The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) Page 13

  If Sylvia could reach Amy, if her peace offering could persuade her stepdaughter to let go of her anger and reconcile with her father, it would be the greatest gift of happiness Sylvia could give Andrew. And to Amy, who did not know that her stubbornness would hurt more people than her father. Anger and misunderstanding could destroy a family from the inside out, as conflict forced everyone to take sides. Even refusing to favor one side over the other would be seen as taking a position, until even the unwilling were drawn into the conflict. Sylvia had seen this happen to her own family, and she would not let it happen to Andrew if she could help it, if she could show Amy another way.

  WHEN SYLVIA AND ANDREW returned to the 1863 House, Sylvia’s emotions swirled as she told Adele about the visit to the old Lockwood home. Even the physical experience of the place had done little to evoke the elusive sense of connection to her mother’s past.

  “Except in the nursery,” she said. “I could imagine my mother sitting on the window seat, embroidering her Crazy Quilt, gazing out at Central Park and longing for…something. Or someone. I don’t know.”

  Adele’s smile was full of compassionate understanding. “Maybe since you have such indelible memories of your mother at Elm Creek Manor, it’s difficult for you to sense her anywhere else.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We found one of the Colcrafts’ quilts when we bought this house,” Adele reminded her. “Did your mother leave behind any of her quilts in the Lockwood home?”

  “I didn’t see any.” Her mother’s patchwork certainly would have stood out among the Indian décor. “I’m sure Aruna would have mentioned it. I didn’t expect to find any of my mother’s possessions there. The Bergstroms couldn’t even hold on to her quilts. I spent the last few months searching for several my sister sold off decades ago.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “I found her Crazy Quilt in excellent condition for its age, and the new owner sold it to me for what she had paid—plus a week at quilt camp for her daughter-in-law. The quilt my mother had made to celebrate my parents’ anniversary had been cut up to make quilted jackets. Andrew bought the last one for me at an art shop in Sewickley.” The jacket was pretty in its own way, but the quilt had been a masterpiece. Sylvia could not understand what could have possessed the woman who cut it up. “Just a few days ago, Andrew and I tracked down my mother’s long-lost wedding quilt to a traveling exhibit from the New England Quilt Museum. We had searched quilt shops and museums across the country and had tracked down leads from the Internet, and in the end, it was a tip from a quilter staying at our last bed and breakfast that led us to the right place.”

  “Think of the odds against finding a single quilt after so many years,” Adele marveled. “Did you bring the wedding quilt with you?”

  “Why, no,” said Sylvia. “Even though my mother made the quilt, it isn’t mine anymore. My sister sold it long ago. I don’t know exactly how it ended up in the hands of the museum, but I can’t simply take it from them.”

  “You could buy it.”

  “If the museum is willing to sell it, I suppose I could.” How wonderful it would be to take the New York Beauty quilt home to Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia would cherish it always as a memento of her mother, and she would display it for all the quilt camp’s guests to enjoy. But should she? As a part of the museum’s collection, her mother’s wedding quilt would be seen and enjoyed by many more people. It would be properly cared for and preserved for generations to come. Perhaps taking it home for the enjoyment of a relative few was selfish, and offering it freely to the world was what her mother would have wanted.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” said Sylvia.

  Adele reached for her purse. “While you’re thinking, I know a place that might provide some inspiration. You’re sure to meet several quilters eager to offer their opinions whether you want them or not.”

  While Andrew relaxed in front of the fire with a copy of Adele’s manuscript, Sylvia and Adele took a cab to the City Quilter, a quilt shop in Chelsea that Adele promised was the best in New York. Sylvia was inclined to agree; she had visited the shop once, when it first opened, and she had been delighted by the fabric selections and courteous service. To her surprise, when she and Adele entered the shop, salespeople and customers alike greeted her as something of a celebrity. “I loved your quilt Sewickley Sunrise,” gushed one woman, her arms overloaded with shopping bags. “I think it’s your best work.”

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia, concealing a wince. She knew the woman didn’t mean any harm. Sewickley Sunrise had won Sylvia many ribbons and now belonged to the Museum of the American Quilter’s Society’s permanent collection, so it was undoubtedly her best-known quilt. Still, she had made it so long ago that it pained her whenever anyone told her it was her finest creation. Did they honestly believe she had shown no improvement since then, no growth as an artist? Sewickley Sunrise would always remain one of her favorite quilts, but she preferred to believe that her most recent work was far superior and that the best was yet to come.

  Sylvia and Adele browsed through the rainbow of fabric bolts displayed on the shop walls, and after their selections were cut and folded, Sylvia searched the display case for a spool of thread in a suitable shade of blue. When she brought the New Year’s Reflections quilt from her tote bag to match the thread color to the binding fabric, several onlookers quickly clustered around to catch a glimpse of her work-in-progress. When the quilt shop owner suggested she drape the quilt over a table in the classroom so that everyone could have a better look, Sylvia was happy to comply. She hoped Amy would respond to the quilt as warmly as those quilters did, admiring her adaptation of the Mother’s Favorite design, the harmonious colors, and the precise piecing. When one customer asked how she had decided which patterns to include in the center of each larger Mother’s Favorite block, Sylvia said only that each one reminded her of a New Year of her past—resolutions made and abandoned, opportunities for new beginnings gladly accepted or stubbornly ignored.

  As the quilters bent over the quilt, Adele drew close to Sylvia to murmur in her ear. “Your points are so perfect no one would ever know that you’d had a stroke. You should be proud. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  With a jolt, Sylvia suddenly wondered if that was why she had felt compelled to give this particular quilt to Amy, out of the many she could have chosen. Had she subconsciously hoped it would prove to her new stepdaughter that she was perfectly sound, that she had completely recovered from her stroke and would not be a burden to Andrew? Sylvia hoped not, or at least she hoped that Amy would not think so, because that would diminish the beauty of her gift.

  Besides, she had stitched most of those blocks long before her stroke, so as proof of her current dexterity and mental acuity, it was flimsy evidence indeed.

  Sylvia smiled so that Adele would not realize that the generous praise troubled her. She folded up the quilt and returned it to her tote bag, thanking the onlookers for their kind words and reminding them to visit the Elm Creek Quilt Camp web-site for more information about the upcoming season of quilt camp. “I hope to see you next summer,” she said as she and Adele made their way to the cash register. Several customers called out that she could count on it.

  Outside, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and although the wind was still brisk, Sylvia assured Adele that she felt quite comfortable walking. “Good,” said Adele. “I have something to show you.”

  Mystified, Sylvia strolled along with her friend, up Fifth Avenue back toward Midtown. Surely Adele did not mean to show her the Empire State Building or Rockefeller Center or any of the other obvious tourist stops, which Adele pointed out only in passing. Just as Sylvia’s curiosity could bear it no longer, Adele stopped at the corner of a large building in a busy shopping district. “We’re here.”

  Sylvia glanced around, uncertain what distinguished that place from any other in the city. The elegance of the classical architecture was striking, but in that it was not unlike man
y other buildings they had passed along the way. “Where’s here, exactly?”

  Adele gestured toward the marble cornerstone. “You might not recognize it, but I think your mother would.”

  Her heart quickening, Sylvia drew closer to read the bold engraving on the stone. “The Lockwood Building. 1878.” She gasped and turned to her friend. “Do you mean—”

  “This was the site of your grandfather’s store,” Adele confirmed. “Lockwood’s took up the entire block, once upon a time. The interior has been subdivided and resold many times over since then, but the exterior hasn’t been changed since your grandfather’s day except for repairs and maintenance.”

  “I almost can’t believe it really exists.” Sylvia traced the engraving with a fingertip. “Lockwood’s always seemed like nothing more than a setting from a story to me, just like…”

  “Just like your mother’s childhood home?”

  Sylvia nodded. “Until this morning, anyway.” She stepped back and gazed skyward to take in the entire building her grandfather had built, not caring if she looked like a wide-eyed tourist to the more sophisticated passersby. “One of my mother’s favorite memories of this time of year was coming to the store with her father and being allowed to pick out any toy she wanted for Christmas.”

  “Perhaps this photo was taken on one of those occasions.” Adele reached into her bag and pulled out a large padded envelope. “Here’s the second part of your surprise. Merry Christmas, a little late. Happy New Year, a little early.”

  Sylvia pressed a hand to her lips before setting her shopping bags on the sidewalk dusted with snow and accepting the envelope with a trembling hand. She lifted the flap and spied the edge of a photograph, protected between two sturdy pieces of cardboard. Carefully she withdrew a black-and-white photograph of a New York street scene in what appeared to be the early 1900s. A man and woman dressed in turn-of-the-century coats and hats stood with two girls in front of a storefront window emblazoned LOCKWOOD’S DEPARTMENT STORE in elegant script. The elder girl, who looked to be around twelve years old, held her father’s hand and beamed into the camera as if caught by surprise, a delightful surprise. The mother stood somewhat apart from her husband at the front of the group, while the younger brought up the rear, peering curiously at the photographer. She wore a dark coat with fur trim around the collar and carried a white fur muff, and her thin legs were clad in heavy black stockings.

  Sylvia studied the younger girl’s face. In her delicate features, she saw the woman her mother would become. “I have no photographs of my mother as a child,” she said. “None except this.”

  “Not even one?” asked Adele. “I would have assumed the Lockwood family had their photographs taken often. They were considered celebrities in their day.”

  Perhaps the family had once had many photographs, but Sylvia’s mother had brought none with her to Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia was beginning to suspect there was more to her mother’s story of her decision to marry Sylvia’s father than had been revealed. “Where on earth did you find this picture?”

  “In the archives of The New York Times. I have a friend on staff. This picture appeared in the society column. I included a printout of the newspaper page in the envelope, if you can tear yourself away from the photo long enough to look.”

  Sylvia gazed at her mother’s family, her voice catching in her throat. “Adele, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It’s just a reprint, not the original,” Adele said, almost apologetically. “They wouldn’t part with that. But since it isn’t the authentic photo, you don’t have to worry about it disintegrating before you can get it home. You also won’t have to treat it like a museum piece, with archival matting and protective glass.”

  Sylvia might not have to, but she would. Reprint or not, this photo of the Lockwood family was the only one she possessed, and she would not trade it for a dozen museum pieces.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning at breakfast, the resourceful Adele reported that she had found Dinner for One on the Internet. Pleased, the German couple invited the other guests to join them around the computer on New Year’s Eve. Only Sylvia and Andrew declined, with some regret, because they would be leaving New York later that day.

  They bade their fellow guests good-bye and Happy New Year; they parted from Adele and Julius with warm embraces and promises to get together again soon. They enjoyed a morning of exploring museums, shopping, and savoring a delicious lunch, then they packed up the Elm Creek Quilts minivan and continued on to Amy’s home in Hartford, Connecticut.

  As Andrew drove, Sylvia once again took up her needle to finish sewing the binding on Amy’s quilt. She had not made as much progress during their stay in New York as she had planned, but she hoped to make up for it on the two and a half hour drive.

  “Do you think you’ll finish it by New Year’s Eve?” Andrew asked as they pulled on to I-95.

  “I’ll take until New Year’s Day if necessary,” she said, “but I hope I won’t offend anyone if I sneak away from family gatherings now and then to work on it.”

  Amy might prefer, in fact, for Sylvia to leave the family to themselves. It was difficult not to be hurt by the younger woman’s sudden disapproval. Amy had liked Sylvia well enough when she and Andrew were dating; Amy had been a gracious hostess whenever the couple visited and she had even asked Sylvia to teach her to quilt. But Amy’s friendliness had evaporated the moment she heard of their engagement. Andrew had anticipated this and had decided to break the news to his children in person. First the couple had driven to his son’s home in southern California, where Bob and his wife had taken the news with surprise and concern. Although the visit had ended badly, Bob had agreed to say nothing to his sister so that Andrew could be the one to tell her. Andrew had forgotten to secure that promise from Bob’s wife, however, so when Sylvia and Andrew returned to Elm Creek Manor, they had found Amy waiting for them.

  Andrew frowned and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel. “That’s fine with me as long as you’re only sneaking off to quilt, and not because anyone has made you feel unwelcome.”

  “I’m not expecting a warm welcome,” Sylvia said. “Please don’t feel you have to rush to my defense over the tiniest slights as you did in California.”

  “You’re my wife, and I expect my children to treat you with respect.”

  “They’re more likely to do so if you let them do it on their own terms, and not because you’ve scolded them into it.”

  “I guess you’re right. Maybe.” Andrew tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “Maybe we should make a plan. How should we break the news?”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about how Daniel will take it.” Amy’s husband had approved of their engagement from the beginning. Sylvia and Andrew were counting on him to help bring Amy around. “I think it’s best to tell her right away, but delicately. We should be sensitive to her feelings, but at the same time she needs to know that there’s no longer any point in trying to convince us to cancel our plans to marry.”

  “It’s too late for that,” said Andrew, reaching for her left hand and pressing it to his lips. Her thimble fell into his lap, and she laughed as she retrieved it. Andrew’s smile faded into a sigh. “I don’t understand these kids. Why shouldn’t they want us to get married? We love each other. They ought to be happy for us.”

  “They should be,” said Sylvia. “Unfortunately, in my experience, people in love almost always stumble over objections thrown in their path by one side of the family or another. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ as the poet said.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘almost always,’ ” said Andrew. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Almost every marriage I know of has offended someone,” said Sylvia. “And I’m not talking about envious former sweethearts, but friends and family who ought to have the couple’s best interests at heart. Sarah and Matt McClure, for example.”

  Andrew shrugged in acknowledgment. Sarah’
s mother’s antipathy for her son-in-law was as infamous in Elm Creek Quilts circles as it was perplexing, for Matt was a fine young man. “All right, that’s one.”

  “My parents,” said Sylvia. “Agnes and my brother.”

  “Who objected to their marriage?”

  “Her parents,” said Sylvia. “Don’t you remember? And…I admit I did, too.”

  Andrew grinned. “That’s because you didn’t want to share your baby brother with anyone.”

  “That’s not the reason. They were too young.”

  “Richard was about to be shipped out,” Andrew protested. “It was wartime. Lots of young couples rushed off to get married back then.”

  “Fair enough.” Sylvia knew he was right, and if Agnes and Richard had not seized that moment, they never would have married. “John Colcraft and Harriet Beals.”

  “Who?”

  “The couple who built the 1863 House.”

  Andrew laughed. “Okay, that’s three, spanning two centuries. I can’t call that a trend.”

  “My cousin Elizabeth and Henry Nelson.” Sylvia couldn’t admit that she was the only person who had objected to that pairing, but Andrew had heard enough of her childhood stories to figure that out for himself. “My sister and Harold Midden.”