The Wedding Quilt (35 page)

Andrew departed a few days before Sylvia's will was released. Sarah had expected a dramatic scene in the lawyer's office in which all the relevant parties gathered to hear a formal reading of the will, but apparently that happened only in the movies. Thus she learned by certified mail that, except for a few quilts and other possessions Sylvia wanted set aside for the Elm Creek Quilters and other cherished friends, Sylvia had bequeathed almost her entire estate—the grounds, the manor, and almost all of her possessions—to Sarah. Sylvia returned the Postage Stamp quilt Elizabeth had made to Melissa, and had also left her a few Bergstrom family heirlooms and her twenty percent share in Elm Creek Quilts.

Only Sarah owned so large a share; the other Elm Creek Quilters with a stake in the company each owned ten percent. What Melissa would do in her role as part owner from so far away, Sarah could only guess, but it was likely that she would do little more than vote on crucial development matters, accept her portion of the profits, and perhaps enjoy a free week of quilt camp every so often. She might even wish to sell her share to other members of the permanent faculty, as Judy and Bonnie had done. Whatever Melissa decided, Sarah would help her.

Thus Matt's fears were proven groundless and Sarah's faith in Sylvia justified.

The lawyer's letter also stipulated an important task Sylvia had wanted Sarah to complete. In the bottom drawer on the right-hand side of her father's oak desk, Sylvia had left a list of cherished friends and special gifts she wished each of them to have in remembrance of her. Upstairs in the library, Sarah found a thick, padded envelope hidden beneath a box of empty file folders. As often as she had worked at that desk, she had never noticed it before, and it occurred to her that the drawer was an excellent hiding place she could use herself if she ever had anything important to keep out of sight.

The list, and Sylvia's expressions of affection and gratitude to the friends who had blessed her life with their companionship, support, laughter, honesty, and love, brought fresh tears to Sarah's eyes. To several of her favorite students and quilt campers, Sylvia had left sewing tools, pattern books, and quilts in progress, with the request that they finish the quilts, if they were so inclined, and think of her whenever they used them. To the other Elm Creek Quilters she had left quilts that each had especially admired, along with instructions to divide her fabric stash in an equitable fashion. “Perhaps you should let Gwen, with her proven skills for negotiation, determine the method,” she had written, “and Diane, no complaints out of you, dear.” There were other gifts, simple and surprising and humorous and touching, and one in particular that Sarah knew would be gratefully received: Sylvia had left Matt the red banked barn Hans Bergstrom had built and several acres of land surrounding it adjacent to the orchards. Matt used the barn more than anyone, Sylvia had noted, and he had earned it.

The last two items on the list were the most surprising and the most unexpected. “Within a window seat up in the nursery,” Sylvia had written, “you will find two wrapped boxes. The larger one is for Caroline, the smaller, for James. I was not blessed with grandchildren, Sarah, dear, but your twins are as precious to me as if they were my own, and I am grateful you allowed me to be such an important part of their childhood. My only regret is that I will not be here to witness all of the important milestones in their lives. I hope that these small gifts will help them to remember me on a particularly significant day. Please give these gifts to the twins on their wedding days with my love.” A word was crossed out, and then Sylvia continued. “However, it is highly unlikely that they will marry on the same day, and I don't want it to seem as if I'm favoring one twin over the other. Therefore, you may give both gifts on the wedding day of the twin who marries first.” Another crossed-out word followed. “It occurs to me that perhaps neither of them will choose to marry, and I don't wish to imply that they should or must. Gwen would certainly chastise me for that. If Caroline and James decide to remain single, please give them these gifts on their thirtieth birthday. There, that should do nicely.”

Sarah smiled through her tears, the words so true to Sylvia's intonation that she could almost imagine she heard her friend's voice. She left the letter on the oak desk and headed upstairs to the nursery, a name James, Caroline, and Gina had dismissed as babyish, preferring the more dignified “playroom.” More recently they had begun calling it the game room, and Sarah wistfully suspected that soon they would abandon play altogether. She wondered what they would do with the nursery then. It would be a shame if the spacious, well-lit room went to waste, but its remote spot on the third floor of the manor made it inconvenient for quilt camp activities.

On her way down the hall to the stairs, Sarah ran into Gretchen. Sarah told her about Sylvia's letter, and that Sylvia had wanted Gretchen to have her old Featherweight sewing machine in hopes that she would create an artistic masterpiece with it. Tears sprang into Gretchen's eyes. “She's so generous to think of me. She knew how much I admired her Featherweight.”

“She remembered all of those dearest to her, even the twins.” When Sarah explained that Sylvia had left gifts for Caroline and James in the playroom, Gretchen's curiosity was immediately piqued and she offered to help Sarah find them.

Upstairs, board games, books, and LEGOS were scattered on tables and floors, and someone had left the television on, still hooked up to the video-game system and merrily chirping electronic music. With an exasperated sigh, Sarah shut it off, wondering how long it had been playing to an empty room.

Each of the seats along the windows overlooking the front lawn lifted up to reveal a storage space beneath. Forgotten toddler toys and board books and dust bunnies filled most of them, but one had been scrupulously cleaned and cleared of everything except a plastic shopping bag from a downtown Waterford department store that had closed in the 1960s. Inside, Sarah and Gretchen discovered two boxes, one large and one small, each carefully wrapped and tied with ribbons. The tag on the larger box read “Caroline” in Sylvia's spindly handwriting, the other, “James.”

“This feels like a book,” mused Gretchen, turning James's gift over in her hands.

Sarah gave Caroline's gift a gentle shake, and the contents shifted an inch or two from one side of the box to the other. “I haven't a clue what this is.” Carefully she pushed down on the top of the box. “It's soft. It could be a quilt.”

Gretchen smiled. “It's almost certainly a quilt. Consider the source.”

“I wonder . . .” Sarah inspected the paper and ribbons. “We could unwrap them very carefully, see what's inside, and wrap them up again—”

“Sarah,” exclaimed Gretchen, scandalized. “The twins should receive their gifts exactly as they are, lovingly wrapped by Sylvia herself.”

“But the twins are only ten,” Sarah protested weakly, for she knew Gretchen was right. “They might not marry young or at all, and their thirtieth birthdays are twenty years away. Curiosity might kill me before then.”

“It won't,” said Gretchen firmly. “The years will pass more swiftly than you can imagine. You'll just have to be patient and tell yourself that one day you'll know what Sylvia left your children.”

Gretchen fell silent, and her gaze dropped to James's gift, which she still held in her wrinkled, blue-veined hands. Sarah knew that Gretchen was thinking that she herself might never learn what Sylvia's lasts gift were. Sarah's throat tightened. She could not think of another loss, not so soon.

They returned the gifts to the bag and the bag to its hiding place in the window seat. Then they softly closed the door to the nursery—playroom, game room, who knew what incarnation it would take next. The years would unfold, and time would tell.

Sarah returned to the library and Sylvia's list. In the days that followed, she distributed Sylvia's gifts to those friends who resided in the manor, and called or wrote letters to those who did not. One by one the other gifts were claimed by grateful, tearful friends, students, and colleagues, and when each recipient came to the manor, they shared heartfelt, joyful memories of the master quilter they all loved and admired—and so Sarah, too, received another, wonderful gift from her departed friend, the gift of stories.

Sylvia's gifts for the twins had remained undisturbed for fifteen years, and in the interim the playroom had become Emily's studio. Gretchen was no longer with them and would not discover what the gifts were, a likelihood she and Sarah had both silently considered when they found the wrapped and ribbon-tied parcels in the window seat on that long-ago day.

Just as Gretchen had foretold, the years had passed swiftly, far too swiftly. The twins were grown, the time had come, and soon Sarah would know what her friend and mentor had left behind as a last, loving gift for her children.

F
or Sarah, Friday morning passed in a blur of activity—decorating the ballroom for the reception, setting up chairs in the north gardens, folding programs, and delegating whatever tasks she could to any willing volunteer. To her relief, Carol took charge of welcoming guests, showing them to their rooms with cordial efficiency and making everyone feel at home. Lunch was a quick but tasty affair, a sandwich, soup, and salad buffet that Gina and Anna arranged on the front verandah. Then Sarah was glad to pause, catch her breath, and have a bite to eat. She sat on one of the old Adirondack chairs, munching a tuna salad and arugula wrap and sipping a mug of warm apple cider as she watched younger guests play soccer, croquet, and tag on the broad green lawn.

Balancing a mug of cider, a bowl of clam chowder, and a plate with a roast beef and provolone sub, a side of chips, and a pickle, Matt pushed a chair closer to hers with his foot and carefully sat down. “Save room for dessert,” said Sarah. “Anna made pumpkin tartlets.”

“I saw them,” Matt replied, glancing back at the buffet table in anticipation. “That's why I took only a six-inch sub instead of a foot-long. Don't worry, I'll still fit into my tux tomorrow.”

“I wasn't worried,” Sarah assured him, amused. “I'm sure you've been working up an appetite putting the gardens in order. How do they look?”

“Exactly as Caroline wanted them, but they'll never be as beautiful as the bride.” Matt gazed out at the front yard, where Caroline was playing freeze tag with Leo's younger cousin, coltishly lovely in a comfortable pair of jeans and a forest green Dartmouth sweatshirt. Her golden hair shone in the autumn sun, and her laughter rang out, clear and happy. Sarah and Matt exchanged a smile, proud and wistful.

“They grew up so much faster than I expected,” said Matt. “Remember when they were babies and everyone always told us to enjoy every minute, even while we were up to our elbows in diapers and a good night's sleep was nothing but a fond memory?”

“They were right.”

“They were right,” affirmed Matt. “I can't believe it's been twenty-five years.”

“The days were long, but the years were short.” Sarah leaned back and smiled ruefully. “I miss those little babies. I miss my toddlers and my fifth graders and every stage in between and every one that followed.”

“Remember how we always used to say, ‘This is the perfect age. They're absolutely perfect just as they are.' And then a year later, we'd say, ‘No, we were wrong;
this
is the perfect age. They're even more wonderful now.'”

“I remember,” said Sarah. Then she laughed. “We'll probably say the same thing about our grandchildren.”

“Probably.”

They finished their lunches in the companionable silence of longtime spouses who could speak volumes with a single glance or the smallest gesture, watching the games on the lawn and wishing that time wouldn't pass so swiftly.

A month before the wedding, Sarah, the consummate organizer, had planned her schedule for the wedding week down to the last minute, allowing extra time for unforeseeable disasters both small and significant. Only then would she be certain to finish everything in time so that she could relax and enjoy the wedding day, with all the hard work behind her. An hour before the rehearsal, and only fifteen minutes behind her master schedule, Sarah crossed off the last item from her list of wedding preparation duties with great satisfaction and relief. There were other tasks, of course, that had to wait until the day of the ceremony, but Caroline and James had encouraged her to delegate those to her friends, the best man, and the bridesmaids. Caroline had also made her promise that she would not spend Saturday morning going from one helper to the next, making sure everything would be done properly and on time. “This isn't quilt camp,” Caroline had reminded her after supper on the day of her arrival. “You don't have to manage everything. You're the mother of the bride, not the wedding planner.”

“We don't have a wedding planner, and mother of the bride or not, I'm the hostess, not a guest,” Sarah had pointed out. “I can't sit down, put my feet up, and swill a cocktail until I'm sure everything is perfect.”

“It's not going to be perfect,” Caroline had told her firmly. “It's going to be lovely and I'll be very happy, and I say that knowing that it's not going to be perfect. Things are going to go wrong—”

“Not with the rehearsal dinner or the wedding supper,” Gina broke in cheerfully. “And definitely not with the cake.”

“Okay, the food will probably be perfect,” amended Caroline, amused. “But things are going to go wrong, and that's okay. I refuse to be upset if the napkins are the wrong color or if we run out of wedding favors, and you should too.”