Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt (12 page)

Claudia rolled out the ball of dough into a rectangle, then beckoned Sylvia forward to help stretch. Sylvia obliged, and in unison, they reached beneath the dough and pulled it toward themselves with the back of their hands. When Claudia stepped to her right, Sylvia mirrored her, so they always faced each other on opposite sides of the table. At first, Sylvia was amazed by how quickly the familiar motions came back to her, and as the sisters fell into a rhythm of reaching and stretching, she once again marveled at the dough’s transformation from a smooth ball into a thin, translucent sheet.

She was so involved in the methodical process that it was Claudia who first noticed the trouble. “This isn’t right,” she muttered.

“What? There aren’t any tears.”

“No, but we haven’t made it any wider or thinner for quite a while.”

Sylvia had paid little attention to the time. She could not honestly say how much progress they had made in the last two minutes, or the last five. “It seems fine to me.”

“The dough should have reached the edges of the table by now.” Claudia paused, wiped a smear of flour from her face with the back of her hand, and studied the dough. “Something’s wrong.”

“Did you count how many handfuls of flour you used?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use the usual cup for measuring the water?”

“Yes, of course,” snapped Claudia impatiently. “I did all that.”

“We could give it another few minutes,” suggested Sylvia. “Or we could ask Aunt Lucinda—”

“No. We need to do this on our own, remember?” Claudia slid her hands beneath the dough and indicated with a sharp nod that Sylvia was to do the same. Sylvia complied, and this time when she released the dough and allowed it to fall back to the table, she noticed that instead of draping gracefully across the floured sheet, it sprang back slightly, like a rubber band.

Claudia was watching her face. “That time you saw it, too.”

Sylvia nodded as they reached beneath the dough again.

Lift, stretch, fall—-and again, that almost imperceptible motion of the dough as it sprang back into its former shape. Their mother’s dough had never done that. Neither had their grandmother’s. “It’s … rubbery,” said Sylvia, searching for the least offensive term.

“I made it exactly the same as always,” said Claudia. “You saw me.”

That Sylvia had been out of the kitchen for most of the time Claudia mixed the dough was hardly worth mentioning given the mounting problems at hand. Sylvia could now see that while the dough was suitably thin in the center, the outer edge of the rectangle was as thick as a fist, as if it were a heavy frame around a delicate canvas.

“I think somehow we have to stretch the edges more without stretching the center,” Sylvia finally said.

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know
how;
I just know
what
.”

“That’s not very helpful,” grumbled Claudia, but after a moment, she took up the rolling pin and tried to flatten the edges. It helped somewhat, and after Claudia had made two trips around the perimeter with the rolling pin, she told Sylvia to resume stretching. “Harder this time.”

“Are you sure?” asked Sylvia. “The center is already so thin.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” To demonstrate, Claudia thrust her hands beneath the dough and pulled firmly toward the edges—and gasped in horror as a long tear running the length of the rectangle appeared on Sylvia’s side of the table.

“We can patch it,” said Sylvia, already setting to it.

“If you had pulled equally from your side-” “You didn’t give me a chance! The tear still would have happened, just in a different place.”

“Never mind.” Claudia came around the table to the other end of the tear and began pinching it closed. “Let’s just fix it. There’s no need to place blame.”

Apparently there wasn’t, Sylvia thought, unless she was at fault. But she said nothing as the sisters worked from the ends toward the middle until the tear was mended with a seam of pinched dough. Afterward, Claudia circled the rectangle one last time, trimming off the thick frame with a knife.

“What are you doing?” asked Sylvia. On every side, the dough rectangle fell several inches short of the edge of the table.

“It wasn’t going to stretch any farther.”

“It’s not big enough.”

“But it is almost thin enough, and it will taste the same.” Sylvia wasn’t so sure. What if whatever alchemy had made the dough more difficult to stretch had also affected its flavor?

“I’ll get the apples,” she said instead, careful to allow no trace of annoyance or worry into her voice. At least they would have extra noodles for soup.

The dough rolled around the apples as easily as ever, to their unspoken relief, and soon their first strudel was baking in the oven. They did not have nearly as much difficulty stretching the second ball of dough—in part because they had learned from their mistakes and took care not to leave a thick rope of dough around a thin center rectangle—but when they could stretch the dough no more, it still was thicker than their mother’s, and it did not come within two inches of the table’s edges.

Still, the first strudel came out of the oven a beautiful golden brown, and the aroma of baked apples and cinnamon drew other members of the family into the kitchen. Most of them praised the sisters and declared that they couldn’t wait to taste the strudel on Christmas morning, but Uncle William took one look at their first attempt cooling on the table and said, “Looks like the runt of the litter.”

“We won’t bother saving any for you, then,” Sylvia teased right back, but Claudia busied herself at the sink full of dishes until he left the kitchen so he would not see her scarlet face.

“Eight more to go,” Sylvia remarked on her way to the cellar for more apples.

“Maybe two are enough,” said Claudia wearily.

Sylvia stopped short on the stairs. “You don’t mean that. Uncle William was just teasing.”

“No, it’s not that. I suppose I had no idea how difficult this would be without8212;” Claudia composed herself. “Even when Mama was ill, she managed everything with such ease. Next year-maybe next year we can try to do more.”

Sylvia was surprised by her sister’s admission of weakness, or at least the closest thing to an admission of weakness Claudia was likely to let slip. As for herself, she hated to abandon any task until she had no choice but to admit defeat—but she also did not relish the thought of spending the rest of the day in the kitchen. The temptation to leave the kitchen overruled her perseverance, and so Sylvia agreed that the two strudel they had already made would be sufficient, as it meant one for the Bergstroms and one for Andrew to take home to his family. Their friends and neighbors had not received the famous Bergstrom strudel since Eleanor’s last Christmas and would not expect it this season. Next year, Sylvia and Claudia promised each other, they would be pleasantly surprised.

The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, Andrew arrived at the back door while the Bergstroms were finishing breakfast. Sylvia’s father, who had planned to pick him up later that afternoon in the car, joked that the boy’s haste would do nothing to speed Santa’s visit, but as the boy cast a longing gaze toward the remains of the meal, there could be no mistaking what had sped him to their door. Lucinda welcomed him to the table and signaled for Claudia to bring an extra plate, and soon the scrawny boy was bolting down everything they set before him.

After breakfast the boys ran off to play. The women tidied the kitchen then sent Uncle William and Aunt Nellie out to find a tree. “Isn’t anyone else in this family ever going to get married?” Uncle William grumbled as he shrugged into his coat.

“Don’t look at me,” said Lucinda.

He peered hopefully at Claudia. “How old are you again?”

“Sixteen,” she said, straightening proudly.

“Forget it, Will,” said her father. “The job is yours for at least ten more years.”

“Daddy,” protested Claudia.

“We don’t mind,” Aunt Nellie assured the girls’ father. She linked her arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him.

“In fact, this year, we’re going to pick out the best tree Elm Creek Manor has ever had.”

The couple left through the back door, following a trail broken through the soft layer of snow on their way toward the bridge over Elm Creek. Watching through the kitchen window, Lucinda remarked to Sylvia’s father, “Looks like it’s going to be another four-hour search this year.”

“I’m sure William hopes so,” he replied, grinning.

“Well, the ornaments are ready in the ballroom,” said Claudia, missing the implications. “Whenever they do get back, we can begin decorating.”

“In the meantime, I’ll fix lunch,” said Lucinda.

Claudia nodded. “And I have some sewing to do.”

Sylvia had small gifts to wrap, knitted socks and scarves she had completed the night before. She left her festive packages in the ballroom, not surprised to find that her aunt and uncle had not returned, then went looking for Claudia. Her sister sat in the front parlor, in their mother’s favorite chair, threading a needle. At her feet lay piles of fabric she had sorted by color.

“What are you working on?” Sylvia drew closer to the familiar-looking scraps. “Is that the Christmas Quilt?”

Claudia nodded, holding the needle between pursed lips while she tied a knot at the end of the thread.

Sylvia looked from the triangles on her sister’s lap to the stack of Feathered Star blocks on the table at her right hand.

“Those pieces are too big for a Feathered Star. They should be less than half that size.”

“I’m not making Feathered Stars.” Claudia took the needle from her mouth and speared its tip into a white triangle and a green one. She nodded to their mother’s old sewing basket, which she had long ago adopted. Upon its open lid Sylvia spied a few red-and-green Variable Star blocks.

Sylvia picked up one and immediately spotted the mistakes. The tip of one star point had been lopped off by an adjoining seam. A pair of green star points did not meet at the tip of the central red square. On the back of the block, instead of pressing her seams flat and smooth, Claudia had folded them over carelessly, creating a thick lump of fabric layers that would be difficult to quilt through later. Sylvia compared the block to a second.

“Did you do this on purpose?” asked Sylvia, matching the top corners of the blocks and holding them together to estimate the difference in size. “Did you mean for this one to be a half-inch smaller than the other?”

Claudia snatched the blocks from her grasp. “Don’t be ridiculous. I used the same templates for all of them.”

She must have varied her seam allowances, then. “You’ll have to block them with the iron. You’ll need a lot of steam—” “I know how to block a quilt.”

“You could have avoided that step if you had sewed more accurately. Why are you making Variable Stars instead of—” Sylvia broke off, remembering just in time that the last thing she wanted to do was encourage her sister to attempt a far more difficult pattern when she could barely manage one of the simplest star blocks in her repertoire. “If you try to sew these blocks together, you’ll be able to match up either the star points or the corners, but not both. Does Aunt Lucinda know what you’re up to? She won’t appreciate it if you ruin her quilt.”

“I will not ruin her quilt, and yes, I already asked her if I might finish it.”

“And she said yes?”

“Of course she said yes, or I wouldn’t be sitting here working on it. Honestly, Sylvia.”

Sylvia thought of the time and talent their mother and Great-Aunt Lucinda had sewn into their Feathered Stars and holly plumes. All of their work would go to waste if Claudia distorted their handiwork with her poorly constructed Variable Stars. “Maybe you should let me help.”

“Maybe you should find something of your own to work on.”

Why should she? The Christmas Quilt was as much hers as it was Claudia’s. “If I make some of the blocks, we’ll finish more quickly. That way you’ll also have an example to follow when you’re steaming or trimming your blocks to the right size. I think your trouble is your seam allowances—”

“My trouble is that I have an annoying little sister who doesn’t have anything better to do on Christmas Eve than criticize me. Great-Aunt Lucinda said I could finish the quilt and that’s what I’m going to do. You’re just angry because you didn’t think of it first. If you had, you wouldn’t have let me help you, and you know it.”

Every word struck home, and Sylvia’s temper flared. In the distance she heard the double doors to the foyer slam, followed by the happy clamor of voices. Uncle William and Aunt Nellie had returned with a tree and the sisters were needed in the ballroom, but Sylvia couldn’t resist one parting shot: “The word ‘variable’ in your ‘Variable Stars’ shouldn’t refer to their size.”

She hurried from the parlor before Claudia could have the last word.

Richard and Andrew must have flown down from the nursery. She tried to keep them out of the way as Uncle William and her father hauled the tree into the ballroom and set it up in its familiar place on the dais. Great-Aunt Lucinda brought in trays of food so they could lunch while they trimmed the tree, and someone switched on the radio. Suddenly the room was filled with music and laughter, and Sylvia felt a pang of longing for her mother. Her eyes met her father’s, and she knew he shared her thoughts. In his arms he carried the paper angels she and Claudia had made years before in Sunday school. He put Claudia’s on a high branch and placed Sylvia’s exactly even on the opposite side of the tree—not one branch higher, not one lower. His great deliberation signaled to Sylvia that he had seen Claudia’s stormy expression and had identified Sylvia as its source.

She flushed guiltily and looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the boys’ antics as they wrapped garlands of popcorn and cranberries around the lower branches of the tree.

Wait until she finishes piecing the top of the Christmas Quilt and wants help layering and basting it
, Sylvia thought bitterly.

Sylvia would not lift a finger or a needle to help her. And she was through with letting Claudia carry on as if she were the lady of the house. If anyone held that role with Mama gone, it was Great-Aunt Lucinda, not a silly sixteen-year-old girl.