November was one of the busiest months of the year for Elm Creek Quilts, rivaled only by the first month of the new camp season. Although summer probably seemed a long time away for their campers, Sylvia and her colleagues were already deciding what classes and seminars to offer, assessing their staffing needs, printing up brochures and registration forms, and running new marketing campaigns. Sylvia wondered why they bothered to advertise since hundreds of registration forms had already arrived, but Sarah insisted the investment would pay off later. Sylvia shrugged and decided to have faith in Sarah’s and Summer’s judgment. She couldn’t argue with their success, and besides, the activity kept her friends from talking about wedding gowns and bouquets day and night.
When she could spare time from Elm Creek Quilts, Sylvia continued the search for her mother’s quilts from behind her father’s oak desk in the library. The flood of letters and e-mails in response to Summer’s post on the Missing Quilts Home Page had slowed to only one or two a week, but Sylvia followed each trail until she was sure it had reached a dead end. Unfortunately, virtually all the newest leads did so, for whenever Sylvia called or wrote to verify certain details, her questions brought forth new information that confirmed the quilt in question could not be her mother’s.
Other leads that had once seemed promising had faded away. Even her friend Grace Daniels, the quilt historian from San Francisco, responded to Sylvia’s e-mail with bad news.
TO: Summer.Sullivan@elmcreek.net
FROM: Grace Daniels <danielsg@deyoung.org>
DATE: 10:10 AM PT 6 Nov 2002
SUBJECT: Your Quilt Investigation
(Summer, please print out this note for Sylvia.)
Sylvia, I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but I’m afraid I have bad news. I checked the San Jose Quilt Museum as you requested, but they do not have any New York Beauty quilts on display or in storage. I also called my contacts at the New England Quilt Museum and the Museum of the American Quilter’s Society with the same result. We’ll keep spreading the word and eventually some better information will surface.
I wonder if you might want to modify your inquiries to include the alternate names for the pattern. As you probably know, the New York Beauty did not acquire that name until the 1930s, when its pattern was included in the packages of a certain brand of batting. Until then, it was known as Rocky Mountain, Rocky Mountain Road, or Crown of Thorns.
I’ll talk to you soon, and remember, don’t give up!
Grace
PS: You really ought to get your own e-mail address.
Sylvia had never heard of the alternate names for the New York Beauty pattern, but when she searched her memory, she was forced to admit she could not think of a single occasion when her mother had referred to her version as anything but her wedding quilt. Sylvia’s earliest memory of the name was a time several years after her mother’s death, when Great-Aunt Lucinda showed Sylvia’s father a similar quilt in a magazine and remarked how appropriate it had been for Sylvia’s mother to choose that pattern for her bridal quilt, as she had been a New York beauty herself. Tears had come to her father’s eyes, and he had agreed.
Sylvia doubted that adding the alternative names to the description of her mother’s missing quilt would help where an illustration had failed, but with so little else to go on, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to try.
The only clues that still gave Sylvia any hope were the check Gloria Schaeffer had used to buy the Ocean Waves quilt, the name of the auction house that had purchased the Elms and Lilacs quilt from Mary Beth Callahan’s mother, and—despite Grace’s disappointing reports—the few responses that placed the New York Beauty quilt in a museum. Although none of these responses named the same museum, Sylvia still believed she could not afford to dismiss them. She theorized that the quilt was or had been part of a traveling exhibit, which was why those who spotted it did not agree on the location, and why none of those museums now had the New York Beauty in its possession.
The one quilt Sylvia had abandoned her search for was the whole cloth quilt. Without her mother’s embroidered initials and date, and with so many virtually identical quilts in existence, Sylvia reluctantly had to admit that identifying her mother’s version would be impossible. Why, then, did the name of the quilt’s designer sound so familiar? At first she assumed that she must have seen other examples of Abigail Drury’s work, but Summer searched the Waterford College Library’s databases and Sylvia pored over her many quilt books and magazines without finding a single mention of her name besides the October 1912 issue of Ladies’ Home Journal. It seemed unlikely that a quilt designer of her considerable talent would have published but a single pattern in her entire career.
The frustration of this unsolved mystery urged Sylvia on to likelier prospects. The auction house in Sewickley kept excellent records, including who had purchased the Elms and Lilacs quilt and when, but it also had a strict confidentiality policy and would not release the name of the current owners without their permission. After a few anxious days, the auction house called back to inform her that the owner’s niece, who had inherited the quilt upon her aunt’s death, had agreed to take Sylvia’s call. The niece traveled often, so Sylvia left several messages on her answering machine before finally reaching her, only to learn that the niece had sold the Elms and Lilacs quilt two years before.
“I hated to give it up,” the young woman said. “Unfortunately, in her will, my aunt left the quilt to me and my husband. Ex-husband. She never thought we would split up or she would have left it to me alone. Our divorce negotiations dragged on for months longer than necessary just because he would not give up that quilt.”
“He must have been very fond of it.”
“Not at all. He preferred the duvet. He just wanted to hurt me.”
“I suppose you’re better off without him, then.”
“You have no idea. Eventually I just couldn’t deal with the struggle anymore, so I offered to sell the quilt and divide the money. He considered that a victory since I would lose my quilt. We agreed to have an independent appraiser from some organization, the Association of Quilters of America or something—”
“The National Quilters Association?”
“Yes, that sounds right. Would you believe she said the quilt was worth three thousand dollars? I’ll never forget my ex’s face when he heard that. He practically danced around the room with dollar signs in his eyes and cash registers ringing in the background.” The young woman sniffed. “But he wasn’t laughing long.
“I offered to find a buyer for the quilt, and since in addition to being a jerk my ex is also lazy, he agreed. I took it to the quilt shop in downtown Sewickley, but they were having financial problems and weren’t buying quilts. From there I went to two different antique stores. One offered me a thousand and the other, two.”
“But you knew it was worth much more.”
“That wasn’t the point. So I took it to Horsefeathers.”
“Where?”
“The Horsefeathers Boutique. It’s a funky arts and crafts store in downtown Sewickley. The owner is a local artist and you would not believe the stuff she makes. I showed her the quilt, she oohed and ahhed and agreed it was beautiful—and offered me thirty dollars for it.”
“That’s all? Did you tell her about the appraisal?”
“No, I told her it was a deal. I handed over the quilt, she gave me the cash and a receipt. Then I drove right over to the apartment my ex was sharing with his new girlfriend and gave him his fifteen bucks.”
Sylvia closed her eyes and sighed. “I suppose I can understand why you did that, but it sounds like a bitter triumph to me.”
“So it wasn’t my proudest moment. At least I showed him he couldn’t walk all over me and get away with it. He knew I loved that quilt, and that’s why he took it from me.”
“If you cared for it so much, why didn’t you buy it back after the terms of the divorce negotiations were satisfied?”
“I couldn’t. That quilt became a symbol of everything wrong in our marriage.” Suddenly her tone shifted. “This doesn’t mean you’ll never find your mother’s quilt. It might still be at Horsefeathers, and if not, they’ll know who has it.”
Unless it had changed hands once again. “I’ll try to contact them right away. Thank you very much for the information.”
“No problem. Oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“When you make out your will, don’t leave something to a couple when you really just mean for one of them to have it. And if you know anyone who’s getting married, your grandchildren or whatever, make sure they have a great prenup.”
“Thanks,” said Sylvia. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
Sylvia had lived in Sewickley for many years, but she had never heard of the Horsefeathers Boutique, and she would have sworn there was a toy store at the street corner the young woman had described. Still, she knew better than to rely upon her memory alone, and sure enough, when Summer searched on-line, she found a phone number and address for the store. When Sylvia called, the owner was not available but the sales clerk said the Elms and Lilacs quilt sounded familiar. Sylvia decided to take this as a good if ambiguous sign. She left her name and number and asked for the owner to call her at her convenience.
Following the trail of Gloria Schaeffer’s check proved easier. Gloria’s old phone number was no longer in service, as Sylvia had expected, and the house and land had been razed decades ago to make way for a shopping mall. Fortunately, one of her two sons still lived in Waterford and was listed in the phone book. When Sylvia called, she reached Philip Schaeffer’s wife, Edna, a friendly woman close to her own age. She seemed fascinated by Sylvia’s tale of the search for her mother’s quilts and explained that the two sons had divided up the quilts they had inherited from Gloria. “My husband and I don’t own any quilts that sound like your Ocean Waves quilt, so it must have gone to his brother, Howard,” said Edna. “He lives in Iowa now, but he and his family are coming here for Thanksgiving. I’ll ask him to bring the quilt if he still owns it, but I’m afraid I can’t promise he’ll sell it to you.”
“I understand,” Sylvia assured her, and they made plans for Sylvia to stop by on the Friday after Thanksgiving. She could not expect everyone to part with their quilts as readily as Mona Niehaus had. The Schaeffers had owned the Ocean Waves quilt for more than fifty years, longer than the Bergstroms themselves. They likely considered it one of their own family heirlooms by now. After the disappointment of the whole cloth quilt, Sylvia would be satisfied just to see the quilt again and to know it was treasured.
As Thanksgiving approached, Sylvia waited for Andrew and his children to decide how they would spend the holiday. Sometimes Sylvia and Andrew joined his children and their families at Amy’s home in Connecticut, but on alternate years, Sylvia invited everyone to Elm Creek Manor. She enjoyed those celebrations the most because Sarah’s mother and Matt’s father also joined them for the weekend, and the other Elm Creek Quilters always found time to stop by for some coffee and pie. This year was supposed to be Sylvia’s turn to play hostess, which Sylvia considered especially fortuitous because she knew she would have few opportunities to make peace with Andrew’s children before the wedding. Welcoming them into her home would, she hoped, show them how much she cared about them and their father.
But as the days grew colder and shorter, and the first light snow fell, Andrew said little about the upcoming holiday. When Sylvia pressed him, he would say that they had not had a chance to discuss it, or that his children had not made up their minds. Finally Sylvia insisted that he call them and make a decision, because in a few days she would either need to buy a turkey or pack her suitcase and she would appreciate a little advance notice. Andrew apologized and went off to the parlor to phone them, but returned shaking his head.
“They’re not coming?” asked Sylvia.
“Not this year. It’s too far to drive round trip in four days and they don’t want to fly. Since they know it wouldn’t be fair to ask me to choose between them, they thought it best if we all spend Thanksgiving at our own homes.”
Sylvia heard Amy’s voice echoed in Andrew’s words. “I can’t believe Bob is afraid to fly,” she said. “If your children want to get together with you at Amy’s, I’ll stay home. I don’t want to rob you of a holiday with your family.”
“Absolutely not.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Like I told Amy when she was here last month, you’re my family.”
He kissed her, and Sylvia knew he meant what he said, but she felt sick at heart thinking about the widening divide between Andrew and his children. She thought of his grandchildren and wondered how the holiday plans would be explained to them. She wondered what excuses they would invent for Andrew’s absence, year after year, if the disagreement grew into estrangement.
A shadow darkened their Thanksgiving feast that year, and not even the presence of Sarah’s mother and Matt’s father could lift it entirely. Sylvia knew that Andrew missed his family; he glanced at the clock throughout the day, as if imagining what his children and grandchildren were doing at that moment. He left shortly after dessert to call them, but he returned a mere fifteen minutes later to say that they were well and that they gave Sylvia and her friends their best regards.
Privately, Sarah tried to reassure Sylvia that the disagreement would not last long. The chill must be thawing already, or Andrew wouldn’t have phoned Amy and Bob at all. “By Christmas everyone will be on good terms again,” she said, giving Sylvia a comforting hug. “You’ll see. We’ll invite everyone here and have a wonderful time. We’ll wine and dine the adults and slip the kids candy when their parents aren’t looking. Before long they’ll start to see the advantages of having you as a stepmother.”
Sylvia had to laugh. “You’re absolutely right. Why didn’t I resort to bribery long ago?”
She was joking, of course, but although she wouldn’t admit it to a soul, she might have tried to win them over with gifts if not for her pride—and her certainty that it wouldn’t work. Nothing Sylvia could do or say or give could change the facts that she was seven years older than Andrew and had once had a stroke. It would be easier to persuade his children to give the marriage their blessing if they merely disliked her.
The next morning, Sarah drove Sylvia to Edna and Philip Schaeffer’s house, a red-brick ranch with two large oak trees in the front yard and four cars parked in the driveway. Three young children ran through scattered leaves on the lawn, shouting and laughing, while an older boy, rake in hand, called out orders they ignored. The four watched with interest as Sylvia and Sarah got out of the Elm Creek Quilts minivan and approached the front door. “Hewwo,” called the youngest, a boy not quite two.
“Hello, honey,” Sarah replied, waving. The little boy grinned and hid behind the eldest girl.
“You could have one yourself, you know,” said Sylvia as she rang the doorbell.
“Please. You sound just like my mother.” Sarah rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she spoke, with no hint of the resentment that used to surface whenever her mother was mentioned. Their relationship had been strained for years, but they had reconciled while both women helped Sylvia recover from her stroke. She should take comfort in their example, Sylvia told herself. If Sarah and Carol could find a way to accept their differences, surely Andrew and his children could. She just hoped they wouldn’t require an unexpected calamity to push them forward.
A woman who looked to be in her mid-eighties answered the door. “You must be Sylvia Compson,” she said, opening the door and beckoning them inside. “I’m Edna Schaeffer, as you probably guessed.”
Sylvia thanked her for allowing them to interrupt her holiday and introduced Sarah. “Did your brother-in-law have a safe trip?” she asked, surreptitiously scanning the room for the quilt.
Edna’s face assumed an apologetic expression that had become all too familiar to Sylvia since she had begun the search. “He did, thank you, but I’m afraid he didn’t bring your mother’s quilt with him.”
“I see,” said Sylvia.
“I’m sorry, dear.” Edna patted Sylvia’s arm sympathetically. “It’s a long story and he wanted to tell you himself, or I would have called and saved you the trip over. Howard’s been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Has he?”
“Oh, my, yes. Phil has, too, but don’t worry. I’m not the jealous type.” Edna smiled and led them into the living room, where two older gentlemen and several younger men and women sat talking and watching a football game on television. The two older men stood as the women approached. “This can’t be little tagalong Sylvia,” boomed the taller of the two. “What happened to all those dark tousled curls?”
“I’m afraid they’re long gone.” Smiling, Sylvia shook the men’s hands. “And I beg your pardon, but I was never a tagalong.”
“That’s not what Claudia told us,” said the other man, his voice a quiet echo of his brother’s. He had to be Philip, the younger of the two Schaeffer boys. He had always been more bashful than Howard.
“My goodness, that’s right. I had forgotten you two were in the same class.” Sylvia pursed her lips and feigned annoyance. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she told tales on me.”
“I was sweet on her,” said Phil, with an embarrassed shrug and a glance at his wife, who patted his arm and laughed. “I hung on every word she said, but she only had eyes for Howard.”
“Until Harold Midden came to town,” said Howard, shaking his head. “Claudia used to kiss me behind the library after school, but once she met Harold, she tossed me out like yesterday’s trash.”
“She didn’t,” said Sylvia, shocked. “She told us she went to the library to study.”
Howard shrugged. “We sometimes fit in a little studying afterward. Anyway, I always knew it wouldn’t have worked out between us in the long run.”
“Why not?”
Edna gestured to two chairs near Sylvia and Sarah. “Why don’t we all sit down and hear the whole story?”
“Our mother wouldn’t be pleased if she knew we were telling you this,” said Phil ruefully as they seated themselves.
Sylvia, who had learned that some of the most important stories began with the revelation of a secret, sat back and smiled to encourage him to continue.
“I guess you know our mother disliked yours,” said Howard.
“Why, no, I never knew that,” said Sylvia, looking from one brother to the other in surprise. “I knew she didn’t care for me and my sister, but neither did the entire Waterford Quilting Guild or they wouldn’t have let her kick us out.”
“Didn’t your mothers found the guild together?” asked Sarah. “They must have been friends at one point.”
“You never knew our mothers were enemies and we never knew they were friends,” said Phil. “We grew up hearing how awful the Bergstroms were, how selfish, how they had cost our father his life.”
“What?” exclaimed Sylvia.
“Now you can see why I knew my relationship with Claudia would never go anywhere,” said Howard. “Mother would have fainted if I had brought her home.”
“That probably added to Claudia’s appeal,” teased Edna.
“Let’s get back to your father,” said Sylvia. “Why on earth did your mother blame mine for his death?”
Howard and Phil exchanged a look before Howard said, “Well, first let me say that even as boys we knew our mother and her friends were jealous of your mother. We knew why, too. Your mother was the prettiest woman in Waterford, and she was so gentle and kind that of course every man and boy in town had a crush on her. She wasn’t from around here, either, and that made her seem mysterious and exotic.”
“Exotic?” said Sylvia. “My mother? She was from New York, not the other side of the world.”
“To people who had never left the Elm Creek Valley,” said Phil, “New York might as well have been the other side of the world.”
“We were like all the rest,” added Howard. “We admired your mother, but we felt guilty about it because we knew we were betraying our mother.”
“She always thought our father liked your mother a little too much,” said Phil. “Not that she ever thought he cheated on her—”
“Not with my mother he didn’t,” declared Sylvia. “My mother was devoted to my father. She would never have considered such a thing.”
“Our father felt the same way about our mother,” said Howard. “At least that’s what our other relatives told us. I was just a boy when he died, and Phil here was just a baby.”
“How did your father die?” asked Sarah.
“In the influenza epidemic of 1918,” said Howard.
“So did several members of my own family,” said Sylvia.
Phil grimaced and nodded. “We were well aware of that. Mother never let us forget it. You see, as soon as the people of Waterford realized that the disease was coming closer, they quarantined the town.”
Sylvia nodded. Her great-aunt Lucinda had told her stories of those terrible weeks when nearly the entire family had been stricken, and Great-Aunt Maude and young Aunt Clara had died. Claudia, too, had nearly lost her life, although no one but Aunt Lucinda ever spoke of it.
“The town stayed free of the disease for a while,” said Phil. “But it didn’t last, and our father was the first to catch it.”
“And the first to die,” said Howard. “He was the town mail carrier. He delivered a letter to your mother, and according to our mother, he caught the flu there.”
“Our mother fell ill next, and then it was everywhere,” said Phil. “Our mother recovered, but she was never the same. She told everyone that my father had caught the disease from the Bergstroms, and that your family had broken the quarantine in order to buy and sell your horses. If not for the greed of the Bergstroms, she said, Waterford would have been spared. The hundreds who died here would never have suffered so much as a runny nose.”
Sylvia clutched the arms of her chair. “I don’t believe it,” she managed to say. “My family never would have risked other people’s lives for money.”
“Of course not.” Sarah reached out and touched her arm, frowning at the Schaeffers. “With all due respect, your mother wasn’t a doctor, and no one knew about viruses back then. She couldn’t have known for certain where your father contracted the disease, and unless she personally witnessed the Bergstroms crossing the quarantine line, she had no right to accuse them.”
Edna held up her hands to calm them. “Please, boys, tell them the rest.”
“I’m sorry I upset you,” said Howard. “We just wanted you to hear the story we grew up with.”
“We know your family didn’t bring the flu to Waterford,” said Phil. “Our father did.”
“He was delivering the town’s mail to the postal center in Grangerville when the quarantine signs went up,” said Howard. “He stayed in Grangerville, but when people began dying right and left, he got scared and beat it out of town. He holed up in a hunting shack for a while, but when he ran out of food, he came home.”
“Mother was so glad to see him that she cried,” said Phil, “but she knew he had endangered the town. She came and went as usual rather than arouse suspicions, but she made him stay indoors with the curtains drawn for four days until they were both certain he wasn’t sick.”
“After that, they figured he was safe, so he acted as if he had never left Waterford,” said Howard. “A few close friends knew he had been away, but my parents invented some story about him being laid up with a sprained ankle at an outlying farm, and that in all the confusion, Gloria never received word. Only one other person knew he had knowingly crossed the quarantine line.”
“Sylvia’s mother,” said Sarah.
“Exactly.”
“Our mother was horrified that she and our father had infected the town,” said Phil. “Frankly, I think it would have come anyway. The Spanish flu was so contagious and the quarantine so easily breached that it was only a matter of time. The fact is, however, that our parents introduced it into Waterford, and my mother couldn’t handle the shame. She was terrified that people would find out and condemn her.”
“So instead she condemned my family,” said Sylvia.
The two men nodded.
“She regretted that all her life,” said Howard. “But once she started the lie, it got out of her control. She told herself that people would forget, but although they didn’t talk much about the flu itself, everyone remembered to mistrust the Bergstroms long after they forgot the reason why.”
“We knew nothing of this until the week before she died,” said Edna. “The guilt of what she had done ate away at her for the better part of fifty years. She had bought your mother’s quilt as a way to help your sister financially, and at the end of her life, her greatest concern was that we return the quilt to you.”
“She wasn’t content to return it to Claudia because she was afraid your sister would just sell it again,” said Howard.
“If the secret bothered your mother for roughly fifty years, she must have passed away in the 1960s,” said Sarah. “Why didn’t you return the quilt to Sylvia as your mother requested?”
Sylvia thought she knew the answer, and Phil confirmed it. “No one knew where Sylvia was. Claudia didn’t know, and the rest of the Bergstrom family had either moved away or passed on. We always assumed she would return to Elm Creek Manor some day, and we planned to return the quilt to her then.”
“As the years went by, we all sort of forgot about it,” said Edna apologetically.
“Then I moved away to Iowa.” Howard frowned and shook his head. “I should have left the quilt here, but it was packed away with other things my mother had left me, and I never gave it a second thought. I found it when I was clearing out the basement after my wife passed away. I knew it ought to be in Waterford in case you came home, but I didn’t want to ship it, so I decided to bring it the next time I came to visit.”
And yet here he was, without the quilt. “What happened to it?” asked Sylvia.
Edna said, “I’m sure you heard about all that terrible flooding in the Midwest a few years back.”
Sylvia could guess the rest, but she nodded.
“I lost nearly everything when the Mississippi crested,” said Howard. “I’m sorry, Sylvia, but your mother’s quilt couldn’t be salvaged.”
It was so waterlogged and encrusted with mud that they didn’t recognize it as a quilt,” Sylvia told Andrew when she and Sarah returned home. “They discarded it with the rest of the soiled clothes and bedding.”
“There probably wasn’t anything you could have done to restore it even if they hadn’t thrown it away,” said Andrew.
“Probably not,” she admitted, but she still wished they had saved it. Soiled or not, it was still the work of her mother’s hands, rare and precious, if only to her.
On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Sylvia and Andrew drove west in the Elm Creek Quilts minivan, which they favored over the motor home when the twists and turns of the Pennsylvania roadways were dusted with snow. Sylvia preferred not to travel in foul weather at all, but she was impatient to pursue this lead, and the owner of the Horsefeathers Boutique had not returned her calls. Sylvia wanted to believe that the owner either never received the messages or had been too swamped by the Christmas sales rush to call her back, but it was equally likely the owner had not called because she no longer had the quilt. Sylvia would have waited another week before going to see the shop in person, but the drive to Sewickley was reasonable and her need for answers urgent.
Sylvia’s anticipation grew as they approached Sewickley. She had lived there for nearly forty years, from the time she first accepted a teaching position in the Allegheny School District until the lawyer called with news of her sister’s death. When Sylvia went to Waterford to settle her sister’s affairs, she had planned to sell Elm Creek Manor, return to Sewickley, and live out her days there. She never imagined she would return to Sewickley only to sell her house.
She happily pointed out her former home as they passed by it on Camp Meeting Road. “Goodness, they painted it robin’s egg blue,” she said, twisting in her seat and staring out the window. “When I lived there, the house was a deep brick red, with black shutters. It used to disappear into the trees.”
“No danger of that now,” said Andrew, carefully maneuvering the motor home down a steep, curving hill. Sylvia directed him to turn left on Beaver Street and into the downtown area, where several blocks of Victorian homes, shops, and restaurants were already decorated for Christmas, with colored lights in the storefronts and holly twined about the lampposts.
The familiarity of the sight warmed her, which was why the changes to her former hometown struck with unexpected surprise. Her favorite café had become a men’s clothing store, she saw as they passed, and the old Thrift Drug store was now a Starbucks. “The quilt shop is gone,” she exclaimed with dismay, staring in disbelief as they passed a shoe store.
“They probably went under after you moved away,” said Andrew. “What you spend on fabric could keep three or four quilt shops in the black.”
“Just for that, I’m not treating you to lunch,” Sylvia teased. “And I know all the best places around here.”
They parked the motor home in a public lot and put on their coats and gloves, for although Horsefeathers was just around the corner, the wind blew cold and the air smelled of snow.
“I’m surprised they’re allowed to use that color,” Sylvia remarked as they approached the fuchsia storefront.
“I’m surprised anyone would want to.”
“No, I mean I believe they have a board that regulates those sorts of things. At least they did when I lived here. The downtown district tries to maintain a certain aesthetic. You should have seen the uproar when McDonald’s tried to move in.”
By then they were close enough to read the bright gold letters painted on the storefront window. “HORSEFEATHERS BOUTIQUE. ART FROM FOUND OBJECTS,” read Andrew. “That disqualifies your mother’s quilt, since it’s a lost object.”
“One person’s lost is another person’s found,” said Sylvia absently. Her hand was on the doorknob, but the assortment of oddities displayed in the window had captured her attention. A chandelier made of antique doorknobs. A men’s trench coat pieced from velvet Elvises. Several picture frames embellished with everything from coins to insects trapped in amber. The whimsical collection had been arranged to set off each piece to its best advantage, obviously by someone quite fond of her creations.
“Whoever the owner is,” said Sylvia, pulling open the door, “she must have a sense of humor.”
Inside, the shop was almost too warm, but the heat was a welcome respite from the cold wind. Sylvia removed her hat and tucked it into her pocket, looking around in amazement. The aisles were stuffed with items that defied description—a sculpture made from stacks of old newspapers, a refrigerator transformed into a grandfather clock, a dress sewn from small, white rectangles of fabric that appeared to have printing on them. Sylvia leaned closer for a better look, and laughed. “‘Under penalty of law this tag is not to be removed except by the consumer.’”
“That doesn’t look very comfortable.”
“I don’t think that’s the point, do you? I’m sure the artist was making a statement.” She paused. “What sort of statement, I honestly couldn’t say.”
Andrew found the price tag. “An expensive one. This will set you back six hundred bucks.”
“And here I was going to put it on my Christmas list.” Sylvia looked around the shop. She didn’t see any quilts amid the clutter, but a stout woman in a purple caftan had emerged from a backroom and was making her way toward them. Her dark brown hair hung nearly to her waist and, unless Sylvia’s eyes were deceiving her, her earrings were made from pasta embellished with silver paint and glitter.
“Can I help you find something?” the woman asked.
“I hope so,” said Sylvia. “Are you Charlene Murray? My name is Sylvia Compson. I left a message—several messages, actually— about an antique quilt that I believe may be in your possession.”
“A quilt?” The woman’s brow furrowed, and then she brightened. “Wait. Are you the woman from Waterford?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” exclaimed Charlene. “I meant to call you back, but I lost the sticky note with your phone number.”
“Maybe you sewed it into a pair of pants,” offered Andrew.
Sylvia nudged him. “Your associate said that the quilt sounded familiar. Did she tell you about it? It was made in the medallion style, with appliquéd elm leaves, lilacs, and intertwining vines. The hand quilting is quite superior, fourteen stitches to the inch, except in a few places where my sister and I helped.” She tried not to, but she couldn’t help adding, “My stitches were nine to the inch back then. Any larger than that were my sister’s.”
“I know exactly the piece you mean.” Charlene beckoned for Sylvia to follow her deeper into the shop. “It wasn’t in the best condition when I took it on, but it was fabulous material, and it cleaned up nicely in the washing machine.”
Sylvia winced. “I hope you used the gentle cycle. It is an antique.”
“No, I just threw it in with the rest of my laundry,” said Charlene airily. “I had to treat it as I know my customers would to see if it would hold up. No one hand washes anymore, no matter how many times I tell them this is wearable art and not something they picked up at the Gap.”
“But you do have the quilt, right?” asked Andrew.
Charlene beamed. “I do, and wait until you see what I’ve done with it.” She stopped at a clothing rack, pushed aside a few hangers, and gestured proudly to a quilted jacket. “You’re in luck. This is the last one.”
Sylvia took in appliquéd flowers and leaves, exquisite quilting— “Good heavens.”
“Thank you. It’s absolutely one of my favorites. I already sold one size small, two larges, and an extra-large.” She removed the jacket from the hanger and held it up to Sylvia. “I was tempted to keep this one for myself, but it’s a medium, and as you can see, I’m not. It should fit you, though.”
Sylvia closed her arms around what remained of her mother’s quilt and tried to think of something to say. All she could manage was, “Why?”
Charlene’s laughed tinkled. “I get that question all the time. I take my inspiration from many sources, but I admit this one is a little more pragmatic. I had a friend who fought with her sisters over a quilt their late mother had made. Since they all wanted it and no one was willing to let the others have it, they took a pair of scissors and cut it into four pieces. My friend doesn’t sew, so she asked me to repair the edges of hers so the filling wouldn’t fall out. But since her little quarter of a quilt wasn’t big enough for a bed anymore, I made her a vest instead.”
Sylvia wanted to bury her face in the jacket and weep. “She let you do that?”
“Are you kidding? She was thrilled. Two of her sisters had me do the same thing to their pieces.” Charlene peered at her inquisitively. “Do you want to try it on?”
Sylvia shook her head, but Charlene pretended not to notice and within moments had Sylvia out of her winter coat and into the jacket. She led Sylvia to a full-length mirror, where she gushed about how much the jacket suited her. Sylvia ran her hands over the jacket. It fit her well, and her mother’s handiwork had retained much of its beauty despite its transformation. But the jacket was less than what the quilt had been, and Sylvia could not speak for the ache in her heart.
Charlene’s chatter had ceased, and she regarded Sylvia with perplexed worry that deepened as the awkward silence dragged on. Finally, Sylvia took a deep breath. “Did you save the rest of it?”
“You mean the scraps from my sewing?” Charlene shrugged. “I saved all of the filling and some of the fabric, but it’s long gone now, used up in other projects.”
“And the other jackets—do you know where they might be?”
Charlene chuckled, flattered but bemused. “Why, are you planning to outfit a basketball team?”
“Please, do you know how I might find them?”
She shook her head. “My records aren’t that detailed. I could ask my assistants if they remember, but we get mostly tourist traffic in here. The jackets most likely weren’t purchased by anyone from Sewickley.”
Sylvia’s hopes of reassembling the quilt faded.
“What do you want for it?” asked Andrew.
Sylvia fumbled for the price tag dangling from her sleeve. “Four hundred.” She shrugged off the jacket and handed it to Charlene. “Quite a return on your investment.”
“It might seem expensive, but it is a one-of-a-kind work of art.”
Andrew regarded her, stern. “By my count you made four others.”
“Not in size medium, and the appliqués are arranged differently on each jacket,” countered Charlene, but she looked sheepish. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Since you came such a long way, I’ll give you ten percent off.”
“I’ll take it,” said Andrew.
“No, Andrew,” said Sylvia, thinking of his pension. “Let me get it.”
But he insisted, and within minutes she was on her way back to the minivan, one arm tucked in Andrew’s, the other clutching the handles of a shopping bag with the quilted jacket inside. A light snow had begun to fall. Andrew steadied her so she would not slip on the pavement, and she burrowed her chin into her coat when a sudden gust of wind drove icy crystals into her face.
Once they were in the car, Andrew asked, “Do you want to head home or find a place to stay overnight?”
Sylvia had lost all interest in Christmas shopping. “Would you mind if we went home, or is that too much driving for one day?”
He assured her he was up to the trip if she was, and as he pulled out of the parking lot, she spread the jacket on her lap and sighed, running her hand over lavender lilac petals and faded green elm leaves, tracing a quilted feathered wreath with a fingertip. Considering the fate of the whole cloth quilt and the Ocean Waves, she was fortunate to find any part of the Elms and Lilacs. “I suppose a mutilated remnant of my mother’s quilt is better than nothing at all.”
“Hey,” protested Andrew. “Is that any way to talk about a man’s Christmas present?”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Sylvia hugged the quilt to her chest and managed a smile. “I am glad to have it, and it was good of you to get it for me.”
“That’s more like it.” He glanced at her for a moment before returning his gaze to the road. “What’s that writing on the inside?”
“This? It’s just the size tag.”
“Not that. On the left front, where the chest pocket would be.”
Sylvia opened the jacket and gasped at the sight of a faded bit of embroidery. “It’s my mother’s initials, and two numbers, a nine and a two. That must be part of the date. I know my mother completed this quilt in 1927.” She hugged the quilt, then leaned over and kissed Andrew. “Charlene was right; I am lucky. I would have purchased any one she had in the shop, but only this one had the embroidery.”
“That’s lucky.”
“It is, indeed. And you know what else? I think it’s a very good sign. I believe I will find the New York Beauty quilt before long.”
She settled back into her seat, content for the first time in days.
“Maybe it’s a sign for something else, too,” said Andrew.
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Such as?”
“Maybe we should get married here.”
“Instead of Waterford?” She frowned. “Then all our friends would have to travel—”
“No, they won’t. I mean here and now.”
Sylvia stared at him. “Now? As in right now?”
“As soon as we can find a minister or a judge or a justice of the peace. Come on, Sylvia, what do you say? We already have our marriage license. This way we could avoid all the conflict with the kids. They’ll have to stop complaining and start getting used to the idea if we just go ahead and do it.”
“That would put an end to my friends’ plans for an extravagant wedding,” mused Sylvia.
“We can still have a party. That way our friends can’t say we cheated them out of their celebration.”
Sylvia laughed. “I don’t know if that will be good enough, but I suppose they’ll forgive us eventually. She paused, considering. “Very well. Let’s do it.”
Andrew turned the minivan around.
They drove to the county clerk’s office, where they learned a justice of the peace could marry them, but not until the following day. They made an appointment for ten o’clock the next morning and set about finding a place to stay for the night. Sylvia remembered a charming bed-and-breakfast on Main Street, and since it happened to have a rare vacancy, Sylvia and Andrew checked in and concluded this was another happy omen.
They unpacked their overnight bags and, disregarding the chill in the air, ventured back toward the shops. Sylvia didn’t want a fancy wedding gown, but she certainly wouldn’t marry in the casual travel clothes she had brought for the ride home, and she could only laugh at Andrew’s suggestion that she wear the Elms and Lilacs jacket. To her delight, she found a lovely plum suit on sale, suitable for a wedding and yet something she could wear again, at Christmas. She insisted Andrew pick out something nice for himself as well and steered him toward a charcoal gray suit in which he looked quite distinguished. “This is your Christmas present,” she retorted when he protested about the price, and bought him a pair of shoes to go with it.
Afterward, they hurried through the falling snow to a jewelry store, where they selected their wedding bands. They told the bemused jeweler that they needed the rings right away and would wait while he engraved them.
They celebrated their wedding eve supper at the finest restaurant in downtown Sewickley, and strolled hand in hand back to their bed-and-breakfast, full of anticipation for the morning. They kissed good night and teased each other about oversleeping and missing their important date, but each knew the other would not miss it for the world.
Sylvia hummed to herself as she hung up her new suit and got ready for bed, but just before she turned out the light, her glance fell upon the telephone, and she wondered if she ought to call Sarah, at least, and ask her and Matt to witness the ceremony. She could hardly invite them and ignore Andrew’s children, however, so she turned out the light and went to sleep.
The next morning she woke before the alarm and lay in bed, listening to the wind blow ice against the windowpane. The dim light made the day seem younger than it was, but she heard Andrew stirring on the other side of the wall, and she knew she could not linger on such an important day.
Andrew had risen early, and he met her at breakfast with a small bouquet of flowers. It was lovely, and his face beamed with happiness as he kissed her and pulled her out of her chair. Their host and hostess were thrilled to discover they had a bride and groom at the table, and soon all the other guests were offering them congratulations and toasts of coffee and orange juice.
Andrew enjoyed every moment, but Sylvia found she had no appetite. When Andrew asked her if she felt ill, she assured him she was fine, just a little nervous from all the excitement. Andrew closed his hand around hers and held it while he ate, and by the time he finished, she felt much better. She even managed to swallow a few bites of her scrambled egg and drink most of her tea.
The sun had come out, chasing away the unseasonable cold, and nearly all the snow from the previous day had melted. They found a parking place right in front of the city clerk’s office. “Another good sign,” said Andrew, as he helped her from the minivan.
She clutched her bouquet and took his arm. “Do you have the wedding license?”
He touched his coat pocket. “Right here.”
“And the rings?”
He stopped, frowned, and patted all his pockets in turn until he smiled and withdrew the two small velvet boxes from his front suit pocket. “They’re here, too.”
“Good. I have the strangest feeling we’re forgetting something.” Sylvia felt breathless. “Should I hold your ring?”
He smiled. “As long as you promise to give it back.”
He gave her the ring box and offered her his arm again. She took it, smiled up at him, and allowed him to escort her inside.
Her heart pounded as they walked down the corridor toward the city clerk’s office. People they passed spied her bouquet and grinned. Sylvia flushed and smiled back at them, then held her head higher and strode purposefully forward. She loved Andrew. She wanted to marry him. And yet...
She stopped short in the corridor, bring him to a halt. “Andrew—”
He looked down at her, his dear face full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
“We can’t do this. We shouldn’t marry here, far from home, with strangers as witnesses.” His face fell, but she knew in her heart what she said was true. “We should marry surrounded by people we love, or not at all.”
He stared at her for a long, silent moment. He released her hands, turned away, and stood, head bowed, his back to her.
Hesitantly, she reached out and touched him softly on the shoulder. “Andrew?”
“You’re right.” He inhaled deeply, then turned to face her. She had never seen him more full of regret or resolve. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”