Round Robin (21 page)

“I did, plus a daughter,” Bonnie said.

“That's different. You didn't have my two.” Diane shot Gwen a look. “And don't you say a word. Everyone knows Summer is the world's most perfect child.”

“Not really,” Summer said hastily, looking embarrassed.

“Diane's right, for once.” Gwen put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. “And believe me, I know how lucky I am.” Her voice trembled.

“Oh, no, Mom, not again.”

“I can't help it.” Gwen dug in her pocket for a tissue. She wiped her eyes, laughing at herself. “My baby's growing up and going away. You can't expect me to take this calmly.”

“Your baby's twenty-two,” Summer pointed out. “I'm an adult, and I'm perfectly capable of looking out for myself.”

“Don't tell her that,” Bonnie said, too late, as Gwen began to sniffle in earnest.

“Now you've done it,” Diane said to Summer. “You should never say, or even imply, that you no longer need your mother's help.”

“No, no, it's okay. Summer's right.” Gwen smiled through her tears and hugged her daughter, hard. “I'm proud of her independence. I want her to be able to look out for herself without me—that's always been what I wanted most for her. I'm going to be the happiest, most grateful mother on campus the day I drop her off at Penn.”

Diane touched Summer on the arm. “If she's going to carry on like this, maybe you should drive.”

Summer pulled away from her mother. “Mom, about that—”

“Don't worry, I was only kidding. I know you'll want to drive yourself.” Gwen brushed a strand of Summer's long auburn hair out of her face and smiled. “I wouldn't embarrass you in front of all the other grad students in your department.”

“It's not that. I—”

“Better quit while you're ahead, or she'll be walking you to your first class as if she were dropping you off for your first day of kindergarten,” Diane advised. Gwen laughed, and after a moment's hesitation, Summer joined in.

Sylvia stole a glance at Sarah and found her watching Summer and Gwen wistfully.

Just then the court clerk opened the door and summoned them into the room. Diane, Tim, and the two boys entered first, the Elm Creek Quilters close behind. The zoning commissioners sat at a long, raised table at one end of the room, and as Sylvia took a seat with her friends in the row of chairs behind the Sonnenbergs, she caught a glimpse of Mary Beth, Diane's next-door neighbor, seating herself on the other side of the aisle. She was the rude woman responsible for stirring up all this trouble. Sylvia frowned at her, but Mary Beth didn't notice.

The exemption hearing lasted less than an hour. Diane and Tim presented their appeal, including facts such as the report Summer had found about a similar case in Sewickley, but in the end, Mary Beth's petition and the long-standing ordinances restricting recreational construction in their historic neighborhood swayed the commission's decision. They ruled against the Sonnenberg family, five votes to two, with one abstaining.

The boys were shocked by the loss, which Sylvia found heartbreaking. Diane accepted the Elm Creek Quilters' hugs and condolences, ignored Mary Beth's smug glare, and nodded when Tim murmured that it was time to go. She took each of her sons by the hand and left the municipal building with her chin up. Watching her, Sylvia felt a surge of pride for her friend. The Sonnenbergs had not won, but they had not been beaten, either.

On the drive back to the manor, Sylvia and Sarah talked about Diane's predicament and wondered if she had any other options. Sylvia was at a loss for suggestions. Besides, her meddling hadn't done anyone any good lately, so perhaps it would be best if she kept her ideas to herself.

Later that evening, Sylvia was too frustrated to sleep. Alone, she wandered outside through the back door of the manor and sat on the steps, watching the sun set through the trees. Their branches were covered with so many leaves that she could hardly make out the barn anymore, unlike that winter day several months ago when she had looked out on this same scene from the kitchen window. That was the day she had phoned Sarah's mother and put her misguided reconciliation plan into motion. How arrogant she had been to think that she could heal the rift between those two stubborn, deeply hurt women.

Gradually darkness fell over Elm Creek Manor, and a cool breeze began to stir. Sylvia wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill. Andrew's motor home was dark. She wondered if he was sleeping or if he was sitting awake as she was, thinking of his wife or his two children. His daughter had phoned earlier that day to ask Andrew when she should expect him. Sylvia didn't know what he had told her. Perhaps he would pack his suitcase in the morning and leave right after breakfast. Sylvia felt a pang at the thought, but she knew he had obligations to his family. Already he had stayed longer than he had intended, and surely he was running out of things to do. How many times could he go trout fishing with Matt before he tired of it? How many picnics in the north gardens could one man possibly bear? She was no charmer, she knew that. She had too many sharp corners and brittle edges, not like Claudia and Agnes, beautiful and charming in very different ways. Or at least they had been. The
Agnes of fifty years ago had merged in Sylvia's mind with the woman she knew today, but Claudia would forever remain a young woman not yet thirty, beautiful and bossy and alive, just as she had been when Sylvia last saw her.

Suddenly a faint creak broke the still night air. Sylvia glanced in the direction of the sound to find Andrew leaving his motor home. Unconsciously, she sat up straighter as he approached. He carried something in his right hand, and as he came closer, she saw that it was a sweater.

“You looked chilly,” he said, draping it over her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She drew the sweater around herself as he sat down beside her. She tried to think of something to say. “Beautiful night, isn't it?”

He nodded, and they sat for a moment in silence, listening to the crickets and watching the fireflies dance, glowing and fading as they moved over the grass.

“You're not usually so quiet,” Andrew said, breaking the silence.

“Yes, I am,” Sylvia said. “I don't think one needs to chatter on and on unless one has something to say. You must be confusing me with Agnes.”

“No, no.” Andrew chuckled. “I could never do that.”

Sylvia wasn't exactly sure what he meant, but his voice warmed her as much as the sweater did.

A companionable silence fell over them again.

Andrew shifted beside her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Something on your mind?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Something's keeping you up tonight. Is anything wrong?”

“Oh, no. I'm fine,” Sylvia said briskly, forcing out a smile. “I'm just enjoying the night air.”

“Is that so.” He regarded her wryly. “I think I know you well enough to see when you're not happy. But you go right ahead and keep your secrets, Sylvia. I know better than to try to pry them from you.”

Sylvia's smile faded. She did have her share of secrets—no one lived to her age without accumulating at least a few. But some secrets weighed too heavily on her heart, and the longer she kept them inside, the more they pulled her down.

She found herself telling Andrew about Sarah and Carol, how she had hoped to bring them together and how she had failed. She told him how much it pained her to see them estranged, and how she loved Sarah as if the young woman were her own child, how Sarah's joys brought her such delight, and how Sarah's sorrows pained Sylvia as if they were her own.

As she spoke, Andrew listened without interrupting. He didn't tell her that the problem wasn't as bad as she thought, in that infuriating, patronizing way so many men had. Nor did he try to solve the problem for her. All he did was listen, fold his hand around hers, and share her burden. And that, she realized, was exactly what she needed.

A
s she left her office in the computer sciences building late Tuesday afternoon, Judy thought about the round robin quilt. It was already beautiful, even without Agnes's center motif, which apparently was going to remain a heavily guarded secret. Whenever Sylvia wasn't around to hear, the other Elm Creek Quilters would beg Agnes to show them her progress—but each time she refused. She wouldn't even give them a hint. “You want to be surprised, don't you?” she would ask, smiling.

“No,” Diane would retort.

But Agnes merely laughed and brushed aside their questions, no matter how persistent they became. All she would reveal was that she was using appliqué rather than piecing, which they had assumed anyway. Not even Bonnie could equal Agnes in appliqué.

Maybe she should use appliqué, too, Judy thought as she crossed the Waterford College campus, heading for home. It would be easier to decide if she knew what Agnes was doing, especially since Judy was now making the fourth border rather than the last. According to their original schedule, it was Gwen's turn to work on the quilt, but Gwen had begged Judy to switch places.

“My life is in chaos right now, what with final exams coming up and Summer's graduation,” Gwen had explained. “I'll owe you one.”

Judy had laughed. “In that case, I'll do it.” She had finals of her own to
write and grade, but she didn't mind trading places with Gwen, although it meant coming up with a new design. The border she had originally planned had a scalloped edge, which made it unsuitable for its new position. She had studied the quilt that evening and had thought about it throughout the day, but try as she might, she couldn't think of what to add.

As she walked up her driveway, Judy decided that if inspiration eluded her much longer, she'd use Diane's trick and just set the quilt on point again with solid fabric triangles.

When she entered the house, she saw Steve in the living room on his knees, stuffing foam peanuts and wadded-up balls of newspaper into a trash bag. He looked up at the sound of the door, and before she could greet him, he held a finger to his lips. She nodded to show she understood. Emily was sleeping.

He crossed the room and wrapped her in a hug. “Welcome home,” he murmured, as if she'd been gone for months instead of hours, and gave her a kiss that made her knees weak. It was the same welcome he'd given her every day for years, but she had never grown tired of it, and couldn't imagine she ever would.

“How long has she been napping?” Judy asked.

“About fifteen minutes.” Steve kissed her again before returning to his work.

Judy inspected the mess. “What's all this?”

“My mom sent Emily a present.”

Something in his tone made her wary. “What was it?”

“Well—” Steve hesitated. “There's good news and bad news.” He rose, took Judy by the hand, and led her down the hall toward their bedroom.

“This must be the good news,” Judy teased, but he passed their room and stopped outside Emily's.

“No, the good news is my mother finally understands that you're not Chinese.”

Judy laughed. “At last. What's the bad news?”

Steve quietly pushed open the door. Emily was sleeping, tucked under the Log Cabin quilt Judy had made for her. She looked so adorable that
for a moment Judy forgot her mother-in-law, so swept up was she in the fierce love she felt for her only child. Once she had feared that she loved Steve so much she couldn't possibly have enough love left over for anyone else, but her first glimpse of newborn Emily proved to her once and forever that she had been wrong, so wrong.

Then she saw the doll in Emily's arms. It was new, and it was wearing a kimono.

Judy turned to Steve and sighed. Steve grinned and closed the door.

“That does it,” Judy said. “Next year for her birthday, I'm getting your mother an atlas.”

“Or you could get her tickets to
Miss Saigon.
”

“Oh, aren't you the funny one,” she retorted, nudging him with her hip. He laughed and embraced her again, and kissed her, and after one more kiss they forgot about the mess in the living room for a little while.

As they lay in bed holding each other, Steve said, “I forgot to tell you. Your mom called.”

“To give you more career advice, I presume?” Judy's mom considered writing a hobby, and she was anxious for Steve to find employment better suited for the husband of a computer science professor and the father of the most beautiful and gifted grandchild the world had ever seen. She'd been sending him advice columns and Help Wanted ads for years. Steve good-naturedly replied with thank-you notes and clips of his articles.

“Not this time.” Steve stroked her shoulder. “She said you got a letter.”

“At her house?”

“That's what she said.”

“That's strange. I haven't lived there since college. Did she say who sent it?”

Steve shook his head and began to speak, but just then Emily called out from her bedroom. “Back to work,” he said, kicking off the covers. They dressed quickly, and Judy went to see to Emily while Steve went to the kitchen to prepare supper. Steve jokingly called the routine they'd followed for nearly three years “tag-team parenting,” but it worked well for them. Steve took care of Emily during the day while Judy worked; after
supper, Judy minded Emily while Steve went off to the spare bedroom to write, or to the Waterford College library to do research. They spent the weekends as a family, away from their computers, away from their textbooks. The schedule didn't leave much time for Judy and Steve to spend alone as a couple, but that made the unexpected moments snatched from their busy days all the more precious.

It wasn't until after she'd given Emily her bath and put her to bed that Judy remembered to return her mother's phone call. Her mother lived alone in the house outside Philadelphia where Judy had grown up. When her mother's voice came on the line, Judy closed her eyes and imagined she was back there again, sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of tea, listening entranced to her mother's stories of the land of her birth and of Judy's, a country and time and place Judy no longer remembered. Every detail of that house was etched sharply into her heart. The sound of the winter wind in the trees, the smells of cooking, the sight of her father—young and alive in her memory, tall and strong as he mowed the lawn in summer or pushed her on the swing. One day, she knew, the big old house would become too much for her mother, and it would have to be sold. She hoped that day was a long time off, but she knew every year brought it closer.