A Quilter's Holiday: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (4 page)

“What she’s trying to say is that we understand why
you’re so grumpy, but stop taking your bad mood out on me,” said Diane, rolling up her magazine, “or I’ll be forced to swat you.”

“Your kind always resorts to threats of violence in the end,” said Gwen, but she allowed a small smile.

“Official or not, this does feel like the start of the quilting season,” remarked Agnes, and all, even Gwen, agreed. Although quilters pieced and sewed throughout the year, when the weather turned colder and forced them indoors, it was especially appealing to layer a quilt sandwich in a lap hoop, curl up on the sofa, and snuggle beneath the soft folds. While the winds blew and snow fell, quilters could enjoy the comforting softness and stimulating color of fabric as they cut and sewed and created objects of warmth and beauty for those they loved. The arrival of the day after Thanksgiving also meant that the Elm Creek Quilters had about a month left to complete all the quilts, table runners, garments, ornaments, and other quilted items they intended to give as Christmas gifts. A day devoted to quilting in the company of friends, free of other distractions, would allow them to make good progress on their homemade gifts—and hold off the frenzy of the holiday season one day more.

Some of the Elm Creek Quilters hoped to finish their current works-in-progress before the end of the day, but Sarah knew she would need at least another two weeks to finish the quilt she was making for Matt’s father. The block pattern, her
own original design, was a Log Cabin variation with a burgundy star in the center and dark blue, tan, and ivory diagonals instead of the traditional two-part, dark-and-light divisions. She had pieced forty-eight blocks, enough for a queen-size quilt, and was on her hands and knees on the floor laying them out in a Barn Raising setting. Placing the last in the lower left corner, she huffed and pushed off with her hands and managed to get on her feet, then stood back to inspect her work. The design had looked stunning on her computer screen, but sometimes the difference between pixels and fabric could be profound.

“Beautiful,” proclaimed Agnes, who had left her appliqué handwork on her chair and had come closer for a better look. “Matt’s father is going to love it.”

“I hope so,” said Sarah, nudging an errant block into place with the toe of her slipper. “He’s said on several occasions that he has no interest in quilting.”

“Quilting, not quilts,” noted Carol. “He might like quilts, but have no interest in taking up the art himself.”

“I’m not so sure. His eyes glaze over every time Matt or I talk about what goes on at quilt camp.” Sarah walked around the arrangement of blocks, studying it from all sides. Yes, the Barn Raising setting was definitely the way to go. “I thought perhaps if he had a quilt of his own, he might take more of an interest in our work.”

She meant in Matt’s work as well as that of the Elm Creek Quilters. Years before, when Matt had earned his degree in Landscape Architecture from Penn State, Hank McClure had hoped his son would put his training to use with Hank’s successful home building company in southwestern Pennsylvania. Matt had worked for his father ever since he was old enough to hold a hammer, whenever he was not in school. Even while in college he had often driven home on the weekends to help with projects running behind schedule, but he had never intended to take over the family business, or so he had always assured Sarah.

For years, Hank had let Matt go his own way without complaint, but the closer he came to retirement, the more often he hinted that he hoped Matt would change his mind. On their last visit, in early September, Hank had told Matt that with two babies on the way, he had to think more seriously about his future. “A partnership with your old man is as secure a job as you’re going to get in this world,” he had said, clapping Matt on the back and grinning. Matt hadn’t defended his career choice, just smiled in return while Sarah bit the inside of her lower lip to keep herself from informing Hank that Matt’s job at Elm Creek Quilts would be secure even if he weren’t married to the cofounder. He was essential to their operations, as essential as Sarah herself, but Hank seemed to think Matt’s skills were going to waste.

In all the years Sarah and Matt had lived and worked at Elm Creek Manor, Matt’s father had come to visit them only twice. Matt made excuses for him, saying that he couldn’t get away from work as easily as they could, so it made more sense for them to visit him. Sarah knew this was true, but she also realized—even if it had not yet occurred to the men—that it wouldn’t be so easy to drop everything and drive halfway across the state after the twins were born.

That year, Matt’s father had agreed to spend Christmas at Elm Creek Manor. Sarah didn’t expect the quilt he would find under the tree on Christmas morning to work miracles, but the quilt and a pleasant visit combined might encourage him to reconsider his doubts about Elm Creek Quilts and Matt’s choice to work as the caretaker there. Not too long ago, Sarah’s mother had been skeptical that a quilt camp could provide a good living, Sarah reminded herself as she glanced at Carol, who sat near the fireplace chatting with Diane and rummaging through her sewing basket. Sarah didn’t expect Matt’s father to sign up for quilt camp as Carol had done, but perhaps a quilt of his own would spark his appreciation, maybe even his curiosity, for the art form that the Elm Creek Quilters fostered within the gray stone walls of the manor. If he thought that Matt was contributing to something worthwhile, something with a strong tradition that continued to thrive, perhaps he would stop pressuring Matt to take over his construction
firm. Sarah hoped so, because if Hank kept it up, Matt might be persuaded, and the last thing Sarah wanted to do was leave Elm Creek Quilts—

“What are you going to call it?”

“Hmm?” Sarah said, startled from her reverie.

“Your new quilt block,” said Agnes. “You have to name an original design.”

“I haven’t thought of a name yet,” Sarah admitted. “Maybe something with the word
cabin
or
star
in it.”

“Cabin Star?” said Anna, admiring Sarah’s blocks. “Star Cabin?”

“Stars over the Cabins?” suggested Agnes.

“Maybe.” Sarah wasn’t sure. The name should evoke elements of the design, but it should also reflect the person and the occasion for which she had created it. It was meant to be a Christmas gift, but she had chosen Hank’s favorites rather than traditional holiday colors. Cabins could be homes, and Hank had spent his life building homes for others. The Barn Raising setting suggested Hank’s profession as well. Contractor’s Star? No. Definitely not.

A name would come to her, she decided as she retrieved her pincushion from her sewing kit and settled down to pinning the blocks into rows. If not, she could count on her friends to test ideas and debate their merits until together they hit upon the perfect name. It was how they had often
found solutions to problems, in sharing and in collaboration, and Sarah was not about to give that up.

“Found it,” Diane cried so unexpectedly that Sarah almost stuck herself with a pin. “And it only took me three magazines. I knew it was in one of these.”

“Found what?” asked Carol.

“The pattern for this Advent calendar.” Beaming, Diane held up the magazine, but Sarah couldn’t see the pages from her seat on the floor. “It’s a holiday scene, and the numbered appliqués are actually pockets. You can tuck a coin or a piece of candy inside.”

Gwen glanced at the pictures. “It’s cute, but it seems better suited for younger children, don’t you think?”

Diane dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “The boys will understand. We used a cardboard Advent calendar almost exactly like this one for years when they were younger, but it’s too dilapidated to display anymore. Half of the little paper pockets have fallen off and some of the numbers are so faded you can’t read them anymore.”

Carol nodded her approval. “Your sons will remember your tradition and they’ll appreciate that you’re replacing the worn out calendar with something more enduring. It’ll be something their own children can enjoy when they come to visit you at Christmas in years to come.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m not ready to be a
grandma just yet.” Glancing between the magazine and her sewing supplies, Diane began collecting the necessary fabric and notions. “Anyway, I’m not really replacing mine. I’m going to make two, one to give to each of them.”

“Wait. You’ve just now found the pattern?” Gretchen’s brow furrowed. “Does this mean you haven’t started yet? And you plan to finish two before Christmas?”

“This is Diane’s way,” explained Sylvia, amused. “It’s become a tradition.”

“And yet I always manage to finish in time, don’t I?” Diane defended herself. “There’s plenty of time until Christmas.”

“Not as much time as you seem to think,” said Gwen. “And to get the most out of the calendars, you really ought to give them to your boys on the first day of Advent. If they receive them on Christmas, they’ll only have the pocket for December twenty-fifth to open, right?”

Diane looked perturbed for a moment, but then she shrugged. “So they’ll have them for next year’s Advent rather than this one. I’ll tuck something special into the last pocket to make up for any disappointment they might feel at missing out on the other twenty-four pockets.”

“Like what, a hundred dollar bill?” Gwen loosened the bolt on her lap hoop and adjusted the layers of fabric and batting. The colors were more muted and the pattern more traditional than her usual work, but if it was a gift, Gwen had likely
designed it for the recipient’s tastes rather than her own. “It would take something on that order to interest most college kids I know in an Advent calendar.”

“Gwen,” Agnes rebuked gently, but Sarah shared Gwen’s misgivings. If she had two college guys on her Christmas shopping list, her first thought wouldn’t be to make them quilted Advent calendars. Wasn’t it right for a friend to tactfully suggest other, probably better gifts, especially since Diane hadn’t cut a single piece of fabric yet?

“This isn’t all that Tim and I will have under the tree for them,” said Diane, unconcerned. “This is just a bonus. A little memory from Christmases past.”

“And a lovely idea it is,” declared Sylvia, with a warning look for Gwen, who held up a hand in a small gesture signifying that she wouldn’t debate the matter—and no one loved a good debate more than Gwen.

As Gwen slipped on her thimble to begin hand-quilting, Sarah craned her neck to get a better look at her work-in-progress. “What’s that you’re working on?” she asked. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you hand-quilt anything.”

“I’m finishing this for a friend,” said Gwen, eyes on her work. “She hand-quilted most of the top before passing it on to me, so naturally I’ll continue in the same style.”

Agnes studied the draped layers of top, batting, and backing concealing Gwen’s lap and most of her chair. “And you hope to have it done by Christmas?”

“Sooner, actually, since I’ll need time to ship it.”

“You’ll have to quilt day and night from now until Christmas Eve to meet that deadline,” said Diane.

Gwen made the barest of shrugs. “If I have to. Whatever it takes.”

“But you’ll have classes until the end of the semester and exams to grade,” protested Agnes. “And I assume you might want to sleep every once in a while. Why don’t we put it in the quilt frame and we can all help you finish it?”

Gwen looked up from her work, smiling fondly. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but take a look around. If you all help me, when would you work on your own projects?”

“She’s right,” Diane quickly interjected. “Sorry, Gwen, but you’re on your own.”

“Not a problem.” Then Gwen added, as if thinking aloud, “I want to finish it myself, anyway.”

“It’s a beautiful design,” said Sarah, admiring it from a distance. In each block, four isosceles triangles flared outward toward the corners from a central square set on point. Each triangle was flanked by two long, narrow isosceles triangles so that they seemed to split into two, creating an unusual eight-pointed star. Four additional squares, each touching one corner of the central square and cut from the same fabric, created the illusion of one larger square behind the more prominent star. The meeting of the star points created a secondary pattern of stars overlapping in a striking, almost circular fashion.
The muted colors—browns, greens, and pinks in an array of floral prints—provided a welcome, softening balance to the sharp points and corners of the triangles and squares.

Even if she had not been told that someone else had pieced the top, Sarah would have guessed it was not her friend’s work, for Gwen usually worked with a bold, jewel-toned palette. Also, Gwen’s creations tended toward the contemporary and experimental whereas this top was traditional, despite its complexity. And yet the design carried some essence of Gwen in a way Sarah could not quite determine.

“I should have the last of these Christmas stockings finished by the end of next week,” said Agnes firmly, apparently unwilling to see Gwen exhaust herself to meet a deadline. “At least let me help you with the binding.”

“I might take you up on that,” said Gwen.

“Agnes,” Diane broke in, “if you’re that eager to help others …”

Agnes smiled. “If I finish my grandchildren’s Christmas stockings before Gwen is ready to bind her quilt, I’d be happy to help you too, Diane.”

“Thanks,” said Diane cheerfully, as if she had expected Agnes’s answer.

“This too happens every year,” Sylvia told Anna and Gretchen. “It’s our resident procrastinator’s secret to completing her projects by Christmas. If not for Agnes’s help—”

“Diane would be in serious trouble,” Gwen broke in.

“Tis the season for giving,” said Agnes cheerfully. “Not just the giving of gifts, but of our time and talents.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Gretchen from the ironing board, where she was pressing small blocks pieced from bright rainbow hues, colors so clear and vivid that they must be meant for a child’s quilt. But which child? Gretchen had no children of her own, no grandchildren. A young grandniece or nephew perhaps? Pondering the possibilities, Sarah recalled Gretchen’s cryptic response earlier that day when Sylvia had asked her about her project as she unpacked her tote bag. Gretchen had said that she was working on dozens of Swamp Patch blocks—the design was fortunately much prettier than its name implied—and she had not yet met the children to whom she intended to give the finished quilts.