Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (38 page)

“Here.” Craig returned with a fistful of papers and a pen. He placed them on the coffee table and beamed a triumphant grin at her. “Sign on the dotted line.”

Bonnie hesitated. His arrogance was too much to bear, so infuriating and intolerable that she was tempted to walk out. She would still sign—eventually she would have to—but she could drag it out, make him tear his hair out wondering what she intended to do. His grin faltered as she watched him, and she realized she had no desire to put up a fight for something she knew she had already lost, something she no longer wanted anyway.

It was time to move on.

She took the pen and read the agreement slowly, more to make Craig fret than to look for the details her lawyer had warned her about. Then she signed the agreement to sell the condo to University Realty.

Craig snatched the papers away as soon as she added the date. “Nice doing business with you,” he said with an insufferable smirk. “If you’d signed this months ago, we could have had the cash right away. Now the lawyers will wrangle over it and take their cut.”

“You’re lucky I signed it at all, and we both know if I’d signed it earlier I’d never see my half. We also both know we’re not as broke as you claim.”

He spread his palms and feigned innocence. “You’re the one holding going-out-of-business sales. If you can find some cash I’ve overlooked, naturally I’ll split it with you.”

Bonnie turned and went to the door without wasting another word on him.

He followed and called to her as she descended the stairs: “By the way, I told the kids you left me. They’re furious with you.”

She almost laughed. “Whatever you say, Craig.”

She waved at him over her shoulder and left.

Two days later, Agnes strode across the Waterford College campus, so determined that towering undergraduates a third of her age jumped out of the way at her approach. Her outrage had not lessened one iota since Bonnie had told her she had signed off on the sale of her home, and Agnes was about to unleash her temper on that despicable man if she had to kick down his office door to do it.

Bonnie had told her not to bother. She was at peace with her decision, and nothing Agnes could say to Craig would change the situation. Maybe not, but Agnes was still determined to show Craig he had made a grave error in judgment when he chose this particular path to divorce. If he thought leaving Bonnie virtually penniless and homeless would make her cower, he was dead wrong. Bonnie was not going to buckle to a bully, not with staunch friends to support her and see her through to the end.

She stormed into the director’s office and almost crashed into the same blond assistant she had encountered before. “I’m here to see Craig,” she muttered, and tried to duck past her.

“Wait.” The woman cut her off. “Do you have an appointment?”

Agnes glowered and nudged her aside; the woman was too startled or too wary about manhandling a senior citizen to interfere. Just before she reached the door, she heard the sharp click of the lock. “Craig Markham,” she called out, turning the doorknob in vain. “Get out here and face me like a man, you coward!”

“He’s not in,” said the blond assistant, alarmed.

“Yes, he is. I see him through the window. Craig!” She rattled the doorknob again. “Don’t think you can get away with driving Bonnie from her home. I happen to know she has an excellent lawyer. You’ll get what’s coming to you!”

“Please, ma’am.” The woman moved as if to wrestle Agnes away from the office, but was still reluctant to lay hands on her. “Don’t make me call security.”

“You go right ahead,” said Agnes primly. She had embarrassed Craig and delivered her message. She actually felt much better. “I’ll tell anyone who cares to listen the truth about that man.”

She turned, and her gaze fell once again upon that distinctive furniture, that unusual combination of Shaker and Arts and Crafts, too worn and mismatched to really suit a professional office. With a frown, she dodged the assistant, set her feet, and gave one of the armchairs a fierce shove.

“Now, really,” complained the assistant as the chair toppled over onto its side. Agnes ignored her and got down on hands and knees to examine the bottom of the seat. In addition to a spiderweb and a bright pink piece of chewed gum, she discovered a manufacturer’s mark burned into the wood: an intertwined W, K, and M encircled by a wreath of ivy.

Just then the assistant seized her elbow and heaved her to her feet. “Thank you, dear,” said Agnes brightly. “I’ll show myself out.”

She left the office with all haste.

“I don’t care how,” hissed Brent, glancing around. No one could overhear him in the din of the cafeteria, but if his former best friend happened to spot him speaking so urgently to Will and Greg, he would figure out what Brent planned and turn him in before he could act. Brent had no idea why Todd had said nothing so far. It obviously wasn’t to save their friendship, which was so far gone it had flatlined.

Will and Greg exchanged a look. “Get rid of everything?” said Greg.

“You heard me. And soon.”

“But—” Will gaped at him, stricken. “I gave some scissors and one of those circle cutter things to my dad.”

“You moron,” Brent seethed. “Get them back. I don’t care how. Get them back and then lose them permanently.”

He shoved back his chair and stalked away from the table.

Brent didn’t bother to stop at his locker before leaving campus. He had just enough time to drive home and take care of the sewing machine before his fifth-period class. His mom had some appointment, a haircut or something, but she would be home after school. He might not get another chance.

He parked in the driveway and ran inside to his mom’s sewing room, where he shoved some fabric pieces out of the way, unplugged the sewing machine, and put it on its side. There was no time for elegance. He opened the case and pulled a few wires, then raced to the bathroom for a cup of water, which he poured over the electronic components and the touchscreen. He dried his hands carefully before closing the case and plugging in the cord. There were no sparks, no smoke, when he turned it on, just a blank touch-screen and a sluggish whirring sound when he pressed the foot pedal.

Quickly Brent returned the sewing machine to its place, wiped up the spilled water, and raced back to his car. He had to run a few stop signs and sprint from the parking lot to make it to class, but he slipped into his usual desk a few seconds before the bell. He caught his breath and ignored his ex-best friend’s curious stares.

Later that afternoon, he returned from school to find his mother seated in front of the sewing machine, her hands in her lap. She jumped when he greeted her from the doorway. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, her face oddly drawn. “Did you have a good day?”

“Uh-huh.” He entered the room and pointed at the machine. “What’s wrong? Is it busted again?”

“It appears so.” She touched the sewing machine gingerly. “I don’t understand. It was working fine this morning.”

Brent let out a loud sigh of exasperation. “I knew that deal was too good to be true. I never should have believed that story about some sweet old dead granny who never touched her Christmas present.”

“Yes,” said his mother. “It does seem rather implausible.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Brent yanked the plug out of the wall and picked up the sewing machine. “I’m going to get my money back. I’ll buy you something else for Mother’s Day. It won’t be as nice as this, but at least it will work.”

“I’m sure whatever you give me will be fine.”

Brent studied her. “Mom? Is something wrong?”

“No. Of course not, honey. It’s just …” She looked around her sewing table. “This morning I had some quilt block pieces right here by the sewing machine, but now they’re gone.”

“Oh.” Brent thought hard. He had brushed some fabric out of the way—where? “Here,” he said, indicating under her table with a foot. “There’s some fabric back there. It must have slipped between the table and the wall.”

His mother kneeled down to check, then reached out to gather up the scraps. “Yes. This is what I lost.”

Her voice seemed strained. He wished he didn’t have to take her sewing machine, but what choice did he have? “I’m really sorry, Mom.”

“That’s all right.” She hesitated. “Brent?”

“What, Mom?”

She sat on the floor looking up at him. “Nothing. Never mind. Don’t be gone too long.”

“I’ll be back before supper,” he promised, hurrying out the door, the sewing machine in his arms.

On the last day of March, Gwen turned off her computer, packed her satchel with a heavy heart, and left her office. She had an hour before her first class at Elm Creek Manor. Maybe she would get a cup of coffee and sit at the bus stop across the street from Grandma’s Attic and stare at the red-and-gold sign for a while. All too soon some other sign would hang in its place. Bonnie had already promised to save the sign and display it in Elm Creek Manor. No one who saw it, camper or teacher, would ever forget Grandma’s Attic.

Just the day before, Gwen had paused on her way home from work to gaze wistfully at the little shop, once such an important gathering place for Waterford’s quilters. A woman leaving the shoe store next door saw her and said, “Did you hear it’s closing? If I had known they were doing so poorly, I would have shopped there more often instead of driving all the way to the Fabric Warehouse.”

Gwen tried unsuccessfully to suppress her anger. “You shouldn’t be surprised when the things you fail to support are no longer there when you want them.”

She turned and left the woman gaping at her.

Gwen couldn’t help her outrage, her disgust. Granted, it was wonderful that Waterford’s quilters had rallied to Bonnie’s cause at the end, but where had they been in all the months and years before, when the shop balanced on the edge of bankruptcy? Greater support then might have made the difference.

Gwen still couldn’t imagine a Main Street without Grandma’s Attic.

She sighed and locked the office door behind her, then started as a young man in a Waterford High School varsity jacket hurried by, nearly crashing into her. “Scuse me,” he mumbled.

“William?”

The young man halted. “Oh. Hi, Professor.”

It was obvious he didn’t remember her, but a department chair’s son was savvy enough to recognize an occasion warranting good manners. “I haven’t seen you since the department picnic last summer,” said Gwen. “Are you looking forward to graduation?”

He glanced down the hall toward his father’s office. “Um, yeah.”

“I can see you’re in a hurry, so I won’t keep you.” She held up a hand as he nodded and prepared to hurry off. “Just one question. Where did you get the shears and the rotary cutter you gave your dad?”

His eyes widened. “Uh, at the store.”

“Oh. That’s funny, because I heard you got them from school. Which store would that be, then? I’d like to get some myself, but the quilt shop downtown is closing and they don’t sell them at Fabric Warehouse. I checked.”

“I meant to say I got them at school.” Will began to edge away.

“
They
got them from a store.”

Gwen fixed him with a fierce grin. “Yes, but which one? That’s the real mystery, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” He backed away. “I’ll check and let you know.”

He turned and broke into a run.

“Thanks,” Gwen called after him. She watched as he disappeared into the department office.

“Professor Sullivan?” someone called out from behind her.

“Yes?” She turned to find one of the custodial staff approaching, a large cardboard carton in her arms.

“I’m so glad I caught you,” the dark-haired woman said. “One of our crew just found this a few minutes ago in the boiler room. It was with the trash to be burned, but when some of the stuff fell out, we thought we ought to wait. And since everyone in the building calls you the Quilt Lady …” She grinned, and set the carton on the floor. “Well, we thought you could tell us if this is valuable or not.”

“What’s in the box?”

In reply, the woman opened the lid.

Inside were the missing blocks for Sylvia’s bridal quilt.

S
ylvia sat on the cornerstone patio sipping tea and enjoying the fragrance of lilacs blooming all around her. She looked up from her book to smile fondly at Andrew, who sat beside her tying flies. It was Sunday morning on the first week of Waterford College’s summer break, and since the Elm Creek Quilt Camp faculty would be at full strength for the first time all season, that afternoon Sylvia and Andrew planned to embark on an overdue trip to visit Andrew’s daughter and son-in-law in Connecticut.

Sylvia was grateful Andrew’s children had come much closer to accepting the marriage they had once opposed strongly enough to avoid the wedding. Frequent visits, letters, and phone calls had given Sylvia occasion to show them how much she loved their father, and over the past few months, Amy and Bob seemed to have reconciled themselves to their father’s choices. In fact, they had finally realized how fortunate their father was to have found a loving companion. Amy had even confided to Sylvia that she worried less about how her father spent his days so far from his children and grandchildren knowing that Sylvia was there to keep him company.

Andrew looked up and smiled; she reached over and patted his arm. What a comfort he had been throughout the turmoil of the past few months. Sylvia had tried to be that sort of reassuring confidante to her friends, but she wondered how helpful she had truly been. When she had challenged Summer to ask herself why she had not told her friends about her new domestic arrangement, she never imagined Summer would end up moving into Elm Creek Manor. Although she had helped Gwen find a new research topic, Gwen’s status in her department and the chair’s appreciation of her work seemed unchanged. Her suggestion that Diane tell Bonnie how she felt about her position at Grandma’s Attic was moot now that the quilt shop was no more. Sylvia’s only consolation was that her meddling had not made matters worse.

Of course, the proposal she intended to make to Bonnie might yet do some good.

“Have you seen Sarah yet this morning?” Sylvia asked Andrew. “I meant to discuss a business idea with her at breakfast, but she didn’t come down.”

“I saw Matt carrying a tray upstairs to their room.”

“Again? That’s the third morning in a row.”

Andrew grinned. “I guess he’s trying to be romantic.”

“I suppose.” Sylvia pondered this and shrugged. “Well, more power to him. I for one prefer to eat at the table. I don’t want to tea-dye my quilts unintentionally.”

Andrew chuckled, and both looked up at the sound of the door. “Good morning, all,” said Diane, stepping outside onto the patio. “Sarah said you’d be out here.”

“Oh? So she’s emerged from her boudoir?”

Diane’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Never mind.” Sylvia smiled as Agnes exited the manor behind Diane, a battered notebook in her hand. “Oh, hello, dear. So you’re here, too?” She glanced at her watch to confirm that she had not lost track of time. “Why so early? We don’t have to set up for camper registration for another two hours.”

“We’ll get to that.” Diane rolled her eyes as Agnes returned Sylvia’s greeting with an absent nod, seated herself on a wooden bench at the edge of the patio, and slowly paged through the notebook. “Don’t expect to get another word out of her. She’s had her nose in that old thing since I picked her up.”

“Why didn’t you wait and come with Bonnie?” asked Andrew.

“At the last minute Bonnie got a phone call from the detective in charge of her case. She’s at home waiting for him to come over, but she’ll get here as soon as she can.”

Sylvia hardly thought that two hours early was at the last minute, but before she could press Diane for details, Andrew said, “The detective needs to see her on a Sunday morning?”

Satisfaction lit up Diane’s pretty features. “Apparently there was a development in the case and he needed to speak with her urgently.”

“Don’t let Diane fool you,” said Gwen as she closed the door behind her. “I suspect she had a little something to do with that development.”

“So did you,” said Diane. “I can’t hog all the credit.”

Sylvia looked from one to the other in amazement. “What on earth do you mean?”

“My key to Grandma’s Attic disappeared right before the burglary,” admitted Diane. “I didn’t mention it earlier because—well, I had my reasons. One of my son’s friends had spent the night, and I thought he might have taken the keys. I had no proof, so I went to his mother.”

“Who, ironically enough, happens to be Diane’s worst enemy,” remarked Gwen.

“Ah,” said Sylvia with a knowing smile. “Your notorious next-door neighbor.”

Diane nodded emphatically. “Naturally she denied everything and gave Brent an alibi.”

“You would have done the same for your sons,” said Agnes, without looking up from her notebook.

Diane flushed, and Gwen jumped in. “We all would have. Anyway, while Diane was pondering the mystery of the missing keys, I noticed that my department chair’s son had suddenly turned up with a pair of ergonomic shears and a rotary cutter. Since the Fabric Warehouse doesn’t sell them, they must have come from Grandma’s Attic.”

Andrew looked dubious. “He could have ordered them through the mail.”

“That’s true, dear, but don’t you think it’s unlikely that a teenage boy would ever peruse a quilt supply catalog?” Sylvia turned to Diane and Gwen and urged, “Go on.”

“His story was that he got them from school, which turned out to be an easily disproven lie, but I digress,” said Gwen. “So Diane and I independently went to the police with our suspicions.”

“Weeks ago,” added Diane dryly.

“It wasn’t until later that we compared notes. Diane checked with her son, who told us my department chair’s son and Mary Beth’s son are friends. We passed that along to the police, too, but we haven’t heard anything since.” Gwen glanced at Diane. “At least I haven’t. How about you?”

Diane shook her head.

“Perhaps they needed time to put the pieces together,” said Sylvia. She hoped for Bonnie’s sake that the detective was not coming over to tell her the case had stalled again.

At that moment, Summer joined them. “Hi, guys.” She glanced around the circle quickly. “So we’re still waiting on Bonnie?”

As the others nodded, Sylvia impatiently said, “She has another two hours, for goodness’ sake. Sarah isn’t even here yet.”

Summer smiled. “Oh, she’ll be along.”

Gwen put her arm around her daughter. “How was your date last night?”

Summer’s smile deepened so that her dimple showed. “Fine.”

“Apparently it was better than fine,” said Andrew, a trifle sternly. “She didn’t come home until after midnight.”

The others laughed as Summer blushed. “We were just talking.”

“Uh-huh,” said Diane.

“No, really. We have a lot to talk about.”

Sylvia was glad that Summer and her young man had reconciled, but she couldn’t keep the regret out of her voice when she asked, “Does this mean you’ll be leaving us?”

Summer started. “Actually—if you mean am I moving out to move back in with Jeremy, no.”

From the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw Agnes heave a sigh of relief, her gaze still fixed on the notebook.

“But—” Summer hesitated, twisting her fingers together. “I think I will be leaving within a year.”

“Leaving the manor?” asked Sylvia.

“Yes.” Summer glanced at her mother. “And leaving Waterford.”

A gasp went up from the gathering of friends. “Why?” asked Diane. It was almost a wail.

“I’d like to go back to school.”

Gwen, who knew her best, looked the most shocked. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” said Summer. “I’ll hate to leave Elm Creek Quilts, but I really think I need to follow my dream.”

“You mean follow your heart,” accused Diane. “You’re just going to follow that boyfriend of yours.”

“That’s actually not true,” said Summer. “This is something I’m doing for myself. But Jeremy and I are going to make sure we end up in the same city eventually.”

Gwen embraced her daughter, tears in her eyes. Sylvia could not make out the words they exchanged, but when they released each other, both were smiling.

“Well.” Sylvia cleared her throat. “I’m sure you’ve given this a lot of thought, and I wish you all the best, but I hope you won’t be going soon. We will never be able to replace you.”

“I’ll finish out the season at least,” Summer promised. “After that, it depends on when I can get into grad school.”

“I can call my contacts at Penn,” offered her mother, but Summer laughed and told her she wanted to do this on her own.

“I guess this is a good a time as any to make my own announcement,” said Judy, who had arrived unnoticed in the excitement and lingered near the door looking at least twice as nervous as Summer had.

“Oh, Judy, not you, too,” said Diane, dismayed.

Judy nodded, unable to keep the broad smile off her face. “I’ve accepted a position on the faculty at Penn. I can’t imagine what I’ll do without my best friends around me every day, but it’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.”

“Yes, you can,” said Diane. “You just haven’t tried hard enough.”

Sylvia’s heart sank even as she joined in the laughter. As Judy shared the details of her new job, Sylvia thought ahead to the breaking of the circle of friends. Judy would leave them by autumn, and Summer would part soon after. Elm Creek Quilts would never be the same.

Just then Bonnie arrived, looking dazed. “You aren’t going to believe this,” she said.

After the bombshells Summer and Judy had dropped, Sylvia would believe just about anything, but she asked, “Do you have news from the police?”

Bonnie nodded and sat down as her friends peppered her with questions. The police had three suspects, she told them, including an additional friend of the two boys Diane and Gwen had named. The parents of all but one of the boys were cooperating with the police.

“Let me guess,” said Diane. “Mary Beth.”

Bonnie nodded. “Mary Beth still claims her son was home that night, but the police say the other boys refute that.” She sighed. “What the police can’t tell me is why. It’s no secret that Mary Beth and Diane don’t get along, but why destroy my store? They’re all about to graduate from high school and head off to good colleges in the fall. Why jeopardize their futures for a grudge?”

No one had an answer for her. Sylvia marveled that after all those three boys had done to Bonnie, she still looked as if she felt sorry for them.

“At least now you’ll be able to get the insurance settlement, right?” asked Summer.

“I suppose.” Bonnie smiled, rueful. “Unfortunately, it’s too little, too late.”

“Not necessarily,” remarked Sylvia. “I have a proposition for you. Why not reopen your quilt shop right here in Elm Creek Manor?”

Bonnie stared at her, and the others gasped in excitement. “That’s a fabulous idea,” exclaimed Judy. “We have plenty of unused space in the ballroom.”

“I was actually thinking of knocking out some walls in the first floor of the west wing, starting with the formal parlor,” said Sylvia. “We would have ample space, ideal lighting—”

“And all those captive shoppers when quilt camp is in season,” added Diane.

“True enough,” said Sylvia as the others laughed, although she hoped to draw most of their business from Waterford. If Waterford’s quilters were shown how welcome they were at Elm Creek Manor, perhaps the pointless estrangement between the Elm Creek Quilters and the Waterford Quilting Guild would cease once and for all. “Let’s not forget that if local quilters are willing to drive all the way to the Fabric Warehouse, they surely won’t object to driving here.”

Diane said, “Mary Beth won’t like it.”

“I think she has enough to worry about, don’t you?” said Judy. “Besides, I’ve heard through the grapevine that she withdrew from the election for guild president. I don’t know how much influence she’ll have anymore.”

“We haven’t heard whether Bonnie even likes the idea,” said Sylvia, watching her friend. “Perhaps she has other plans.”

All eyes went to Bonnie, who shook her head. “This is too much to absorb, too fast,” she said. “As much as I’d love to reopen, even in a different location, I have to worry about my basic living expenses first.”

“Maybe not,” sang out Agnes, holding up her notebook in triumph. “Your ex-husband-to-be isn’t as broke as he claims.”

She waved them over and held open the notebook so they could all view a curious drawing of an intertwined W, K, and M encircled by a wreath of ivy. “What’s that supposed to be?” asked Diane.

“I know I’ve seen this before, but I can’t place it,” said Gwen. “It resembles an insignia such as a silversmith’s mark, placed on the bottom of a piece to indicate who created it.”

“That’s very good, Gwen, although this particular craftsman worked in wood and iron and cloth.” Agnes’s blue eyes were bright with excitement behind her pink-tinted glasses. “You’ll recall that a great many years ago I had the unfortunate chore of selling off items from the manor to help support Sylvia’s sister, brother-in-law, and myself. I met my husband, Joe, when an antique dealer advised me to consult a history professor from the college about particular pieces.” She laughed aloud. “My grandson insisted my notebooks were a valuable record, but I didn’t believe him until now.”