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

  There, her breathing eased. The trees sheltered her from the worst of the winds, and the roads, while not as clear as she had hoped, were free of the drifts and slopes that had made the short trip from the manor so treacherous. Now she was at last truly on her way and she could make up for lost time. As long as she made it safely home, she didn’t care if Tim remembered to heat up the lasagna or if he opened a few cans of chicken noodle soup. All that mattered was that they would be together—she, her husband, and their sons. It didn’t matter what they ate, only that they gathered around the table out of love and respect for one another. It was the same with the Elm Creek Quilters. Each of them could quilt alone and usually did, but there was something important to be gained by gathering in community to work together, to support one another, to celebrate accomplishments, or to help a struggling friend find her way.

  Another flashing light on the dash, another shrill warning beep, another moment of breathless fear as the car skidded ahead and sideways and shook to a stop as the brakes finally took hold. The snow cover was not as deep in the woods as in the open fields, but the bare branches had not held off the morning’s freezing rain, and the rustic gravel road was covered in a sheet of ice. Diane wrenched the wheel, pointed the car toward home, and gave the gas pedal a tentative push. Inching forward, she spotted the second bridge over Elm Creek some distance ahead, barely visible in the unnatural twilight. Beyond it, not yet visible up the hill and around the bend, was the road to the front entrance of the manor.

  Relief flooded her. She had another choice. She could admit the hazards were greater than she had imagined, turn onto the front road, spend the night with her friends—surely that was what Tim and the boys would want her to do. She would still have most of Saturday and Sunday with her sons before they returned to school, time enough to tell them the thoughts she had been piecing together all that day. Some traditions were not meant to last a lifetime, only a season, and those she could let fade away. Others were far too important to fall by the wayside, and those traditions were worth fighting for. It didn’t matter what the family ate on Thanksgiving Eve, but it did matter that they shared a family meal, if they could. It didn’t matter if her sons cherished an Advent calendar inspired by the one they had enjoyed in childhood, but it did matter that they observed the season, thoughtfully and respectfully. And it didn’t matter if they attended Mass at the parish where they had first received the sacraments or— Father Doug forgive her—if they attended a Catholic service at all or another denomination’s, but it did matter that they attend, not only to express their love for God but also to receive the essential spiritual nourishment that only worship offered and to experience it within community. She could not force her sons to attend church, nor would she wish to, no more than she could or would have their love and respect come compulsorily. But she could tell them what worship meant to her, how it enriched her life, how through her presence in that community she hoped to enrich the lives of others. And then, when she had shared her truth with them, they could adopt her traditions as their own or set them aside, an unopened gift, but at least she would know that she had offered it. Perhaps they would hear her, perhaps not. Perhaps not now but later.

  Patience did not come naturally to her but she would try. And that meant spending the night at the manor instead of risking her life or at least the car in that howling fury of a storm.

  “Across the bridge, up the hill, and onto the front road,” she said aloud, steeling herself as a gust of wind shook the car. The drifts would surely be deep across that broad, open expanse, the road perhaps completely obscured, but if the car got stuck, she would trudge along on foot the rest of the way. Gwen would say “I told you so,” and Diane would shock her by agreeing, but after that Sylvia would fix her a bracing cup of coffee and Agnes would insist she take the chair closest to the fire. Diane would leave her Advent calendars in her bag— for that matter, she might as well leave them in the car—and when she had warmed herself she would help her friends with their Christmas projects for a change. For once she would celebrate a quilter’s holiday by offering help instead of seeking it.

  She steered the car across the narrow bridge, her thoughts full of the warmth awaiting her within the gray stone walls of the manor. On the other side, the car balked at the rising slope and slid backward, wheels churning up ice and gravel. Cautiously Diane gunned the engine and flushed with relief when the car climbed another few feet up the hill, only to halt a few yards short of the summit, wheels spinning forward uselessly as the car fell back.

  Without thinking, she slammed hard on the brake and the car jerked to a stop. Sand—she should put sand under the wheels for traction. But she had no sand in the trunk except for a few summer grains dusting the beach chair. She could call Matt to bring her some, but she was reluctant to compel him outdoors now that she understood just how treacherous the road had become. Ruefully, she realized that she might not have a choice, but she would try one more time on her own before digging her cell phone out of her purse and begging for a rescue.

  She eased her foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator. At first the car did not budge, but then it inched forward, then slipped backward, crawling up the hill and falling back, making slow but steady progress toward the summit, and once she reached it she would be able to coast downhill all the way to the front road if that’s what it took, a bit more gas and another inch more—

  But then the car was sliding backward. Instinctively she hit the brakes hard, but the car continued its sickening backward slide toward the bridge. She abandoned the brake and pounded the accelerator but the engine roared impotently as the car picked up speed. Frantically she wrestled with the wheel, fighting to straighten the car, to slow it, to stop it before it struck the guard rail or worse yet, missed the bridge and plummeted into the creek, a thick black slash beneath a thin crust of ice below. A sudden impact made her cry out— but at last the car was still, off the road and halfway down the embankment.

  Heart pounding, she turned off the engine and sat for a moment, stunned, until a thin dusting of snow covered the windshield. Then she took a deep, shaky breath, turned the key, switched on the wipers to clear the windshield, and tentatively pressed the accelerator. The wheels spun and shrieked, but the car only shuddered in place.

  Shutting down the engine again, Diane gingerly climbed out of the car, neck and shoulders aching from the impact, gasping as the icy wind drove snow into her face and down the collar of her coat. Clutching it closed at the neck with one hand and touching the side of the car for balance with the other, she picked her way alongside it, every step confirming what her first glance had warned: The rear of her car was stuck fast, the undercarriage pinned in place by a fallen log buried beneath the snowdrift. Nothing less than a tow would free it. Unless— Matt had a chainsaw and a pickup truck with a hitch. If he could cut the log and free the car, he might be able to tow it back to the road. After that, she would follow him to the manor, and as long as she could sit by the fire beneath a warm quilt with a hot cup of coffee in hand, she would gladly endure her friends’ teasing.

  Shivering, Diane brushed as much snow from her coat and hat as she could before climbing back into the driver’s seat. She reached into the back seat for her purse and retrieved her cell phone, cursing herself when she saw that she had a strong signal but only eight percent of her battery left. Why could she never remember to charge it?

  She called the manor first, but no one answered and she was sent to voicemail. “Okay, okay, you told me so,” she said for the benefit of whoever heard the message. “My car’s trapped on the forest road and I need a rescue squad. Please send Matt with his pickup and a chainsaw so I don’t have to spend the night out here. And a thermos of coffee. And ask him to hurry. Please.”

  She had barely hung up when the phone rang—Tim, calling from home. “Honey?” she said quickly, mindful of the low battery. “I’m afraid I’m going to be a bit late.”

  “You shouldn’t try to drive in
this,” protested Tim. “I was calling to tell you to spend the night at the manor.”

  Diane glanced at the windshield, once again covered in snow. “An excellent suggestion. Thanks, honey.”

  “Stay inside and stay safe. I know you’re probably tempted to drive home so you can spend more time with the boys, but don’t do it. You’re smarter than that.”

  “Yes, I’m a genius. Listen, my battery’s about to die but I should tell you—”

  “Just tell me you love me and you’ll be careful.”

  “I love you,” said Diane. She had bypassed careful the moment she pulled out of the parking lot.

  Her phone beeped three times and fell silent. Sighing, Diane returned the dead phone to her purse, let her head fall back against the headrest, and vowed to plug in her phone every night before going to bed even if the indicator insisted she had hours of charge left. How many minutes would pass before someone at Elm Creek Manor realized a message waited on the voicemail? She knew from the outgoing message that it was the voicemail, not the answering machine, so she was not merely waiting for someone to pass by the answering machine and notice the blinking light. She needed someone to make an outgoing call, hear the stutter tone that indicated voicemail, and enter the code to hear the message. Why hadn’t she called Anna’s cell phone instead? Anna carried her phone with her everywhere and was always texting one friend or another. If only Diane had some other way to get their attention. If only she had a flare to send up—not that they would see it in the storm—

  Chastising herself for not thinking of it sooner, she pressed hard upon the horn, shattering the silence, pausing to listen for an answering shout. She turned on the headlights and sounded the horn again, one long beep followed by a series of short bursts. But she knew it was unlikely that anyone would pass on the road to the manor until after the storm. The Elm Creek Quilters, warm and happy, would not venture out and their families, secure in the knowledge that they were safe, would not come seeking them.

  No one would hear the horn through thick stone walls and windows shut tight against the cold. She switched off the lights to save the battery, and then reluctantly shut off the engine to save gas. She would have to wait until someone received her voicemail.

  Resigned to a long wait, Diane reached into the back seat for her tote bag, stuffed full of the sewing tools and the pieces of the Advent calendars she had meant to make for her sons. Maybe her choice had not been so foolish after all. If Michael and Todd didn’t appreciate the calendars this year, they might someday, and in the meantime she could make one for herself to replace the dilapidated paper version she would always remember fondly.

  Besides, she had nothing better to do while awaiting rescue.

  She lost track of time as she cut out the fabric appliqués and basted down the seam allowances, occasionally pausing to sound the car horn. The cold crept into her skin, seeping through her boots and slipping beneath her scarf. Shivering, Diane started the car and ran the heater full blast. As she packed up her project, having proceeded as far as she could in the car, she realized it could be hours more before anyone heard the message she had left what felt like ages ago.

  Snow scoured the windows, covering the glass, leaving her in darkness. Her breath came in short, quick, white puffs. She closed her eyes. Her ears rang and waves of exhaustion washed over her. Later that evening Tim might call the manor to bid her goodnight, knowing that her cell was dead, and then her friends would realize that she had not made it home, but they would not know where she was; it was equally likely that Tim wouldn’t call.

  No one was coming for her, and she couldn’t spend the night in the forest in the storm. She would have to set out on foot for the manor. Her high-heeled boots were not meant for a long hike, but she had no choice.

  She wrapped her scarf more snugly around her neck and tucked the ends across her chest beneath her coat. She pulled her hat down to cover as much of her ears and cheeks as it would, and she slipped on her sunglasses in the faint hope of keeping the stinging snow out of her eyes.

  She slipped the strap of her purse over her head and glanced around the car. Was she forgetting anything, leaving behind anything that might be useful? Her gaze fell upon her tote bag, stuffed full of the sewing tools and the pieces of the Advent calendars she had meant to make for her sons. She couldn’t afford the additional burden of the tote bag, so she resigned herself to leaving it behind.

  Taking the keys from the ignition, Diane braced herself for an icy blast as she left the car, locking it behind her out of habit, tucking the keys into her pocket. Wading through drifts, she made her way to the road and paused only a moment to consider whether the road ahead to the front of the manor would be the easier path, or if she should turn back the way she came. Turn back, she decided, and set forth. The wind howling across the open meadow in front of the manor would be brutal, the driveway entirely snow covered and impassible. If she backtracked, she would have the limited protection of the forest, and the barn would offer her shelter where she could rest before continuing on.

  If she made it that far.

  Bending almost double against the wind, she thrust her hands into her pockets and set off into the storm.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sylvia

  WITH MISGIVINGS, SYLVIA watched Diane dash out of the ballroom, tote bag slipping off her shoulder. Perhaps Diane had indeed driven through worse storms in the past, but that was no reason to take unnecessary chances now. Still, Sylvia thought she understood her friend’s urgency. If she had been blessed with children, she would not want to be snowed in apart from them either, even if they were almost grown, almost on their own. She supposed good mothers never lost that sense of longing for their children, that instinct to protect and nurture, to preserve the family at all costs.

  Of course, this was only conjecture based upon her experiences as a daughter and sister and her observations of friends. Though Sarah was like a daughter to her and she was glad to be stepmother to Andrew’s grown children, she would never be so brash as to assume she truly understood what it felt like to be a mother. As she watched Diane rush off into a snowstorm rather than be parted from her sons, or when she observed Agnes contentedly stitch Christmas stockings for her grandchildren, she longed for family ties of her own, for a niece or nephew who shared the same roots and branches of the family tree, for a cousin to reminisce with about the same shared memories of holidays from years gone by. She had told stories of those long ago celebrations to her friends—and she had even revived some of her favorite traditions, such as placing symbols of gratitude into the Thanksgiving cornucopia— but although that was worthwhile and gratifying in its way, it was not the same as celebrating with people who knew those traditions as their own, people with whom she shared a common heritage.

  Since returning to Elm Creek Manor after her sister’s death, Sylvia had first denied then eventually come to accept that she was the last living descendant of Hans and Anneke Bergstrom, her great-grandparents and the founders of Elm Creek Manor. The private detective she had hired as she put her sister’s affairs in order and wrote her own will confirmed the sad news, but even then she could scarcely believe it. She mourned the end of her proud family line but resolved not to become so trapped in grief that she took for granted the new family she had created for herself through cherished friendships and marriage to Andrew. Still, she never stopped wondering what had become of all those dear aunts and uncles and cousins, how it could be that they had left behind not a single descendant. Most of all she wondered about her favorite cousin, Elizabeth Bergstrom Nelson, who lived on so vividly in Sylvia’s memory that it seemed impossible she had departed this earth without leaving her mark upon it.

  Elizabeth illuminated Sylvia’s earliest memories of holiday celebrations at Elm Creek Manor, and she could not ring in a New Year without reflecting upon Elizabeth’s last New Year’s Eve at Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia had been scarcely five years old when the family decided to revive a New Year’s Eve t
radition that Hans, Anneke, and Gerda Bergstrom had brought to America from Germany. The last time the Bergstrom family had celebrated the night of Holy St. Sylvester with a ball for family and friends had been before Sylvia was born, so Sylvia listened, entranced, as Great-Aunt Lucinda described the dancing, singing, and delicious things to eat and drink. Sylvia’s mother promised that she and her sister, Claudia, could stay up until midnight to welcome the New Year as long as they napped beforehand.

  Sylvia and Claudia passed the morning of December 31 sledding and building snowmen until their mother called them inside for a nap. Claudia promptly complied, but Sylvia pretended not to hear until her mother called out that no nap meant no Sylvester Ball for naughty little girls. At that, Sylvia reluctantly came inside and tugged off her coat and boots and mittens, leaving snow to melt in a puddle on the mat. As she dragged herself upstairs, Elizabeth passed her on the landing, her golden curls bouncing, her eyes alight with pleasure and mischief. “Hello, little Sylvia,” Elizabeth greeted her. “Where are you off to on this last day of the year?”

  When Sylvia glumly reported that she had been sent to bed even though she wasn’t the slightest bit tired and naps were for babies, Elizabeth declared that the time would be much better spent preparing Sylvia for her first big dance. She took Sylvia by the hand and quickly led her upstairs to the nursery on the third floor, where she shut the door and slid a chair in place beneath the doorknob. “That’ll give you time to hide should anyone come snooping,” said Elizabeth. “We’ll have to keep our voices down. Take off your shoes and show me what you know.”