The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) Page 16

  Sylvia had smiled then, entranced by the image of her beloved husband as a boy on Christmas morning. Now the memory of his voice in the snowy woods made her ache with grief and longing.

  Christmas Day came, a day she expected to be unable to endure, but although the family had not forgotten their sorrow, they found happiness in one another and in hope for the future. The war was over and more prosperous times seemed on the horizon. Mary’s child was due within a month. Although Sylvia missed Elm Creek Manor more that day than she had since her departure, the love and acceptance the Compson family offered her helped her to feel the simple hope and joy of the season anew. She felt James’s presence in the midst of his family, and she knew that his love for her remained, and that one day she would know love again.

  The feeling of enduring love lingered until three days after Christmas, when Mrs. Compson approached Sylvia hesitantly, a letter in her hand. Sylvia knew at once who had sent it.

  “Claudia heard from your Aunt Millie and Uncle George that you bought a train ticket to Baltimore,” Mrs. Compson told her, when Sylvia refused to take the letter, which was addressed to her in-laws. “She asks if you’re here with us, or if we know your whereabouts.”

  “Don’t tell her I’m here.”

  “I have to tell her something,” Mrs. Compson pointed out. “She’ll think her letter went astray and send another, or she’ll come to us herself.”

  Sylvia felt faint as a vision of a resentful Claudia at the farmhouse door crowded out her anger. “Tell her I stayed with you for a month, and left without telling you where I was going.”

  “You’re asking me to lie?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “She sounds worried.”

  “She probably wants to gloat about her beautiful wedding.” Claudia and Harold were the most recently married couple in the family now. They would have brought home the family Christmas tree that season as Sylvia and James had done, but there were few Bergstroms left at Elm Creek Manor to enjoy it. “She no doubt also wants to scold me for not attending. Does she offer anything in the way of an apology?”

  Mrs. Compson scanned the letter. “No,” she said, reluctantly, “but the letter is addressed to me and Charles. She didn’t know you would be here to read it. If she had known, I’m sure she would have said how sorry she is that you two had a falling out.”

  “It was much more than a falling out, and I’m equally sure that she would not have apologized.”

  “You’ll never know unless you return home.”

  The thought of wandering through Elm Creek Manor, hearing the voices of her lost loved ones whispering in the empty halls, catching glimpses of them in the corner of her eye, made Sylvia recoil in pain. “I can’t.”

  Mrs. Compson regarded her for a long moment in silence before returning the letter to the envelope. “Very well. I’ll do as you ask, but I hope someday soon you’ll see how you’ve set up an insurmountable hurdle for your sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want her to apologize, and yet you refuse to read her letter or go see her. How can she apologize if you won’t listen? How can she ask for forgiveness if she can’t find you?”

  “I know my sister,” said Sylvia. “She’s never apologized to me for anything, not once in her life. She isn’t about to start now.”

  Mrs. Compson tapped the envelope against the palm of her hand. “Why is she searching for you, then?”

  Sylvia could not answer.

  Mrs. Compson sighed. “Sylvia, dear, Charles and I are very happy to have you here with us, but eventually you’re going to have to move on with your life. I believe your place is at Elm Creek Manor, but if you don’t feel you can go home under these circumstances—well, only you can make that choice. But you must choose something. You can’t continue to go through the motions of living. You have to truly live. You’re still a young woman. You could marry again, have children—”

  “No,” said Sylvia. “I could never love anyone else the way I loved James.”

  “Perhaps not,” admitted Mrs. Compson. “But I know one thing for certain: James loved you. Don’t choose a life of endless grieving for his sake. You are not honoring his memory by harboring anger in your heart. That is not what my son would have wanted for you.”

  Sylvia’s gaze fell, unable to bear the weight of Mrs. Compson’s compassion. She knotted her fingers together in her lap, her throat tightening. “I’m not ready to face my sister,” she choked out. “I can’t see her with Harold, not yet, not without hating her.”

  Mrs. Compson clasped Sylvia’s hands in her own. “Think of the name of this farm, Compson’s Resolution,” she said. “A resolution is also the settlement of a dispute. Perhaps, with the New Year approaching, you will find the strength to make a resolution that will allow you to go home.”

  Sylvia closed her eyes against tears. She could not bear the thought of leaving the Compson farm. She felt safe here, hidden away, protected. But if Claudia suspected Sylvia was living on the farm, it could not shelter her forever.

  New Year’s Eve came. The Compson family stayed up until midnight reminiscing about bygone years and making hopeful predictions about the year ahead. Sylvia tried not to think about how Claudia, Harold, and Agnes were marking the holiday back home in Pennsylvania.

  At midnight, to the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” on the radio broadcast of the Lombardo New Year’s Eve Party, Sylvia and the Compsons toasted the New Year. “May the New Year bring us peace, contentment, and hope,” said Mrs. Compson, raising her glass. “May each of us find the courage we need to overcome our sorrows and achieve the happiness we deserve.”

  Sylvia’s eyes met hers over the rim of her glass, and she knew Mrs. Compson’s wish was meant especially for her.

  The next morning, Sylvia helped Mrs. Compson prepare breakfast for the family, missing Great-Aunt Lucinda’s Pfannkuchen. She thought ruefully of the battered cookbook in the kitchen back home, stuffed full of recipes jotted down on index cards and the backs of envelopes in the handwriting of generations of Bergstrom women. She wished she had thought to take it with her when she fled Elm Creek Manor, even though the best family recipes would not be found there for they had never been written down. She longed for the aromas of pork roasting with apples, of sauerkraut, of her father’s Feuerzangenbowle. It hardly felt like the New Year had begun without them.

  She found herself telling her motherin-law about all the old Bergstrom traditions, about lead pouring and unreliable predictions, of blazing fireballs and unfulfilled dreams. Mrs. Compson listened, almost forgetting the sausages frying on the stove. “And what about your dreams?” she asked when Sylvia finished. “Surely you must have a few left that you can still fulfill.”

  “I do.” Sylvia had given her dreams a great deal of thought since Claudia’s letter arrived. And after Mrs. Compson’s New Year’s Eve toast, she had determined to do something about them.

  As the Compson sisters and brothers, cousins and uncles exchanged New Year’s Day greetings, Sylvia thought of the generations past who had sat at that heirloom trestle table, glad to put the sorrows of the past year behind them, facing the year ahead with courage or with trepidation. Her story was a part of their history now, and although she would always long for James and for home, she found hope in knowing that for all that she had lost, she had also gained a second family. No matter where the year ahead took her, she would never truly be alone as long as she kept the memory of those she loved and those who loved her alive in her heart.

  The conversation turned to New Year’s resolutions. One aunt resolved to respond more promptly to friends’ letters. James’s sister, due to deliver her first baby any day, resolved to regain her slim figure by spring, which earned her a round of laughter from other mothers around the table.

  “What about you, Sylvia?” prompted Mr. Compson. “Do you have any resolutions for the New Year?”

  All eyes turned to her. Sylvia could imagine what the more distant relations saw whe
n they looked at her: a poor curiosity, a fragile young widow overwhelmed by grief, inexplicably in flight from her family and the home she had always loved. Though they would never say anything to suggest she was not welcome among them, they probably wondered why she did not simply go home.

  “I’ve made one resolution,” Sylvia said. This was not how she had planned to tell them, but she plunged ahead. “I’ve decided to return to college.”

  An exclamation of surprise and delight went up from those gathered around the table. “Why, Sylvia, that’s a wonderful idea,” said Mrs. Compson. She knew that Sylvia had left school after two years at Waterford College to marry James. “I’m sure a business degree will help you run Bergstrom Thoroughbreds.”

  “Perhaps I should be worried about the competition,” remarked Mr. Compson, but he looked pleased.

  “I’m not seeking a business degree,” said Sylvia. “I want to become an art teacher.” When Mrs. Compson’s smile faded into confusion, Sylvia quickly added, “I’ve enjoyed teaching the Baltimore Quilting Circle ladies how to quilt, and I think I’ve discovered that I have a talent for teaching. I also want to show people how quiltmaking is a true art form. The more I learn about art, the more I’ll be able to make that argument and back it up with critical thinking.”

  “Then—” Mr. Compson cleared his throat. “Then you have no intention of returning to Bergstrom Thoroughbreds?”

  Sylvia laughed shakily. “I don’t think a horse farm has much need for an art teacher on staff.”

  Some of the family members who did not know the story of Sylvia’s self-imposed exile laughed, but James’s parents and siblings looked stricken. “You do intend to resume your studies at Waterford College, though, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Compson, her joy of moments ago all but vanished.

  Sylvia had no intention of returning to the Elm Creek Valley, but she could not bear to admit to it and ruin her motherin-law’s New Year’s Day. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I don’t know if Waterford College would take me back after so many years, and I don’t know if my credits would transfer if I were accepted somewhere else. Perhaps…perhaps I shouldn’t have made a resolution without looking into it first.”

  Several people quickly assured her that her resolution was quite all right; she had set a goal for herself and that was the important thing. The rest could be sorted out later. Sylvia thanked them, but as the conversation moved on to others’ resolutions, she glanced at Mrs. Compson and saw her exchange a look of dismay with her husband. When Sylvia had announced her resolution, Mrs. Compson had surely assumed that Sylvia would be returning to Elm Creek Manor and attending Waterford College only a few miles away. As much as Mrs. Compson wanted Sylvia to find the courage to fulfill her dreams, she would prefer for those dreams to set her on the road toward home.

  Sylvia stayed on at Compson’s Resolution while she planned her future. Winter ended and spring came to the farm. On Sylvia’s birthday, Claudia sent another letter to the Compsons asking if they had heard from her. With a disapproving frown for her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Compson penned the reply Sylvia implored her to make: They were unaware of Sylvia’s whereabouts, but if Sylvia contacted them, they would urge her to get in touch with Claudia. “That much is true,” grumbled Mrs. Compson as she sealed the envelope. Not a week passed that she did not beg Sylvia to write to her sister.

  A few days after the anniversary of James’s death, the Compsons received an unexpected letter from Andrew. From his new home in Michigan, he wrote that he had been thinking of them and that he hoped they had friends and family nearby to see them through that difficult day. He shared memories of his friendship with James, of James’s courage on the battlefield, of his reassuring confidence, his humor that helped them forget where they were, if only for moments. James had spoken of his family and Compson’s Resolution often, Andrew wrote, and his descriptions of his boyhood home were so vivid that Andrew almost felt as if he had walked the wooded trails himself. “I know he loved you and Sylvia very much,” he wrote. “He spoke of you often and he was looking forward to seeing you again. I want you to know that he saved my life more than once, and if I can live my life with half the courage, honor, and decency he demonstrated every day, I will consider myself a successful man.”

  Sylvia was in tears by the end of the letter. She wondered if Andrew had sent a similar letter to her at Elm Creek Manor. He would not know that she was not there to receive it.

  By the end of summer, Sylvia had made her decision and could no longer conceal it from Mr. and Mrs. Compson. For months they had observed her preparing applications and checking the mail for information from prospective colleges. When the time came to break the news, however, she was unprepared for the depths of their disappointment. Upon hearing that she intended to enroll at Carnegie Mellon, Mrs. Compson became uncharacteristically tearful. “If Waterford College is out of the question, why not attend the University of Maryland?” she implored. “Mary received a wonderful education there, and you’d be close enough to come home for visits now and then. I know you applied; I know you were accepted. I’ve seen the postmarks.”

  Sylvia was touched by Mrs. Compson’s heartfelt plea, especially because she had instinctively referred to Compson’s Resolution and not Elm Creek Manor as Sylvia’s home. But Carnegie Mellon suited her interests best, and a lingering fear remained that if she stayed too close to the Compsons, eventually Claudia would come looking for her.

  On the morning she departed for Pittsburgh, she embraced her in-laws and thanked them for taking her into their home. “You’re James’s wife,” her father-in-law said. “You’ll always have a place here with us.”

  Sylvia promised to come visit them often, and she did, at first. On school holidays and summer vacations, she took the train east to Baltimore, gazing out the windows as they chugged south of the mountains surrounding the Elm Creek Valley, pressing her hand against the cool glass and longing for a glimpse of the land beyond the mountain passes.

  After Sylvia graduated and began teaching in the Allegheny Valley School District, her visits to Compson’s Resolution became less frequent. Mrs. Compson honored her promise not to disclose her whereabouts to Claudia, and eventually Claudia’s letters stopped coming.

  Whatever word the Compsons received of Elm Creek Manor or Bergstrom Thoroughbreds, they passed along to Sylvia. There were glad tidings for Agnes, Sylvia’s former sister-in-law, for she had married a history professor from Waterford College. Darker rumors swirled that Bergstrom Thoroughbreds was failing, but Sylvia could not believe that even Claudia and Harold would allow the family business to falter so completely and so suddenly. Over time, news from Elm Creek Manor slowed to a trickle, and with Mr. and Mrs. Compson’s passing, it stopped altogether.

  As she grew older, Sylvia built lasting friendships with fellow quilters and neighbors near her red brick house on Camp Meeting Road in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. She offered her love for quilting to anyone who wanted to learn, and she was passionate about quilting as a traditional art form even before the “quilting renaissance” began in the 1970s. On every New Year’s Eve, whether she celebrated alone or with friends, Sylvia reflected upon her motherin-law’s toast at Compson’s Resolution. Had Sylvia found peace, contentment, and hope at long last, so far from home? Had she found the courage to overcome her sorrows and seek happiness?

  Sylvia thought that she had. This was not the life she had expected, but it was rewarding, and she was thankful.

  Fifty years after leaving Elm Creek Manor, she received a phone call from a lawyer, the son of a man she had known as a classmate in Waterford. She was stunned when he told her Claudia had died. “How?” she stammered, shaken. Of course Claudia had aged as she herself had aged, although in her mind’s eye Claudia had been frozen in time exactly as she had been in 1945. People their age died every day, and others called it natural causes.

  Harold had preceded Claudia in death and they had no children, so the estate was Sylvia’s. She was not sure she wanted it
. She had made a life for herself in Sewickley, and she could not imagine rattling around the manor alone, not at her age, not when none of her friends remained nearby. She hired a private detective to find a more suitable heir—a distant relation, anyone. When the quest proved fruitless—so promptly that Sylvia wondered if the detective had searched as thoroughly as his fees merited—Sylvia returned to Elm Creek Manor as the sole heir of the Bergstrom estate.

  It was late September when she made the trip through the rolling hills of central Pennsylvania to the Elm Creek Valley. She almost could not breathe as she turned off the main highway onto the narrow, gravel road that led through a wood encircling the Bergstrom property, ablaze with the hues of autumn. Her heart was in her throat as the taxi rambled over the old stone bridge crossing Elm Creek, curious, but fearing what she would see upon emerging from the woods. The broad, dry front lawn was overgrown, but the gray stone walls of the manor stood proudly above it. The Bergstrom legacy seemed as strong and resilient as ever until the cab pulled to a stop in the circular driveway and Sylvia beheld peeling paint, broken windowpanes, and crumbling mortar.

  The lawyer’s warnings had not adequately prepared her for what she discovered inside. Claudia had sold off many family heirlooms to make ends meet after the business failed, but the empty spaces once occupied by valuable antique furniture and fine art startled her at every turn. As if to make up for ridding the manor of its treasures, Claudia had stuffed rooms full of worthless clutter—junk mail, yellowing newspapers, meat trays from the supermarket, burned out light bulbs, quart jars that had once held spaghetti sauce. Sylvia could not fathom why her sister had hoarded so much useless rubbish. What had she intended to do with it all? How many empty mason jars did one woman need, especially a woman who had let the garden run wild and had nothing to can? Was it nothing more than one last spiteful jab at her estranged sister, whom Claudia must have suspected would be responsible for cleaning up the mess?