Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (36 page)

“How dare you?”

“I’m sorry. I know this is a terrible thing to suggest, but—”

“You’re darn right it is. I’ll have you know that my son was right here at home that entire night. What about your son?”

“Todd was—”

“Not Todd. Michael. He’s the troublemaker in this town. Everyone knows his reputation. I bet this wouldn’t be the first time he took your keys.”

A pause. “You would be right,” said Diane, “but he assures me he had nothing to do with it.”

“He assures you.” Mary Beth snickered. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“Please, Mary Beth, talk to Brent.”

“I’m hanging up now.” And she did just that.

She grabbed the back of a kitchen chair for support. That woman, that horrible, cruel, vicious woman. Mary Beth sat down, head spinning. Diane need look no further than her own delinquent son if she was so eager to find someone to blame. Brent was definitely asleep in his own bed that night, not that it mattered because he absolutely could not have been involved, but he was always home on weeknights. Except—Mary Beth tried to remember. The robbery had occurred during spring break. Brent had spent Monday night at Todd’s and Tuesday night at Greg’s.

She felt a chill but shook it off. She would phone Greg’s parents. They would confirm that Brent had spent the entire night beneath their roof.

No one picked up at home, of course. She looked up the Department of Sociology in the phone book and obtained both professors’ office numbers from the secretary. Greg’s mother did not answer, but his father did.

By that time Mary Beth had worked out her story. She said that Brent had been missing his watch since spring break and they wondered if he had left it at Greg’s house when he spent the night.

“I’ll ask Greg if he’s seen it,” he responded, “but Brent should probably check with Will.”

“Why?”

“That’s where the boys spent the night.”

“Are you sure?” Mary Beth’s heart thumped. “I was sure Brent said your house.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t, because Marcella and I were out of town at a conference. We have strict rules against overnight guests while we’re away.”

Mary Beth murmured an apology, thanked him, and hung up. She did not call Will’s parents. She knew they would cheerfully assure her that the boys had indeed been at Greg’s house under his parents’ supervision the entire night.

Brent had lied to her. Well, she should not be surprised. No teenage boy told his mother the truth all the time. But just because he’d lied about his whereabouts so he and his friends could have some unsupervised fun, maybe even a party or something, that did not mean he had broken into the quilt shop. It hurt his alibi, but nothing suggested he had anything to do with the crime.

Except for the sewing machine, the early Mother’s Day present he could not possibly have afforded no matter what he claimed, no matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise.

The realization sank in like a cold stone into a pond. When she could, she rose and climbed the stairs and knocked on her son’s door. He was at his desk studying, stacks of books piled around him.

He smiled so affectionately at her that she faltered, but she forced herself to do what she had come to do. “Honey,” she said. “I think there’s a problem with the sewing machine. I may—I may need to exchange it at the store. Would you mind giving me the receipt?”

His expression did not change. “I think I threw it away.”

“Well, do you have the credit card statement? I know you couldn’t have paid cash. The store might be willing to accept an exchange with that.”

He shook his head. “I did pay cash.”

“Oh.” Mary Beth looked away, her palm slick with perspiration on the doorknob. “Well, how? If you didn’t take the money out of your college account, where”

“It’s not new,” he blurted.

“What?”

“It’s not new. I bought it at a garage sale. I passed it on my way back from the library and saw some quilting stuff, you know, stacks of fabric and stuff, and then I saw the sewing machine still in the box. They were only asking fifty bucks for it.”

“Fifty?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. The lady in charge said it was her mother-in-law’s. She got it for her birthday but died before she ever had a chance to use it. That’s why her kids were having the garage sale, to get rid of a lot of her stuff.”

“I thought I knew all the quilters in Waterford,” said Mary Beth. “I didn’t hear of anyone passing away.”

“She wasn’t from around here. Just her kids. She lived in a retirement home in Pittsburgh or something.” Brent rose, stricken. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know I should have told you the whole truth, but you were so happy. I wanted you to think I had given you something really great.”

She touched his shoulder. “You did. It’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, except it’s broken, and now you can’t return it.”

“I think maybe I can fix it.” Mary Beth forced a smile. “I’ll check the manual again. You go ahead and get back to your studying. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

He hugged her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the whole story right away.”

“That’s all right,” she said, patting his back and holding back tears.

The signs in the window called it a Spring Spectacular Sale, but Summer knew better, and she suspected most of their customers would figure it out when they saw the half-empty shelves and the funereal expressions on Bonnie and her volunteer employees. Bonnie tried to raise their spirits with generous estimates of how much money they might earn over the five days of the sale, but Summer did not need Sarah’s accounting degree to know that even if the shelves were bare by Friday afternoon, they would not have earned enough to pay all the bills.

Fifteen minutes before opening on Monday morning, Summer and Diane sat in the back office as Bonnie made coffee and reminded them about a few last-minute price adjustments. “Make sure to tell everyone there will be no refunds,” she advised as she filled three mugs with the Daily Grind’s house blend.

“What if they ask why?” asked Diane.

Bonnie shrugged and handed around the coffee. “Tell them it’s the only way I can afford these low, low prices. Well, here goes.” She raised her mug. “Cheers.”

“To Grandma’s Attic,” said Summer.

Diane and Bonnie echoed her, and they clinked their mugs together. They drank, then filed out of the office clutching their coffee mugs as if for warmth.

Through the front window they saw a handful of women already waiting, shopping bags in their arms.

“Summer, would you let them in, please?” asked Bonnie, absently smoothing her red apron. Summer nodded and hurried to the front door. She welcomed the five waiting women as they entered, but her smile failed her when they halted and eyed the scanty shelves with surprise.

“I know it looks bare,” said Summer, “but there are some real bargains here.”

“It’s a good thing we came early,” remarked one of the women. “You’re sure to sell out soon.”

“Mary Beth wasn’t kidding,” added the second woman, hefting her shopping bag, which bulged as if it were already full. “You definitely need this stuff. Where would you like it?”

“Mary Beth?” echoed Summer warily. “What stuff?”

“Donations for the sale,” said the first woman. The others nodded and indicated their bags. “What, didn’t you know? Mary Beth sent out a letter to everyone in the guild asking us to raid our stashes for fabric and notions for Bonnie to sell.”

Bonnie gasped.

“Oh, and blocks for Sylvia’s bridal quilt, too.” Another woman beamed at Diane and withdrew a plastic sandwich bag from her tote. Summer caught a glimpse of colorful patchwork. “I was surprised she urged us to make them, given her reaction to your announcement at the guild, but she did.”

“Her what?” exclaimed Bonnie and Summer in unison, looking to Diane in astonishment. Diane shrugged.

The first woman carried her bag to the cutting table. “May I leave this here while I shop?”

“Of course,” said Bonnie, hurrying to assist. The other women followed, and soon a pile of fabric, notions, and pattern books covered a good portion of the table. Bonnie, looking somewhat shocked, waved Summer and Diane over. “Sort all this out, would you?” she murmured, watching the women as they browsed the scanty shelves.

Speechless, Summer nodded. She and Diane quickly got to work while Bonnie attended to the customers. It was obvious that the women had not used this occasion to get rid of their scraps and discards. The minimum fabric cut Summer came across was a fat quarter, the fabric selections included only the same fine-quality cloth Bonnie herself sold, and the pattern books still had their templates.

Summer looked up as the bell over the front door jingled and two more shoppers entered carrying bulging totes. Three more women followed close behind. “Mary Beth is responsible for this?” asked Summer, thrilled but disbelieving.

Diane snorted. “Seems like a guilty conscience at work to me.”

Summer shot her a questioning look, but Diane said nothing more, so Summer let it go. Diane would never believe any good could come from her longtime nemesis.

The bell over the door jingled again, and Summer felt a spark of hope kindle. With the donations, and with the support of the guild, they might be able to pull it off.

She longed to tell Jeremy.

Gwen suppressed her guilt as she raced through the last batch of papers, telling herself that at least she was reading and scoring them herself instead of dumping the job on one of her grad students. Between her day job, quilt camp, and volunteering at the whirlwind Grandma’s Attic had become, she was stretched to her limit.

A knock sounded on her door. “Not now,” she called, glancing at the clock in annoyance. It was time for Jules’s weekly conference about his dissertation, but she had warned him to stay away.

“Dr. Sullivan?”

The voice was familiar; she halted in the middle of scrawling a pithy remark about a student’s disjointed syllogism and said, “Jeremy?”

“May I speak with you, please?”

She hesitated only a moment before telling him to come in. He entered, unshaven and grim, and took the chair she offered. “Unless you’re still looking for the required nondepartmental advisor for your dissertation committee, I assume you want to talk about Summer,” she said gently. “I should warn you I’m biased beyond redemption in her favor on every conceivable topic.”

“I’d talk to Summer instead, but she won’t speak to me.”

Me either
, Gwen thought, but asked, “Did you have a fight?”

“Yes. Maybe. It’s hard to say.” He ran a hand through his dark, unruly curls. “We were discussing the break-in when she started tearing into Craig—who deserved every word of it—but then she accused me of being just like him. She said I want to interfere with her career success just as Craig does Bonnie’s.”

Gwen felt a pang. Jeremy was nothing like Craig, and Summer knew it. “I imagine you didn’t take that well.”

“That’s a safe assumption. I defended myself, which was a mistake. When I tried to find out what was really bothering her, she ran to her room and starting throwing clothes into a duffel bag.” His frown deepened. “That’s the short version.”

Edited, no doubt, for Gwen’s ears. “What would you have me do?”

“I’m not asking you to be my advocate. I don’t expect you to plead my case. But if you could just get her to talk to me, I would be very grateful. Tell her that I would never ask her to leave Waterford. Tell her that I would never expect her to sacrifice everything she’s built with Elm Creek Quilts.”

“But Jeremy,” Gwen said, “you know very well that one day you’re going to leave Waterford.”

“Not necessarily.”

Gwen frowned and shook her head. “We both know how the system works. If you want a tenure-track position, you have to look elsewhere.”

“Then I won’t get a tenure-track position. I can still research and write no matter where I live, no matter what my day job is.”

“Jeremy—”

“I mean it. This is not the desperate plea of a lovesick kid. We both know there’s no one else like Summer in the world, and for some reason she loves me. I am not going to throw that away.”

“It’s just as unfair for her to ask you to sacrifice your career as it is for you to ask it of her.”

“Sometimes life isn’t about what’s fair. Sometimes it’s about what’s right. There are an infinite number of jobs in the world, but only one Summer. I’m not going to lose her.”

Gwen studied him. She could wait a lifetime and never hear anyone make such an expression of love and commitment to her daughter. Summer at least ought to know that.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll talk to her.”

Judy looked up from her computer at a knock on her office door. “Do you have time for lunch?” asked Gwen, oddly subdued.

Judy quickly switched on her screen saver to conceal her letter of resignation. She was just toying with it; it wasn’t as if she had made up her mind. For every advantage to accepting the job she found an equally compelling reason to remain where she was. “I’m afraid not,” she said, but Gwen seemed so morose that she added, “I have to finish up some work before heading over to Grandma’s Attic, and then I’m teaching at Elm Creek Manor until evening. But I have time for a chat.”