the four campers and trying to squeeze them into their second-choice classes.

“Did you know Agnes started piecing the top for Sylvia’s bridal quilt?”

Sarah set down the forms, instantly attentive. “No. Does that mean we have enough blocks?”

“Not quite. She’s adding an elaborate pieced border to compensate.”

Sarah smiled ruefully. “I had hoped to receive a better response.”

“We still might. There’s a whole month before the deadline. Agnes just wanted to work ahead since camp starts in almost three weeks.” Summer studied the unlit fireplace. “Have you decided what block you’re going to make?”

“I have no idea.” Sarah had been so preoccupied with the other blocks that she had never given her own a thought. She had not even checked her fabric stash to see if she had the right colors. “What pattern did you choose?”

“I was hoping to steal some ideas from you.” Summer rose and stretched. “Back to work. Maybe my mom’s in her office by now.”

Sarah nodded, lost in thought.

What block could possibly convey all that Sylvia meant to her?

Either Summer was unable to reach her mother or she forgot that she was supposed to contact Sarah with Gwen’s response, because Sarah did not hear from either woman until their business meeting the following Thursday evening. In the past Gwen had protested any cuts in her teaching schedule, insisting that holding a class with only one student was far preferable to disappointing the one camper who had registered. Sarah and Gwen had gone through the same debate so often that this time Sarah came prepared with documented evidence proving that one-student classes, while good enough in theory, could be a financial disaster. But when she took Gwen aside before the meeting and recommended that they cancel her dyeing workshops for the first two weeks of camp, Gwen merely shrugged. She added something vague about possibly directing a seminar on the sociopolitical implications of quilt contests instead, but she drifted off to the parlor before waiting for Sarah’s response.

Throughout the meeting, Sarah gradually realized that Gwen was not the only one who seemed inordinately distracted. Bonnie looked tired and pale, as if she had not slept in days. Agnes, too, must have noticed, for she watched Bonnie all evening with a look of carefully muted concern. Summer paid more attention to her watch than to Sarah’s updates about enrollment, and twice Judy left the room to take calls on her cell phone. Their behavior was puzzling, but Diane’s was downright irritating; she stormed in twenty minutes late muttering about admissions counselors and tuition payments, then spent the rest of the meeting tapping her pen against her notebook and scowling.

Finally Sarah had had enough. “While we’re on the subject of guest lecturers, Jane Smith has agreed to speak to our campers in August. That’s perfect timing because, as you know, Jane is the world-famous Naked Quilter, and she requires that all of her lectures be conducted entirely in the nude. Students included. I decided we should make all of Elm Creek Quilt Camp go naked for the whole week so her students don’t feel self-conscious. Matt, Andrew, and the rest of the male staff should wear fig leaves so our more sensitive campers aren’t offended.”

Everyone but Sylvia nodded absently. “Are you out of your mind?” Sylvia gasped.

“What?” said Summer. “What did she say?”

“If any of you had been listening, you would know.” Sarah took a deep breath and made herself count to ten. “Look. I realize you’re all busy and that you have lives and jobs outside of camp. But it seems to me that you’re beginning to take Elm Creek Quilts for granted. I realize we’ve been very successful very quickly, but contrary to appearances, this camp does not run itself. I can’t do it without you, so please, while you’re here, really be
here
, okay?”

Abashed, the Elm Creek Quilters nodded and murmured apologies.

“Jane Smith, the Naked Quilter, indeed,” said Sylvia. “I suppose there is no such person. Pity. That certainly would have been an interesting week.”

“Jane Smith the who?” said Diane.

“No one.” Sylvia shrugged. “Serves you right for not listening.”

As far as Sarah could tell, they hung on her every word for the rest of the meeting.

Whenever Sarah could find a spare moment from the frenzy of camp preparations, she pored through Sylvia’s library of quilt-pattern books trying to find the perfect block. With no time to idly admire the illustrations, she began with the index and read through the names, trying to find one that was suitable. A block called Homecoming evoked Sylvia’s return to Elm Creek Manor after a fifty-year absence and also the launch of Elm Creek Quilts, but one glance at the pattern told Sarah it would be too difficult. Many blocks incorporated the word
Friendship
into their names, but while Sarah liked several of the designs, she suspected everyone else would be looking for some sort of “Friendship” block, too, and she wanted her choice to be more distinctive. With only one week before the first day of camp, Sarah finally settled on Sarah’s Favorite, for Sylvia was certainly Sarah’s favorite quilter and ran a very close second with Matt for her all-around favorite person. The approaching deadline nagged her, but as the organizer of the project, she figured she could extend the deadline if circumstances warranted. Readying Elm Creek Manor for its first guests of the season certainly qualified.