Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (9 page)

Summer knew Agnes had been told when the older woman began studying her mournfully when she thought Summer unaware. She became so flustered in Summer’s presence whenever certain words came up—
apartment
and
boyfriend
, of course, but also unavoidable words such as
together, living, trouble
, and
wrong
—that they could no longer carry on a conversation. Summer tried to put her at ease, but Agnes’s disappointment in her was so apparent than it became easier to avoid her. Dreading that Sarah, Diane, and the rest would share Agnes’s feelings, Summer decided to let them find out on their own rather than telling them herself. One friend’s dismay was difficult enough to bear.

Then the deadline for Sylvia’s bridal quilt, once so distant, was only a week away. Summer thought of all the blocks she had ever made, but none of the names captured what she felt for Sylvia. Unlike the quilters who had mailed blocks to Grandma’s Attic, she knew Sylvia too well to pick out one particular conversation or encounter that had transformed her life. She found the perfect fabrics in her stash—better organized than in years past, now that she had a room to herself—but the inspiration she waited for did not come.

On the morning of the first day of camp, Summer decided to ask for an extension. Surely the deadline was somewhat flexible for Elm Creek Quilters, and maybe the block choice guidelines were, too.

Summer made it to Elm Creek Manor by eleven, her worries momentarily forgotten in the excitement of the first day of camp. Sarah buzzed about the grand front foyer setting up tables and delegating tasks, her frenzy barely tempered by Sylvia’s reassuring confidence. When Sarah asked Bonnie to inspect the classrooms, Summer quickly volunteered to assist, determined to talk to her alone.

As they checked the classrooms for equipment and furnishings, Summer asked Bonnie why she had not shown up for work on the first of March. When Bonnie hesitated, Summer prompted, “Did it have something to do with the building?”

Bonnie busied herself with testing a sewing machine. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

“Are they going to raise the rent?”

“Oh, sure, but only by seventy-five percent.”

“Seventy-five?” Summer dropped into a chair. “They can’t do that.”

“They can, and they’re going to.”

“How do they expect you to pay that much?”

“They don’t. They want me out.”

“Why? It can’t be that easy to find a new business to fill the vacancy.”

“Oh, they have big plans for the building. They’re going to turn it all into student apartments.”

“Even the condos?”

Bonnie nodded.

“They can’t,” said Summer, although she was beginning to wonder about the limits of their power. “You own the condo. They can’t force you to sell.”

“They assume I’d prefer that to living surrounded by partying sophomores. And these days I’m not too attached to the condo, so moving wouldn’t be the end of the world.” She paused. “But it is my one bit of leverage over University Realty. They want me to sell the condo, but they know I’ll dig in my heels if they force me out of my store. As long as we’re still holding on financially, I’ll never give up Grandma’s Attic.”

Summer clasped her hands together in her lap. “I know one way you can cut your expenses.”

“I know.” Bonnie nodded, resigned. “It’s awful, but it’s the most obvious solution. I have to fire Diane.”

“What? No, not that! I’ll resign.”

“Oh, Summer. It’s sweet of you to try to save Diane’s job, but I couldn’t manage without you. Your ideas are what have kept us afloat this long.”

“I was planning to quit anyway. I can’t keep holding down two jobs, and Elm Creek Quilts is my first choice.”

Bonnie managed the first smile Summer had seen from her all day. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I know Diane’s concerned about paying for Todd’s tuition—”

“That’s not it.” Summer placed her hands on Bonnie’s shoulders and looked her directly in the eye. “Let me make this as clear as I know how: I quit.”

Bonnie patted her hand and rose. “I’m glad people like you still exist in this world. Believe me, I’m in no hurry to fire my friend. I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep Diane on for another month. If we can turn things around by then, I won’t let her go. If not …” She took Summer’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on. We still have three classrooms. Sarah probably thinks we ran off.”

“She wouldn’t let you quit?” Jeremy asked as they prepared for bed that evening. He had waited up for her to hear how the banquet and Candlelight welcoming ceremony had fared.

“It’s not that she wouldn’t let me. She didn’t believe that I wanted to.” Summer vigorously brushed her long auburn hair. If she had quit weeks ago, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Neither would Diane.

“Put it in writing,” said Jeremy. He lifted her hair off her shoulders and kissed the nape of her neck. “Then stop showing up for work.”

“I still have a month to save Diane’s job,” she reminded him, but resolved to write a letter of resignation first thing in the morning.

The next day, she had just kissed Jeremy good-bye and was settling down at her computer with a cup of tea when Sarah phoned. “Would you mind teaching Judy’s four o’clock Computer Design class this week?” Sarah asked. “I know you’re busy Wednesday afternoon, but I thought your mom could sub then.”

“Sure,” said Summer, puzzled. She had arranged that schedule herself and knew she had not overlooked a conflict. “What happened to Judy?”

“She had to go out of town unexpectedly on business.” Sarah sounded even more frazzled than usual. “I think we have her other class covered, though.”

“Are you sure?”

Sarah let out a bleak laugh. “Unfortunately, yes.” She said something about needing to prepare for some hand-quilting, said a hasty good-bye, and hung up.

Summer shook her head, hung up the phone, and typed her letter of resignation. She rehearsed what she would say on the drive to Elm Creek Manor. Bonnie spent her mornings at Grandma’s Attic, so Summer didn’t bother to look for her until after the morning sessions. She found her at lunch engaged in an animated conversation about quilted clothing over burritos and margaritas. “I’m sure you understand how much I regret this,” said Summer, jumping into a momentary pause in the discussion. She handed Bonnie the letter and smiled at the assembled campers, who looked on curiously. “This is to prove I’m serious.”

Bonnie laughed and tucked the letter into her pocket without reading it. “Sure you are. Remember, you work the closing shift on Wednesday.”

Summer frowned. And Sylvia said
men
ignored what they did not want to see. She left to grab a sandwich before her afternoon classes. Obviously Bonnie would not wish to discuss her resignation in front of the campers but, like it or not, she would have to accept it.

Summer’s classes were full of fun and over too soon, reminding her again why, when forced to make a choice, she had chosen Elm Creek Quilts over Grandma’s Attic. Her students’ energy and enthusiasm rekindled her own passion for quilting and reminded her anew why she had first begged Gwen to teach her the art.

Except for Judy’s absence, camp seemed to be off to a fine and unusually smooth start, from classes to evening entertainment programs to the mundane details such as laundry and parking. Summer thought so as late as Wednesday morning, as she began the third day of her weeklong workshop in color theory. At half past ten, she noticed two students lingering in the doorway, but they moved on when they realized she had seen them. Then, five minutes later, three other students slipped into the room and quietly took seats in the back. A murmur of voices came from the hallway, rising, falling, and yet another student entered the room. Apologizing to her students, Summer quickly went to see what was happening.

The source of the commotion was the room next door; Summer had to wait for two students to exit before she could enter. Six students remained within, talking irritably. They fell silent when they caught sight of Summer. “Are you our new instructor?” one woman asked.

“What happened to Bonnie?” demanded another.

“I don’t know,” said Summer. “Did she have to leave?”

“She never showed up,” said another peevishly. “I’ve never seen anything so unprofessional in my life.”

“Oh, hush up, Phoebe,” said a third student. “Emergencies happen. She was so nice to us at lunch yesterday.”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Summer, and hurried from the room. She ran from the ballroom into the front foyer, where through the tall double doors she glimpsed Matt working outside. She called him over and asked him to run upstairs and inform Sarah what had happened. Then she hurried back to her own students and carried on with the class.

At noon, Summer found Sarah in the foyer on her way to the banquet hall with an armful of schedules and other papers. She had no idea what had become of Bonnie. “She never called,” said Sarah. “I’ve tried Grandma’s Attic and her home, but all I get are answering machines. Something strange, though. Craig seems to have recorded over Bonnie’s family greeting on the home machine.”

“It’s probably nothing,” said Summer, thinking of her own answering machine problems. “Their youngest moved out years ago. They were overdue for a change.”

Sarah nodded dismissively. “You’re right. I don’t know why I even mentioned it. We have enough to worry about.”

“I’m going to Grandma’s Attic right now,” said Summer. “I’ll call you as soon as I find out what’s wrong. Maybe she just had car trouble.”

“Car trouble
and
phone trouble?” said Sarah. “Unlikely.”

In response, Summer nodded and ran up to the office for her backpack. In a few minutes she was driving through the leafy wood surrounding the estate on her way downtown. She wished she had her mother’s cell phone so she could try to reach Bonnie. Why had she failed to call—again?

Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the employee parking space behind Grandma’s Attic and ran around the block to the front entrance.

Parked in front of Grandma’s Attic were two police cars.

Summer stopped short for a heartbeat, then caught her breath and hurried inside.

“Bonnie?” she cried, searching for her friend. The quilt shop was a shambles. Notions were scattered across the floor, bolts of fabric knocked from their shelves and unrolled in a snarl of color, books and patterns flung about as if by a great wind.

Bonnie looked up from a far corner of the room, her face ashen, but she did not break off her conversation with the two uniformed officers before her. She leaned against an empty bookcase as if she might faint without its support.

“I’m afraid you can’t come in, miss,” said a third officer Summer had not noticed. “This is a crime scene.”

“What?”

“We had a break-in,” said Bonnie, picking her way across the room. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears, but she held out her arms to comfort Summer.

Summer embraced her. “What did they take?”

“Everything in the cash register.” Bonnie clung to her, trembling. “Last night’s deposit. I didn’t have time to take it to the bank after closing.”

Why didn’t you take it upstairs?
Summer almost cried out, but she held back the instinctive criticism. It was pointless.

“Some rotary cutters and scissors, pens, a sewing machine.” Bonnie’s voice was distant, disbelieving. “And the quilt blocks.”

“What?”

“All of the blocks for Sylvia’s bridal quilt, except for those I had already given to Agnes.” Bonnie shook with sobs. “They’re gone.”

A
s soon as the spring semester began, Gwen began checking her office mailbox twice daily for official notice that she had been named chair of the Department of American Studies. She waited, but in the first three weeks of January, the most interesting piece of mail she received was the invitation to participate in Sylvia’s bridal quilt, and she had already known about that. Of course, she already knew what the committee’s letter would say, too, but before she told all her friends and celebrated, she wanted official confirmation of the hints and veiled promises the outgoing chair had dropped during the past year and a half.

They would have to reveal their selection soon. Although the official transition would not take place until the end of May, the incoming chair traditionally assumed some of the duties by the end of January. Every summer the Society for the Study of American Culture held a four-day conference at Waterford College, which the department chair directed. A good portion of the work had already been completed, but the incoming chair would be expected to take over just in time for reviewing paper submissions, scheduling speaking times, and making sure Food Services remembered to order enough alcohol for the opening reception, which never failed to set the tone for the entire conference. Gwen had seen chairmen’s careers falter over too little wine or the wrong brand of beer.

“Chairmen” was the accurate term to use, too, even for someone who generally eschewed gender-exclusive language. Only three women had directed the department in its entire history, and the last had retired fourteen years earlier. The department was long overdue to select another woman, but Gwen considered herself the strongest candidate regardless. She had seniority over the other professors who had not yet served, her record of publications was outstanding, her graduate students performed well and consistently found tenure-track positions in respected universities, and her undergraduate teaching evaluations were excellent. So why did the committee’s reticence trouble her so much?

Because, she admitted to herself, she had been a tenured member of that faculty for too long not to have been chair already. Twice before she thought she deserved the job at least as much as the person who was eventually named. If she were passed over again, she would have to consider seriously whether she ought to spend the rest of her career at Waterford College.

The news finally came one Wednesday morning when a knock sounded on her office door. “Gwen?”

“Come on in, Jules,” Gwen called. The door opened and one of her graduate students entered. “Ready for the candidacy exam?”

“Almost. Ask me again next month.” Jules settled his lanky frame into the opposite chair. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Gwen turned away from the computer to find him peering at her, his expression guarded. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“So you haven’t heard? Or is it just a rumor?”

“Is what a rumor?”

“One of Professor Brannon’s grad students says she’s going to be chair.”

For a moment Gwen just stared at him, absorbing this. “There hasn’t been any official word yet. It’s a bad idea to spread rumors. Or to listen to them.”

“I know. I know. But this rumor’s spreading fast, and no one’s refuting it.” He hesitated. “We wanted to see how you were taking it.”

He meant the rest of her grad students had sent him in to gauge whether it was safe to approach or if they ought to avoid her for the next few days. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop.” She saved her document and rose, adding with forced confidence, “I’ll get this cleared up.”

Bill’s assistant buzzed her in to the department chair’s office with little delay, with a look of sympathy that spoke volumes. She had probably known the committee’s decision weeks before Bill did.

When Gwen entered, Bill rose and offered her a seat. His atypical politeness so unsettled her that she almost involuntarily dropped into the chair. “I think I know why you’re here,” he said, scratching a graying sideburn.

“I’ve heard some rumors.”

“Annette Brannon has been appointed department chair.”

“I see.” She inhaled deeply but held his gaze. “Based upon our conversations of the past two years, it was my understanding that I was first in line.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you were our next choice if Annette refused.”

“No, it does not make me feel any better.” No one who would consider refusing was ever offered the position. “Why? What happened?”

He spread his palms. “The same process that happens every three years. The committee scrutinized a number of relevant factors and determined that Annette was the best choice.”

“I have been a member of this department for nearly sixteen years.” Gwen studied the photos on his desk: Bill and his wife in tuxedo and gown, his wife alone, Bill and William, Jr. wearing identical Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirts. When she was calm enough, she said, “Annette joined us five years ago. She has one book out, her dissertation. I have four and another slated for the fall. She has not yet led so much as one department committee to my six. Compare our journal publications and you’ll find—”

“Gwen. Please. The decision’s been made.” Bill glanced at his watch discreetly, but not discreetly enough. “Maybe next time will be your turn.”

This time was supposed to have been her turn, and she was not about to go through this same humiliation three years hence. “I’d appreciate hearing how the committee reached its decision since you didn’t dispute my comparison of our qualifications.”

“Maybe you should take it up with the committee.”

“I’ve had a little too much bureaucracy for one day, so I’d prefer to take it up with you.” Gwen reminded herself to be civil. “I’d appreciate it, especially since, inadvertently or not, you led me to believe I would be offered the job.”

“Annette is the most appropriate choice for the department at this juncture,” said Bill. “You’re focusing on quantity of work and ignoring quality. The committee felt the department needed someone with solid academic credentials in substantial, hard research, and Annette is that person.”

The implication stung, but Gwen let him continue unchallenged.

“Undergraduate majors have been declining over the past decade. We’ve lost students to history, government, and women’s studies at alarming rates. Annette’s research is cutting-edge and well regarded, and the political angles have caught students’ attention. Her teaching evaluations are off the charts. She’s brought in two six-figure grants. She’ll invigorate this department at a time when we desperately need it.” He rose to indicate the conversation was over, but added, “Does that clear up the situation?”

“Almost. One more question. Are you saying my work is not ‘hard, substantial research’?”

“Gwen—”

“What is soft and insubstantial about my research?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? You study quilts. That’s nice, but it’s not politically or socially relevant.”

“Haven’t you read any of my papers? How can you say art is not politically or socially relevant within a culture?”

“Art? Come on, Gwen. Quilts aren’t art. My mother-in-law makes quilts.” He came out from behind his desk and rested his hand on the doorknob. “I know you’re disappointed. Personally, I think you’d make a fine chair. Here’s some advice if you want to improve your chances in three years. If you want to study the arts, study the arts that matter—architecture, maybe. Sculpture or painting.”

He opened the door and gave her a sympathetic grimace.

Somehow his attempt to be helpful infuriated her even more. “For a card-carrying liberal and someone who claims to be devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, you and your committee have an obvious and detestable bias for ‘manly’ topics. Since when did you all turn Republican?”

He looked wounded, but she did not linger to apologize. She stormed from his office and back to her own, ignoring the curious glances from colleagues and students alike.

Jules had wisely not waited for her return. Fuming, Gwen shut down the computer and packed books and papers into the quilted satchel she used as a briefcase. “The arts that matter,” she muttered, locking the door behind her. If Bill had read any of her research—for that matter, if he had any common sense—he would realize that home arts and folk arts revealed more about a culture than the isolated, esoteric pieces preserved in museums for the benefit of the elite. She was sick and tired of having her work dismissed as frivolous because it centered on a largely female occupation. If most quilts had been made by men, no one would question her interest in exploring the role of quiltmaking in American history.

She crossed the wooded campus carefully, her footsteps unsteady on the snow-covered sidewalks. A snow squall had struck while she was in class, too recently for the maintenance crews to have cleared the icy dusting from anything but the main roads. Two men, one probably a student, were shoveling snow from the steps of the Computer Sciences building when she arrived. The older man greeted her by name as she climbed to the front door. She did a double take before she recognized Bonnie’s husband, Craig. She smiled and made some joke about his getting out of his office to enjoy the fine weather, but he didn’t get it. “We’re understaffed,” he replied instead. “Everyone has to help out.”

Gwen had never particularly liked Craig, so she merely smiled again, nodded, and went on her way rather than explain. Bonnie and Craig were a prime example of opposites attracting, although Gwen had never figured out what Bonnie found so appealing. Of course, she found little to admire in the institution of marriage, so she probably wasn’t looking hard enough.

She found Judy in her lab studying a long printout of rows and columns of numbers and letters—incomprehensible to Gwen, but apparently holding Judy and two of her graduate students spellbound. When Gwen asked if she had a moment to talk, Judy handed the printout to one of her students and led Gwen into an adjacent office. The room, though small, had a window, two laptops, and a color laser printer Gwen had coveted ever since Judy unpacked it. The walls were lined with bookcases—the shelves so full they bowed in the middle—and on the back of the door hung a quilt designed from a fractal pattern.

“What’s going on?” Judy asked, leaning against the edge of a desk and gesturing to a seat.

Gwen sank heavily into it. “I wasn’t named department chair.”

“I thought the committee had all but given you the keys to the office.”

“Never again will I believe anything until I see it in writing.”

Judy shook her head, her long black hair slipping over her shoulder. “So they chose another man after all.”

“No, they cleverly rendered me unable to complain on those grounds. The woman they chose is bright, capable, and only five years out of graduate school. She doesn’t even have tenure, but her work is hip, political, and socially relevant, which mine isn’t.”

“Since when?”

“Since I started concentrating on textiles, apparently.” Gwen’s head throbbed. She buried her face in her hands and massaged her forehead. “And naturally I had to make everything worse. I couldn’t just take the news stoically and write up a well-reasoned, formal protest after I regained control of my temper. I had to storm into Bill’s office and demand an explanation.”

“How did that go?” When Gwen hesitated, Judy winced. “Never mind. I can guess.” She reached out and squeezed Gwen’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s probably more embarrassed than you are, no matter what you said. He must be ashamed of the committee’s ridiculous excuses.”

“I doubt it. He seemed sincere when he told me to switch to studying ‘the arts that matter’ if I hope to be considered three years from now.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I might write him a letter of apology.”

“Sounds like overkill to me. I meant, what are you going to do about your research?”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to pursue research that fascinated her, but had her passion blinded her to the obvious? Was her work irrelevant? She never wanted to become one of those academics who churned out journal article after journal article that no one would ever read. For a time, a time she had enjoyed enormously, studying the lives of women in history had been celebrated as the archiving of the almost forgotten past of an enormous, disenfranchised population. When had the climate shifted?

“You have tenure, so they can’t fire you simply because they don’t like your research,” Judy reminded her. “But they can prevent you from advancing within the college and otherwise make your life miserable. I suppose you have to ask yourself which is more important: impressing the committee or continuing your current research, which until an hour ago you couldn’t have imagined abandoning.”

“I could always return to it after my term as chair.”

“That’s true, but three years is a long time to study something that bores you.”

Gwen doubted she could stand even one year bored out of her mind simply to make a point. Worse yet was the idea of herself humbled, acquiescent, willingly switching research topics to please the selection committee. She might be able to do so if she accepted their assessment of her work, but she did not. “Not all departments believe that women’s stories are irrelevant,” she said.