A Quilter's Holiday: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel Read online

  Since moving to the Elm Creek Valley, Gretchen had spent far too little time beyond the borders of the Bergstrom estate, too little time exploring her new community and discovering where she could best contribute.

  If she were to remain a good steward of her talents, it was time to look beyond the walls of Elm Creek Manor and seek a greater purpose.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gwen

  I DIDN’T HAVE Alonely Thanksgiving,” Summer assured Gwen. “Our apartment was full of starving graduate students from all around the world. It was a veritable feast of international cuisine.”

  “And afterward you all hit the books?” Gwen inquired, delighting in the sound of her daughter’s voice, even over the phone. She would be content to sit and listen to Summer recite the University of Chicago Winter Quarter Course Catalog if they had nothing better to discuss, but they never ran out of conversation.

  “Actually, afterward we attended the Day of Mourning rally on the Midway sponsored by the Native American Students Association. It was powerful and moving. You would have loved it.”

  Gwen probably would have, but she couldn’t help teasing, “So you celebrated the holiday, and then you denounced it?”

  “Not quite,” said Summer. “There’s a difference between gathering with loved ones to express gratitude for one’s blessings and endorsing the official national holiday of Thanksgiving, which ignores the tragedy of the Pilgrims’ early encounters with the indigenous peoples.”

  Summer was preaching to the choir, but Gwen didn’t interrupt as her daughter explained that the official holiday, meant to commemorate the Pilgrims and Native Americans sharing the harvest in peace and harmony, was instead a painful reminder of genocide, the theft of native lands, and the unrelenting, ongoing assault on native culture. At the rally, students of Native American heritage had accompanied chants with drums and denounced the atrocities their people had endured ever since the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. Until American schoolchildren were taught an accurate version of the Puritans’ treatment of indigenous peoples, their fishing and hunting rights were restored, the hundreds of treaties made with the United States government were fully observed, and Native Americans were granted complete self-governance would Thanksgiving truly be a day to express gratitude rather than shame.

  “I have no problem with marking an official day devoted to expressing thankfulness,” Summer clarified, “but tying it to sanitized versions of the colonization of the American continent is problematic. Plus, as a vegetarian, I’m troubled by the militant demand that we all sit down to a huge turkey dinner. The tofu version tastes just as good.”

  “I can only imagine what your grandparents said when you told them how you’d spent the day. You did remember to call them, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did, but I stuck with the theme of the holiday and gave them the expurgated version of my day,” said Summer, laughing. “I focused on the international feast with my roommates and friends and left out the rally.”

  “So none of your friends went home for the holiday weekend either?”

  “No, we all stuck around. Shane’s graduating next month, it’s too far for Maricela to travel, and Julianne has her candidacy exam in two weeks. None of us could afford the time away.”

  “But you’re still planning to meet me at Grandma and Grandpa’s for Christmas?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Even if you have a ton of work to do?”

  “I’ll definitely have a ton of work to do, but I won’t let it keep me away. It wouldn’t be Christmas without you, Mom.”

  Gwen blinked away tears. “Nor without you, baby girl.”

  “Oh, please don’t cry, Mom,” said Summer, dismayed. “You can’t cry on a quilter’s holiday.”

  “Why not? It happens all the time. Sometimes this manor is a veritable waterworks.” Gwen glanced out the window at the sound of ice scouring glass. “A frozen waterworks today. I hope the weather’s better where you are.”

  “We had snow showers this morning but they’ve tapered off. It’s not enough to keep me from making it to the library on foot. Speaking of research, which I indirectly was, is Sylvia around? I have some news for her.”

  They said their good-byes, with promises to chat again soon. Gwen quit the dais on the far side of the ballroom, passed the phone to Sylvia, and returned to her seat by the fireside, carefully lifting the folds of the quilt so they wouldn’t catch on the armrest or the tiny screw holding the slender wooden hoops in place. She stretched her hand and flexed her fingers before she slipped on her thimble and took up her needle again, listening with only half her attention to Sylvia’s side of the conversation. Summer had been helping the matriarch of Elm Creek Quilts research her family history, and she had apparently discovered a new lead. “That’s my girl,” she murmured, thinking how alike they were in interest and temperament, although Summer was far more sensible than Gwen had been as a young woman, a blessing worthy of enormous thanksgiving despite anyone’s concerns about the origin of the national holiday.

  As a young woman, Gwen had been proud of her reputation as a brainy nonconformist in her home town of Brown Deer, Kentucky, west of Lovely about halfway between Pilgrim and Kermit, population 1200, home to six churches and no movie theaters. From the age of ten, Gwen had longed to escape that dull, stifling, provincial backwater, and eight long years later, college 170 miles away in Lexington brought her intoxicating freedom. Perhaps too much freedom, and definitely too much intoxication. At the end of her sophomore year, Gwen decided to leave school and find herself. She set out with two friends, hitchhiking across the country, crashing wherever they were offered a bed, smoking or swallowing whatever promised enlightenment, joining a commune in Berkeley, protesting the war, and falling passionately in infatuation with Dennis, a long-haired, strung out, unwashed pale young man whom she was certain was her soul mate. He was not, however, someone even a habitually tolerant flower child in an altered state of consciousness would want as the father of her child. That was why several months later when Gwen discovered she was pregnant, she left Dennis and hitchhiked her way back to Brown Deer.

  Her parents were thankful and relieved to see her again, for she had not kept in touch from the road and for months they had not known where she was, or even whether she was living or dead. She never understood how much and how unconditionally her parents loved her until they welcomed her home without a word of recrimination and cared for her in the months leading up to her child’s birth. Gwen was their daughter, and despite her mistakes they staunchly stood by her, insisting she eat well, see her doctor regularly, and venture out in public rather than cower inside ashamed of herself— although as an unmarried, pregnant, former valedictorian, lapsed Catholic, college dropout, she figured she had good reason to be.

  Several months after her return to Brown Deer, Summer was born, a healthy, beautiful girl with a thick shock of auburn hair the same color as her mother’s. When her daughter was fifteen months old, Gwen returned to college, having never lost her love of learning. In the three years Gwen worked to earn her degree in history, Summer lived in Brown Deer with her grandparents, and Gwen drove home to be with her on weekends and school holidays. It grieved Gwen to spend so much time away from her precious daughter, but she knew she would make a better life for them both if she completed her education. Summer was a happy, affectionate child, the light of her grandparents’ lives, and Gwen often found herself overcome with thankfulness for the way they had welcomed her home, cared for Summer so lovingly, and given Gwen a second chance to pursue her dreams.

  Her mother cried tears of joy and pride at Gwen’s graduation, and even her father’s eyes shone to see her in her cap and gown. A few months later, Gwen and Summer left for Cornell, more than six hundred miles away, where Gwen had been accepted into the graduate school. Excited, happy, and yet as apprehensive as if she had never been on her own, Gwen moved them into a small apartment in Ithaca, settled Summer into the nursery school p
rogram on campus, and threw herself into her work and motherhood as only someone who had learned not to take either for granted could.

  The early months were not without mishaps. Gwen had never taken care of Summer entirely on her own, and sometimes, such as when she didn’t know the words to Summer’s favorite lullaby or when Summer took only a few polite nibbles of the frozen waffles that bore only a passing resemblance to Grandma’s made from scratch, Gwen felt frustrated, inadequate, and wholly unprepared to raise a child on her own. And although Summer delighted in having her mother all to herself, sometimes she woke in the middle of the night sobbing, homesick for her grandparents and her familiar room in their cozy house. After a Christmas visit to Brown Deer, Summer balked when she discovered that they had not come home to stay and refused to get in the car until Gwen’s mother promised to visit soon. But by spring, Summer had settled into a pleasant routine of nursery school by day and playtime with Gwen in the evenings, and when Gwen felt sleep-deprived and pulled in twenty different directions, she reassured herself that she was investing in their future and setting a good example of hard work and perseverance for her daughter.

  She earned her Master’s degree in two years and sailed into the Ph.D. program with the highest marks in the department and the promise of a four-year fellowship that offered a modest stipend and full tuition waiver. Several of her professors encouraged her to specialize in their fields of research and offered to serve as her thesis advisor, but Gwen waited as long as she could before committing herself to one path. A few months into her third year of graduate school, she decided to specialize in nineteenth-century American history with an emphasis in Women’s Studies. Not only did she find the era fascinating, but she was also eager to study under Dr. Victoria Stark, a Rhodes scholar and Harvard Ph.D. whose depth and breadth of historical interests and uncanny ability to unearth rich veins of primary source materials from dusty, mostly abandoned archives had earned Gwen’s admiration. What impressed Gwen as much as her professional credentials and accomplishments was that Victoria was only eight years her senior and the single mother of a ten-year-old boy. Seeing Victoria succeed in a demanding profession while raising a child on her own gave Gwen hope that she could, too.

  Before long, their meetings to discuss Gwen’s academic progress became the highlight of her week, and later, when Victoria offered her a newly funded teaching assistantship, Gwen gladly accepted. In her first semester as a TA, Gwen led a small discussion group associated with one of Victoria’s large lecture courses and helped grade papers and exams, but her students’ evaluations were so positive that the following semester Victoria would ask her to teach the lecture class occasionally if she were called away on some other university business. Gwen enjoyed leading classes as much as conducting research, and knowing how competitive the job market was likely to be by the time she graduated, she was grateful Victoria trusted her enough to give her the opportunity.

  Eventually she completed her course requirements and was able to focus on her thesis topic, the experiences of women who had disguised themselves as men so that they could serve in the military during the Civil War. Delving into late-nineteenth-century newspaper accounts and diaries, Gwen searched for common threads that united the women as well as the unique differences setting each woman apart. Whenever her research stalled, Gwen dealt with her frustration by hashing out the problems with Victoria over coffee, playing with Summer, or rekindling her creativity through quilting. She had joined the Tompkins County Quilt Guild out of longing for the friendships she had left behind in Kentucky, and their monthly meetings brought her respite from the academic grind.

  But despite the occasional frustration, her days were rich and full, her future bright, her daughter happy and thriving. Victoria assured her she was progressing well and encouraged her to accept more responsibilities, to submit papers to journals, and to present her research at conferences. One day, she summoned Gwen to her office to announce that Gwen had been invited to participate in a graduate school research conference. Only the best and the brightest doctoral candidates in the country were asked to speak at the prestigious annual gathering, an honor that would serve Gwen well when she completed her degree and began her job search.

  “As another nice perk, you’ll be able to spend three days and two nights in Boston,” Victoria told her, glancing up from the paperwork to smile at Gwen. Her imposing manner belied her short stature, and her curly, salt-and-pepper hair tumbled loose to her shoulders. She had the dry voice of a former smoker, and she often absently held one earpiece of her glasses between her fingers as if it were a cigarette. “You can finally explore those archives you’ve been talking about.”

  “Two nights away?” echoed Gwen, dismayed.

  “I’m sure Nancy or Peter would take over your classes for you,” said Victoria. “Or you can give your students a take-home exam. I’ve been remiss if I haven’t taught you a few of those tricks over the past few years.”

  “It’s not that,” said Gwen. “It’s my daughter. I can’t leave her, and I can’t bring her along either.” She imagined Summer trailing after her from lecture hall to library, sporting her pink backpack full of books and smiling up at the astonished academics. Summer would probably thoroughly enjoy herself, but Gwen wouldn’t be able to concentrate on either conference or research with Summer in tow.

  “Oh, of course.” Victoria removed her glasses and studied Gwen, a furrow appearing between her brows. “How old is she now?”

  “She’s eight.”

  “Second grade?”

  “Third.”

  “Hmm,” Victoria mused. “You don’t have any family nearby, isn’t that right?”

  “My closest relatives are my parents in Kentucky.”

  “And your daughter’s father … He’s not in the picture?”

  Gwen laughed shortly. “No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Victoria sighed, slipped on her glasses, and smiled regretfully. “I know from experience that the university doesn’t offer any overnight childcare programs. Apparently it isn’t meant to be, not this time. It isn’t easy to balance work and family, but you have to set your priorities so that you’ll have no regrets later. Don’t be discouraged. You’ll have similar opportunities in the future, and the invitation itself proves that your potential has been recognized.”

  Gwen nodded and thanked her, but her heart sank. She could have put the conference presentation on her CV, but not a mere invitation. She knew, too, that it would reflect badly upon Victoria that her prized student had turned down such an honor, and yet Victoria accepted her refusal with easy grace.

  Gwen vowed to make it up to her, somehow.

  • • •

  THE CONFERENCE CAMEand went, without Gwen, but she took consolation in the excellent progress of her research, which she had already begun to shape into a rough outline for her dissertation. One day, she was heading to Victoria’s office to consult her about a possibly apocryphal memoir of an Alabama woman soldier who had been captured by the Union at Vicksburg when she saw a group of undergraduates milling around outside Victoria’s door. They looked up at the sound of Gwen’s approach, and she knew at first glance that they were displeased.

  “Do you know where Dr. Stark is?” one of the younger women asked. “She never showed up for lecture.”

  “Then it looks like you get the day off,” said Gwen cheerfully. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  “She was supposed to review for our midterm,” said one of the men, clearly disgruntled. “I was out for two weeks with mono and if I don’t get the review, there’s no way I’ll pass.”

  For a moment Gwen feared that Victoria had asked her to fill in and she had forgotten, but Gwen’s scrupulously maintained calendar, one of her many survival mechanisms, was legendary in the department. She would not have forgotten to record something so important. Frowning, she knocked on Victoria’s door, ignoring the student who muttered not quite under his breath that they had already tried that.

>   “Does this mean that the exam’ll be postponed?” asked another student. “That’s only fair.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Gwen. She excused herself, went down the hall, and knocked on the door of a professor she knew well who allowed her to borrow his phone to call Victoria’s office. She heard the phone ringing through the closed door, but no one picked up. No one answered at Victoria’s home either. Concealing her worry, Gwen thanked the professor and returned to the students waiting in the hall. “Tina, would you round up any of your classmates who might still be waiting in the lecture hall?” she asked. “Whoever wants to review for the midterm should meet me in the department conference room in twenty minutes.”

  Tina agreed, and the group broke up. Gwen hurried back to her cubicle in the graduate students’ office, gathered her notes, and met about a third of the class for the impromptu review session, wondering all the while what had happened to her mentor. Gwen’s substitution seemed to appease the students somewhat, although many left the room muttering complaints. Afterward, she tried again to reach Victoria by phone, but when that failed, she slipped a note beneath the professor’s office door, explaining what had happened and asking her to be in touch.

  Victoria stopped by her cubicle the following morning with a cup of Gwen’s favorite coffee, profuse apologies, and many thanks for the way she had risen to the occasion. “My sister has been ill,” she said, lowering her voice, mindful of the graduate students studying or meeting with pupils nearby. “She had to be hospitalized quite suddenly. I confess I completely forgot about the lecture. I have no excuse. We’ve been meeting the same day, same time all semester.”