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

  Their faces were clouding up with uncertainty that could easily become disappointment. Only moments before they had been cheerful and industrious, expecting her to welcome their surprise with delight and appreciation. Instead, she kept harping on about the lasagna, as oblivious to their helpfulness as they had been to their tradition.

  The most important part of the tradition was that they were gathered together for a family meal. Did it really matter what they ate?

  She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “There’s sliced cheddar in the deli drawer if anyone wants to upgrade to a cheeseburger.”

  Tim’s hamburgers were tasty and filling, the company welcome, and the conversation full of the boys’ amusing stories from school. It was a pleasant meal, and Diane tried to drive away her lingering disappointment that they apparently didn’t care about the lasagna as much as she did.

  But it was just lasagna, after all, and she knew she should get over it and save her righteous dismay for the passing of far more important traditions—such as her sons’ waning interest in attending Mass. They could fill their bellies with an endless variety of meals but only church would nourish their souls.

  Though neither of her sons had ever bounded out of bed early on a Sunday morning declaring that they greatly preferred hard, wooden pews to soft, warm quilts, from the time they were babies they had attended Mass week after week without too much grumbling or complaint. As they grew, they had prepared for the sacraments and had been proud to receive them. Still, they were boys, and Diane had always suspected that without her prodding they would have slept in; if it had been up to them, they would have been contentedly reading the comics over a sugary bowl of cereal while the priest delivered his homily.

  Even so, on the first Sunday after Michael moved into the freshman dorm at Waterford College, she had expected him to join the rest of the family at church. She had called him the day before and asked if he wanted a ride, and when he said he didn’t, she assumed he intended to walk the few blocks from campus. Through the first reading, the second, and the Gospel, she kept turning around in her seat to scan the pews for her son, until Tim patted her knee and told her to relax. Michael had overslept, she told herself, an excusable one-time mistake considering it was his first week of college. Or perhaps he had attended Mass with friends the night before in the campus ministry chapel.

  Mindful that he was officially an adult, she held off asking him where he had been that morning, reluctant to appear overbearing. When he didn’t show up the next week or the next, her resistance broke down. She called him, and after a few perfunctory questions about his classes and professors, she inquired, as casually as she could manage, how he had spent the past three Sunday mornings.

  “Sleeping as late as I could,” he told her drowsily. She could picture him lying in his loft, eyes closed, feet dangling over the wooden safety rail Tim had insisted Michael and his roommates add to the design. “We stay up late Saturday night.”

  “Maybe you should go to bed earlier so you won’t miss church the next day,” she suggested. “We’ve been saving a seat for you.”

  “Even if I wanted to go to bed early, everyone else’s partying would keep me awake.” Michael paused. “Mom, you don’t need to save that seat in the pew for me anymore. Unless, you know, I’m home on break or something, and you want us to all go to church together.”

  Diane’s heart caught in her throat. “You go off to college and three weeks later you’ve lost your faith?”

  Michael let out a dry laugh. “I haven’t lost my faith. I still believe in God.”

  “Then why not come to church?”

  “Why, to prove it to everyone?”

  “You know better than that,” she retorted. “To pray. To give thanks.”

  “I can do that anywhere.”

  “But do you? Are you spending your Sunday mornings in prayer and reflection?”

  “I mostly spend them asleep.” She heard him sigh heavily despite the hollowness that indicated he had covered the mouthpiece with his hand in an attempt to hide it. “Mom, don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” she told him, and it was mostly true. “I’m disappointed.”

  But what could she do? She couldn’t force him to go to church any more than she could force him to believe. He was an adult and responsible for his own decisions, his own faith. At least when he was home on school breaks, he came and sat on the pew beside his brother as he had always done, perhaps to set a good example, perhaps to avoid a scene. She knew he was doing this more for her than for himself, and although this troubled her, she didn’t push the matter because at least he was getting himself to church.

  When it came time for Todd to go off to college, she resolved to handle things differently. On every campus tour she had made a point of collecting brochures from campus ministries, locating chapels with Masses for students, and stopping by the offices of Catholic student groups. Despite her efforts, Todd soon followed his older brother’s example and took Sunday mornings as an opportunity to catch up on his sleep.

  Troubled, she discussed her worries with her parish priest and found some comfort in his assurances that she had done her duty by her children. Often young people let their attendance wane in their late teens and twenties, he said, but they usually resumed their participation when they had children of their own. “But this is when they need the guidance of the church the most,” Diane had lamented, sniffing into a tissue. She had heard enough harrowing stories from Tim and Gwen, both professors at Waterford College, to know what dangers lay in wait to tempt and ensnare her sons. For that matter, her own college years served as warning enough.

  Gently, Father Doug had encouraged her to pray and to continue to offer a strong example of faith to her sons, but that she should not demand more of herself—or them—than that. Reluctantly, she agreed to try. She hated to sit and wait and hope that everything would work out all right in the end, preferring to take action and steer matters toward the end she desired. But she couldn’t bring herself to argue against a priest’s advice to have faith—not to his face in his own church, anyway.

  “Does anyone else smell that?” Carol’s voice broke into her reverie. “It’s like something’s burning or scorched.”

  “It’s me,” said Diane irritably, peeling a strip of brown fabric meant to be the wall of a log cabin from the bottom of the iron.

  “You’re on fire?” inquired Gwen.

  “Not me, my appliqué.” Diane flung the piece onto the ironing board and blew on her fingertips to cool them. The brown rectangle circled into a tube and gave off a thin wisp of white smoke, the freezer paper on the back scorched to a burnt toast black that matched the waxy residue stuck to the bottom of the iron. Berating herself, she unplugged the iron and waited for it to cool. If she didn’t get that gunk off the iron, the smell would fill the ballroom and the stickiness and scorch marks would get all over her fabrics as well as the ironing board.

  Perfect. Just what she needed: something else to go wrong with her project, as if being ill-conceived and behind schedule weren’t bad enough.

  “White vinegar will take those scorch marks right off,” said Agnes from the fireside, quickly deducing the mishap.

  “We have some in the kitchen,” said Anna. “Top shelf of the pantry, on the right.”

  As Diane was leaving the ballroom, Andrew passed on his way in carrying a cordless phone handset. “Bonnie’s calling all the way from Hawaii,” he said, handing her the phone. “She wants to talk to everyone.”

  “Aloha,” Diane greeted her friend, welcoming the distraction. “How do you say ‘Happy Quilter’s Holiday’ in Hawaiian?”

  “I have no idea,” said Bonnie, so lighthearted that Diane could vividly imagine her tan and relaxed, lying in the sand beneath a beach umbrella, lazily dipping her toes in the Pacific. As Diane went to the kitchen and returned with the bottle of vinegar and a half-roll of paper towels, she and Bonnie swapped stories of their Thanksgiving celebrations. Bonnie had
enjoyed what sounded like a fabulous backyard luau complete with a pig cooked in a traditional underground oven and a band playing Hawaiian songs on a ukulele and slack-key guitar. Diane was genuinely happy for her, without the slightest twinge of envy. If anyone deserved a holiday in paradise, it was Bonnie, who had lost her quilt shop and was going through a nasty divorce. Bonnie’s family always celebrated Thanksgiving at her motherin-law’s home in Scranton. Diane guessed Bonnie would not have been welcome that year, so it was just as well that she was thousands of miles away. But Thanksgiving was only the beginning. Bonnie would have to create new traditions for all the holidays to come—and perhaps, since her ex-husband would surely demand his turn, she would not always be able to spend the holidays with her grown children and grandchildren. It was unfair that Bonnie would lose her beloved traditions on top of her marriage, business, and everything else, and Diane felt for her.

  But maybe Bonnie didn’t mind. Maybe she welcomed a fresh start, and her decision to winter in Hawaii with a college friend was only the beginning. Out with the old and in with the new seemed to be the guiding principle for everyone Diane knew, everyone but herself.

  “Have some pineapple and a mai tai on the beach for me,” Diane told Bonnie, and then she passed the phone to Sarah. Sarah and Bonnie chatted for a while before Sarah handed the phone to Sylvia, at which point the friends realized they were repeating the same stories so they put Bonnie on speakerphone. Bonnie seemed intrigued by the new tradition they had introduced to their quilter’s holiday feast and sounded almost sorry that she had not been there to contribute a patchwork block of her own to the cornucopia—not sorry enough to regret that she was enjoying sunshine and tropical breezes on Maui instead of a snowstorm, but sorry all the same.

  After Bonnie wished them all a happy quilter’s holiday and hung up, Diane wet a paper towel with vinegar and scrubbed the bottom of the cool iron until the scorch marks disappeared and the stainless steel gleamed. Now she could resume her work, but as she rearranged the appliqués on the snowy-white background fabric, she wondered why she bothered. Folk art Advent calendars for college men? What a dumb idea. Her sons wouldn’t remember the Advent calendar from their childhood. When they unwrapped their gifts Christmas morning, they would study them in bemusement and offer her perplexed thanks. They probably didn’t even observe Advent anymore.

  Maybe when they had children of their own they would enjoy tucking coins or candies with the Bible verses into the pockets and allowing their kids to open one each day. Someday her sons would teach their children with these small daily joys the meaning of Advent, that not only were they preparing to celebrate the birth of Jesus on the Feast of Christmas but also anticipating his glorious return in the fullness of time. When Michael and Todd had children of their own, they might care about the small rituals that reminded them of greater mysteries. Until then, Diane was wasting her time in a futile effort to continue a tradition that meant nothing to them.

  In the meantime, the storm was worsening, the snow falling in icy flakes that whirled in gusty winds. If she waited much longer, she would be stuck at the manor overnight and would miss precious hours of her sons’ visit home, and really, what was the point of staying at the manor to work on unwanted gifts? A home-cooked meal on a cold winter’s day was something her sons understood, and that was what she ought to give them.

  Diane gathered up her appliqués into neat piles, but when that wasn’t fast enough, she snatched up her tote bag and swept the pieces of her project into it. “I’m calling it a day,” she announced. “I’m sorry, Agnes, but do you mind if we leave now?”

  “You’re going to drive in that?” said Sarah, gesturing to the whirling white outside the window. “You know the county never plows that back road, and I don’t think Matt’s hooked his plow to the pickup yet. He’ll have to, to clear the parking lot, but he probably thought he wouldn’t need to until tomorrow morning.”

  Diane wished Matt—and Sarah and everyone else for that matter—had not been so quick to assume that everyone was eager for a slumber party. “It’s not far from the parking lot to the woods, and there the trees block most of the snowfall. Once I get to the main road I’ll be fine.” Diane zipped her tote and hefted it to her shoulder. “Agnes, are you coming?”

  Agnes peered at her worriedly through her pink-tinted glasses, glanced out the window, and shook her head. “I don’t think leaving now is wise, dear. Let’s wait until the storm passes. Stay, and I’ll help you with your Advent calendars.”

  “I don’t care about the stupid calendars,” said Diane. “The storm probably won’t pass until morning, and I can’t wait until then. I want to get home while I still can.”

  “There’s no need to risk life and limb,” Sylvia assured her. “You’re welcome to spend the night. We keep plenty of new toothbrushes and other necessaries on hand for campers who forget to pack them. Sarah can lend you a nightgown and you can have your pick of rooms.”

  “My sons are home for only a few days.” Diane inched toward the door, throwing Agnes pleading glances for understanding and forgiveness. It wasn’t fair to drag her from the party, but a strange urgency had seized her and she couldn’t bear to wait another moment.

  “I suppose I can finish these at home.” Reluctantly, Agnes rolled her unfinished Christmas stockings into tidy bundles and tucked them into her bag.

  “Agnes, you can stay,” said Gwen. “I think you both should stay, but if Diane’s determined to go, I’ll drive Agnes home in the morning. When it’s safer,” she added, shooting Diane a look of pure exasperation.

  Diane ignored her. “Would that be all right, Agnes?”

  “Of course that’s fine,” said Agnes, her blue eyes worried. “It’s a horse apiece, your car or Gwen’s. But won’t you reconsider? Spend the night here, safe and sound, and you can still see the boys by midmorning tomorrow. They won’t begrudge you a few hours when your safety’s at stake.”

  Diane shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glancing from her friends’ concerned faces to the snow whirling outside. “And if the storm lasts longer than that?”

  “Your house has TV and Internet,” said Gwen. “Michael and Todd might not even realize you’re gone.”

  Gwen’s teasing jab hit too close to home. “The longer I stand here debating it, the deeper the snow gets. I’ve lived in Pennsylvania all my life and I’ve driven in storms worse than this. The sooner I leave, the safer I’ll be.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily follow,” said Gwen, but Diane couldn’t bear to waste any more time discussing it. She bade her friends a hasty good-bye, offered one last apology to Agnes, and hurried off, pausing at the back door to throw on her coat and boots and gloves, and wrap her scarf around her head and neck. The wind swept her breath away the moment she stepped out the back door, but she clutched the collar of her coat shut, put her head down, and struggled through the ankle-deep snow and occasional knee-deep drifts to her car. She left her bag and purse in the back seat and found an ice scraper in the trunk, forgotten for months under a picnic blanket and collapsible beach chair. Matt must have spied her laboring to clear the roof and windshield of snow, for within minutes he was at her side shouting over the wind for her to come back indoors. When she refused, he offered to drive her home in his truck, but she pointed out that Sarah wouldn’t like it if he got snowed in at her place.

  Matt either realized that she was determined to go or he had grown weary of shouting over the wind, for he shook his head and helped her clear the car. “Call me if you get stuck on the way and I’ll come get you,” he said as he scraped the last bit of ice from her windshield.

  She agreed, thanked him for his help, and quickly climbed into the car. A thin layer of snow had already accumulated on the windows she had first cleared, so she turned the key and flicked on the wipers. The wheels fought for traction on the snow-covered pavement, but suddenly the car lurched forward and spun awkwardly until she managed to straighten the axel. In the rearview mirror she gli
mpsed Matt, hands thrust in his pockets, shoulders braced against the storm, shaking his head as he watched her slowly pull out of the parking lot and inch her way across the bridge over Elm Creek. Then, on her way at last, she sighed with relief, sat up straighter, flexed her gloved hands around the steering wheel, and gradually increased her speed.

  The gravel road was almost completely obscured by drifts, but past experience had taught her that the conditions would improve once she reached the sheltering forest. After that she would come to the highway, which had surely been plowed and salted, and then the familiar streets of her own neighborhood, a few blocks from campus and backing up to the Waterford Arboretum. Soon she would be home, and even if the trip took twice as long as usual, everything would be fine. She had left cooking instructions on the kitchen counter, so even though her cell phone was out of reach in her purse on the back seat, Tim would know to preheat the oven and remove the foil and bake the lasagna at the appointed time if the storm slowed her down so much that she couldn’t do it herself. She knew it meant more to her than to Tim, Michael, and Todd combined, but that evening they would all sit down to a hot, nourishing meal together. That was one tradition she was unwilling to let go.

  She passed the banked barn on her left, its usually solid form blurred and insubstantial behind the veil of snow, crouching against the hillside, huddled against the storm. She pumped her brakes as the car half-rolled, half-slid downhill, past the apple orchard, bare limbs lifted in supplication to the gray sky, branches coated in ice and shuddering in the wind. At the bottom of the hill, the brakes did nothing to slow the car; an alarm beeped and a light flashed on the dashboard as she skidded toward the trees. She gasped as the car struck a snow bank and came to an abrupt halt, a shower of ice chunks falling upon the hood of her car, shaken loose from the tree limbs above.

  Heart pounding, she sat for a moment, unsure whether backing up or plowing forward would be more likely to free her from the snow bank. It occurred to her that trying to drive home under these conditions was probably one of her less brilliant ideas, but now that she had set forth, she would press on. She took a deep breath, put the car in reverse, and gradually eased backward onto the road, then forward into the woods.