The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) Read online

  “Miss Sophie? James?” Karl added helpfully. “The same procedure as every year?”

  His question met with blank stares. Incredulous, the German couple fired off other names—Sir Toby, Admiral von Schneider, Mr. Pommeroy, Mr. Winterbottom—only to learn that their native English-speaking companions did not recognize a single one. “Everyone in Germany watches Dinner for One on New Year’s Eve,” said Karl. “I myself have seen it at least fifty times.”

  “It’s a television skit,” Erika explained. “It was written in the 1920s for the British cabaret, but the version we Germans know best was filmed in the early 1960s in front of a live audience in Hamburg. It’s been shown on German television every New Year’s Eve since the 1970s.”

  “All the stations broadcast it,” said Karl, searching their faces as if he still could not believe they were unaware of the tradition. “It’s almost impossible to avoid seeing it on the holiday.”

  Not that anyone tried to avoid it, the German couple added. The comical black-and-white skit was as integral to a German New Year’s celebration as they assumed dropping the ball in Times Square was to New Yorkers. The heroine of the story—Karl and Erika broke into fits of laughter as they explained—was Miss Sophie, an elderly British aristocrat celebrating her birthday as she did every year, with a dinner party attended by four dear old friends, blissfully ignoring the unfortunate truth that the men had passed away years ago. Rather than ruin the celebration, Miss Sophie’s butler, James, not only serves the meal but also fills in for the absent gentlemen—mimicking their voices, offering birthday toasts, and draining their glasses. As each course begins, James inquires, “The same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?” to which the lady replies, “The same procedure as every year, James.” With each course and round of drinks, James becomes more and more intoxicated—stumbling about, tripping over the tiger skin rug, sending a platter of chicken flying through the air. At the end of the meal, Miss Sophie announces that the party was wonderful, but now she wishes to retire. James links his arm through hers and repeats the now-familiar refrain: “The same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?” Miss Sophie answers, “The same procedure as every year, James.” James steadies himself on the staircase banister, declares “Well, I’ll do my very best,” and gives the unseen studio audience a broad wink before escorting Miss Sophie upstairs.

  Sylvia found herself smiling, not because the broad slapstick sounded particularly funny, but because Karl and Erika’s inexplicable fondness for the show was amusing to see. “It’s a bit ribald at the end, isn’t it?” she said.

  “I don’t get it,” said the motherin-law from upstate.

  “I think it’s probably one of those shows that gets funnier the more times you watch it,” said Andrew, ever the diplomat.

  “Absolutely,” Erika agreed. “It’s funnier with a group of friends, too. Some people watch in bars, and shout out all the lines with the characters. Others watch at home and prepare the same meal James serves Miss Sophie—Mulligatawny soup, North Sea haddock, chicken, and fruit. Still others use the show to play a drinking game, finishing a beer every time the refrain comes around, or drinking the same liquors James does as he makes each guest’s toasts to Miss Sophie.”

  “I don’t recommend that unless you want to start your New Year very, very ill,” warned Karl. “Although some say the skit is most humorous when one is as drunk as James.”

  “Too much imbibing on New Year’s Eve is an American tradition, too,” said Sylvia. “I never found anything amusing about that, myself.” For all that the Bergstroms had enjoyed her father’s rum punch, drunkenness had been unacceptable in their family, and it was not something Sylvia tolerated in others, either. She could never have married Andrew if he had been what in their day had been called “a drinking man.”

  “Where are you going to watch Dinner for One this year?” Andrew inquired.

  Karl and Erika exchanged a look. “We thought we would watch on the television in our room,” said Erika, “but I suppose that won’t be possible.”

  “We assumed everyone in the States watched it, too,” said Karl, with a shrug that asked, why wouldn’t you?

  “I don’t think that show has ever been broadcast here,” said Adele. “I’ll look into it and see what I can do.”

  “We’ve seen it so often that we can miss it once and still have a happy New Year,” said Erika, but she did not sound convinced. “You shouldn’t go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” said Adele. “That would be nothing compared to last year, when a Danish family stayed with us. On the morning of December thirty-first, they suddenly absolutely had to have dishes. You know, dinner plates and such. I offered them several from our cupboard, but for some reason those wouldn’t do. I assumed they wanted some to take home for souvenirs, so I offered directions to Tiffany’s and Bergdorf Goodman. That wasn’t what they wanted, either. Finally I directed them to the Arthritis Foundation Thrift Shop at Third and Seventy-Ninth, where they found some old dishes on sale. I had never seen anyone so happy over old dishes, and I thought it was a very odd souvenir, but of course I didn’t say anything. Later that night, I learned that in Denmark, it’s the custom to throw old dishes at the doors of your friends’ homes on New Year’s Eve. The more shards of broken dinnerware on your doorstep on January first, the more popular you are. Our Danish guests had been worried that the neighbors would think Julius and I had no friends, so they smashed all those old dishes on our front stoop. It was a mess, but I didn’t want to offend them by not respecting their tradition.”

  “At least they said it was a Danish tradition,” Julius broke in. “We wouldn’t have known. They might have been playing a New Year’s Eve prank on us.”

  “Maybe practical jokes are the real tradition,” said Andrew, and the other guests laughed.

  “How do you suppose we’ll spend New Year’s Eve?” asked Sylvia as she and Andrew returned to the Garden Room after breakfast.

  “I’m not sure,” said Andrew. “Amy never made a big deal out of the New Year. She loves Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Halloween, Arbor Day—”

  “Arbor Day?”

  “She likes to plant trees,” Andrew explained. “But she never got too excited about New Year’s Eve.”

  Sylvia found it difficult to believe that someone who enjoyed holidays—including the most obscure—would be indifferent to the New Year’s celebrations. “What about when Amy and Bob were young? Your family must have kept some New Year’s traditions Amy has passed down to her own children.”

  “Well, sure, we had a few. When Amy and Bob were kids, they could never stay awake long enough to ring in the New Year at the proper time. Katy would set the grandfather clock in the hall ahead so they could hear it strike midnight, and we’d toast the New Year with apple juice at nine o’clock. That routine fell by the wayside as the kids grew up. When Amy was a teenager, she babysat for other families in the neighborhood so the parents could go out and celebrate. She and my wife used to spend New Year’s Day watching home movies while Bob and I watched football, but I don’t know if you’d call that a tradition. If Amy’s ever made a New Year’s resolution, she’s kept it to herself.” Andrew searched his memory for a moment, but then shook his head. “If you’re looking for a big celebration, we should stay in New York and watch the ball drop in Times Square. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “I won’t be disappointed unless Amy leaves us standing on the front porch with our suitcases,” Sylvia promised. To her dismay, Andrew snorted as if he considered that a realistic possibility.

  Sylvia’s thoughts of New Year’s celebrations—and fears that she and Andrew might indeed be left outside in the snow upon their arrival in Hartford—soon faded as she and Andrew embarked upon what Sylvia was sure would be the highlight of their stay in New York.

  They hailed a cab and drove through the crush of morning traffic toward Fifth Avenue. As they rode along Central Park, snow falling lightly upon the windshield
, Sylvia reached for Andrew’s hand and held it tightly. She had no idea why she was so nervous. This visit to her mother’s childhood home was long overdue, and why she had not at least driven past the old Lockwood house on one of her previous visits to New York, she could not say. It was not a lack of curiosity that had prevented her. Perhaps it was a sense that her mother had not been happy there, and that she would not have wanted to burden Sylvia with her unhappiness.

  The cab let them out in front of a stately home facing the park. Sylvia took in the marble façade and the ornate front gate, admiring and yet uncertain. Nothing of the elegant building spoke to her of her mother, although she could not pick out any particular detail that did not fit with her mother’s stories.

  “Are you ready?” asked Andrew, offering her his arm as she stood rooted on the sidewalk, business people and tourists flowing past her. Sylvia managed a nod and forced herself to approach the front entrance, where Andrew rang the bell.

  The woman who answered was dressed in a brilliant rose-colored sari. “You must be Sylvia and Andrew,” she said, smiling and beckoning the couple indoors. “I’m Aruna Bhansali. I’m so pleased that you wished to visit. How exciting it is to meet the granddaughter of our home’s first resident!”

  “Thank you so much for indulging me,” said Sylvia. She introduced Andrew as they removed their coats, admiring the elegant foyer. It was warmly lit and inviting, with white marble floors, vases of red calla lilies on a pair of mahogany tables flanking the entrance to a drawing room, and brightly painted carvings of Hindu gods and goddesses displayed in arched nooks. An elegant curved staircase rose gracefully to the second story, and Sylvia imagined her mother as a little girl carefully descending them, her hand raised to grasp the banister.

  Aruna showed them to a parlor, where she offered them tea and asked Sylvia to tell her all about her grandparents. Sylvia hated to disappoint her hostess, but she had little information to share. It had never occurred to her that the current owners would be as curious about her family as Sylvia was to see the house where her mother had once lived. To her relief, Aruna seemed pleased with the sparse details Sylvia offered about her grandfather’s famous department store, their high-society lives, and Eleanor’s decision to leave it all behind to marry a horse farmer from rural Pennsylvania. “How romantic,” Aruna said, sighing wistfully. “I always suspected this grand old place had an intriguing history.”

  “I wish I could tell you more about it,” confessed Sylvia. “I couldn’t tell you why my grandfather chose that marble, or why he was apparently so fond of classical architectural styles. He was a rather remote figure in my mother’s life, I’m afraid, and he figures only very rarely in stories from her childhood.”

  Aruna smiled. “Perhaps she told you more than you know. You may remember some of those stories as we walk through the house.”

  Sylvia eagerly finished her tea and followed Aruna as she showed them around the first floor, through rooms that were obviously designed to entertain in high style, to Mr. Bhansali’s home office, once a drawing room. The bright colors and Indian décor were nothing the Lockwoods would have chosen for themselves, and yet Sylvia could imagine the successful businessman and society wife at home there.

  Upstairs, Aruna showed them bedrooms for family members and household servants, and asked if Sylvia knew which one had been her mother’s. Sylvia shook her head. “All I remember is that her nanny had the room next door to hers,” she said. “My mother spent most of her time in the nursery.”

  Aruna brightened and led them up another flight of stairs to a large room with a fireplace, dormer windows, and the smell of incense in the air. Paintings and gold-embroidered silk adorned the walls, and soft rugs and pillows invited the visitors to sit on the floor. It looked nothing like a child’s playroom, and yet—

  “This must be it,” said Sylvia, turning around to take in every detail. How many hours had her mother passed within these walls, playing, dreaming, longing for adventure in the world beyond the front gate? Her mother had called the nursery her refuge, even after she had become a young woman. Had she written letters to her beloved nanny on that window seat? Had she watched from the window, hoping Sylvia’s father would appear?

  Andrew went to one window and peered outside. “There’s a great view of the park.”

  “That’s why I chose this room for my very own,” said Aruna. “It’s my retreat from the world, the one place in all of New York that feels most like home to me.”

  “I believe my mother felt very much the same,” said Sylvia softly, wishing she could ask her if it was true. When she held quite still, she could imagine her mother’s light footsteps on the wooden floor, her quiet laugh, her gentle kiss. When she closed her eyes, she felt her mother standing beside her, welcoming her home.

  It had been far too long since Sylvia had felt the warmth of her mother’s embrace. What she would not give to have even one of those days back to live again, one of those ordinary days she had taken for granted because it seemed impossible that they would not stretch on endlessly into the future.

  Sylvia was ten years old when her mother died. In the years to come, she would wonder if Grandma’s death in 1928 and the Great Depression had hastened her mother’s decline. Surely the new hardships the family faced worried her, and she was deeply concerned for their less fortunate neighbors. But upon reflection, Sylvia always came to the same conclusion: Her mother had lived far longer than anyone had thought possible, and she had regarded every day as a gift. She loved her family so deeply that she would have clung to life longer to see them through those difficult times, if she could have. In her heart of hearts, Sylvia knew her mother regretted leaving them at a time of such uncertainty.

  None of the Bergstroms could bear to celebrate Christmas of 1930, with Mama’s death so recent and the wound of their grief so raw. They made their religious observances with heavy hearts and wrapped gifts for Richard, almost four years old, but as December wore on, no one could bear to decorate a tree or bake the famous Bergstrom apple strudel. The old traditions that had once brought them such joy would bring them no comfort that first Christmas without Mama.

  The entire season so pained Sylvia that she could not wait for it to end so she could return to school and lose herself in books and math homework. She grieved for her loss, for her own loneliness, but she felt sorrier for Richard than for herself. She had enjoyed nine Merry Christmases with her mother, but Richard had been granted only three, and he would not remember those. Sylvia could not decide if it was a blessing or another great cruelty that he would never realize the dearth that was life in their mother’s absence.

  To Sylvia’s surprise, Santa did not forget any of the Bergstrom children, but left presents for them beneath a small Christmas tree that had miraculously appeared in the ballroom Christmas morning. Richard whooped for joy and played with empty boxes with almost as much delight as with his new ball and toy fire truck, but most of the grown-ups sat quietly, watching the children open their gifts and mustering up smiles when Richard amused them. After the last gift was opened, Father departed swiftly and silently; Great-Aunt Lucinda watched him go, grief etched in the lines of her face, but no one interfered. Sylvia wanted to run after him because wherever he was headed had to be better than the ballroom, where they went through the motions of the holiday when no one felt like celebrating, where the once-festive manor echoed with her mother’s absence. The quiet of the snowy woods, the muskiness of the barn, the warmth of the stable—any place would do, anywhere but here.

  Christmas passed like a breath held too long, relief welling up to fill the emptiness it left behind. The family resumed the routine of ordinary days. Father and the uncles tended the horses. Great-Aunt Lucinda, Great-Aunt Lydia, and Uncle William’s wife kept the household running almost as smoothly as ever, in proud defiance of their dwindling resources. Great-Aunt Lucinda often reminded the children how fortunate they were to have the farm, to be self-sufficient when so many others were out of wo
rk or in debt. Although they had lost nearly all of their savings when the Waterford Bank failed after the stock market crash, they would never be forced from their lands, even if Bergstrom Thoroughbreds never earned another dime. Business had declined precipitously, but the Bergstrom family had built its fortune raising their prized thoroughbreds, and someday, when the Depression ended, their once wealthy customers would return. That was what Sylvia’s father said, and Sylvia believed him.

  Still, the family could not make or grow everything they needed—shoes for growing children, farm implements and tools—so for the first time in Sylvia’s memory, her father took on work away from Elm Creek Manor. In the months following his wife’s death, Sylvia’s father had begun accepting invitations to lecture at agricultural colleges across the state. Sometimes he would leave the farm in Uncle William’s care for days at a time, traveling from one college to another, earning modest fees for sharing what he knew about regional cultivars, animal husbandry, and fireblight. Sylvia missed him terribly while he was gone and wished he would invite her to accompany him, but the solitude of travel seemed to do him good. Each homecoming seemed to remind him that although the greatest love of his life had departed forever, there was still much love awaiting him at home, people who cared for him, children who depended upon him, reasons to go on. The money he earned, though it flowed out almost as quickly as he could draw it in, allowed them to feel as if they were regaining their footing little by little, that they would manage until their customers returned.

  Sylvia’s father often returned home with stories of hard times in the towns and cities beyond the Elm Creek Valley, of bread lines and soup kitchens, of bankrupt farms and closed factories. With each tale, Sylvia felt the desperation and fear of the outside world creeping closer until it seemed as if Elm Creek Manor stood alone, apart, bathed in sunlight in the tightening eye of a storm.