The Keeper (29 page)

“We need to get prepared,” Rome told Julia on the evening after Amos was discharged from the hospital. “To think of some ways to raise money for the heart transplant. Maybe get some folks to help us have a fundraising auction.”

It amazed Julia to hear Rome use the pronoun “we.” She didn’t think it was a part of his vocabulary. I, me, myself, mine. But never “we.” Was it possible Roman Troyer was starting to grow attached to people? To care about them? “Do you really think it will happen soon?”

“When the multitudes needed to be fed, Jesus gave them food. When the disciples needed to pay their taxes, he provided a coin. When the time is right for Amos to get a heart, God will provide.” Rome pulled out a pen and started jotting things down on a sheet of scrap paper. “So let’s do our part and get ready, so we’re prepared when God brings your father that heart.”

“Julia can quilt,” Fern said quietly.

Julia stared at Fern.

“You could make another quilt like that one you made last year that went for such a big pile of cash,” Fern said.

“Dad loved that quilt best,” M.K. volunteered after slipping into the room.

“How did you know about that quilt?” Julia asked Fern.

“Hank wrote about it in the
Budget
,” Fern said.
“
Fetched big bucks, he said. People called it a Julia Lapp original.”

Uncle Hank! Julia’s mouth set in a firm line. He hadn’t mentioned to them that he wrote about the quilt in his weekly letter. Talk about stoking Edith Fisher’s fire.

“You can make another one,” Fern said. “Just like that one.”

Julia shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Rome asked. “I haven’t seen you design a quilt all summer. What’s made you stop?”

M.K. sidled up next to Rome. “On account of Edith Fisher,” she whispered.

“Mary Kate!” Julia said. “That’s family business!”

“Rome’s practically family,” M.K. said. “So is Fern.” She turned to Rome. “Edith Fisher told folks that Julia was becoming prideful after her quilt brought in so much money. And then just after that, Paul postponed the engagement for the first time. So Julia stopped making quilt tops.”

Fern huffed. “Edith Fisher has an opinion about every subject and gives it unsolicited.”

The conversation about raising money started M.K. brainstorming dozens of ways to raise cash—most of them had to do with other people: Fern could whip up doughnuts and sell them at the fork in the road where construction workers gathered to be picked up by their crew each morning. Menno could double his birdhouse output and sell them door-to-door. M.K. even offered to stay home with Amos during church in the morning to think up more ideas, but Fern waved her off like she would a pesky fly.

“You need church more than most,” Fern told M.K.

Julia moved toward the open door that led from the kitchen to the side porch. It was dark and quiet outside, and she could smell jasmine in the night breeze. She loved it all so much. The trees and brooks, the sights and smells. Best of all, she loved watching the moon cast its shadow over the farm.

Rome joined her. They stood silently for a long while, listening to the rustle of the wind as it made the dried corn tassles dance in the fields. Even under her father’s efficient management, Windmill Farm hadn’t looked this good. The fences that stretched around the paddocks had been repaired and whitewashed. The broken arm of the windmill had been fixed. Everything about the farm looked well tended and prosperous. It was because of Rome. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He had taken Menno alongside him and worked steadily through Julia’s expansive to-do list.

“Fern’s right,” he said. “You shouldn’t let someone else steal your joy in making something you’re good at.”

“Edith Fisher had a point,” Julia said. “I was proud, after winning that ribbon and raising so much money. I love quilt making, but it can become an idol to me. It was best to put it aside for a season.”

Rome looked at her in surprise. “But the quilt was auctioned away for a good purpose.”

She gave a half shrug. “Even something we love to do can become an idol. I was neglecting my friends and family just so I could create a quilt. I was always preoccupied, thinking about designing my next quilt top. When Dad took sick and needed so much of my attention, it made me realize how selfish I had become.”

“You could never be selfish,” he said softly.

Julia saw in Rome’s eyes something new, something of joy, even hope. Just a flicker. And then it was gone.

After Rome left to go to his cottage, Julia turned off the gas lamps in the living room to get ready to go upstairs to bed. She turned in a slow circle, taking in every inch of this oh-so-familiar room until she faced the trunk that butted against the wall, holding her mother’s quilts.

She set the lamp on the bookshelf and knelt on the floor to open the trunk. The soothing smell of cedar chips drifted up as she pushed the lid against the wall. The tissue paper that wrapped the quilts crackled as Julia lifted one, then another. There was a small blue-and-white Nine-Patch crib quilt that had covered each of Maggie Lapp’s babies. Below it was a Log Cabin pattern, made of cobalt and yellow, one her mother had made for Menno when he turned ten. Her hand brushed the vibrant colors, neatly stitched with the three-strand thread that her mother had insisted on. She had said the thread reminded her of the Holy Trinity, holding the world together, just the way thread held a quilt together. It was the last quilt her mother had made. Would Menno remember?

Almost every afternoon of Julia’s childhood was spent sitting on the floor next to her mother while she sat sewing at her quilt frame or tracing around templates for quilt blocks. When it came to quilt-making, Maggie Lapp’s quilts stood out. She said her quilts were designed to wrap a person with the warmth of loving arms, as healing as homemade chicken soup. She had more orders than she could handle and was often weeks behind in her work, but she always had time for her family—to listen to them natter away about school, teachers, friends, animals, crops, anything that might be weighing on their minds. And the thing was, she didn’t just pretend to listen while slipping her needle through the fabric, making tiny, even stitches. She truly listened. She made everyone feel important.

Why, that’s where Sadie got that quality, Julia realized.

She wrapped Menno’s quilt up carefully, wondering when it might be used. Was he serious about Annie? Was she serious about him? What would her mother say about Menno having a girlfriend? Julia used to try to cobble together conversations she would have with her mother, but the older she became, the less she felt she knew her mother. She had known her as a child, but not as a woman. What would Maggie have said about Edith Fisher—accusing Julia of being prideful over her quilts? What would she say about Rome’s idea to raise money to help her husband with a heart transplant? Julia really had no idea.

She startled when she heard a sound behind her. There was Fern, standing against the doorjamb in her usual way, arms crossed against her chest. “My father had a saying: ‘Burying your talents is a grave mistake.’”

Julia looked down at Menno’s quilt in her lap.

Fern walked up to Julia. “In the Bible, Jesus tells a story about a king who gave his servants some talents and told them to use them in his absence. He gave five talents to one servant, three to another, one to the last servant. When he returned, he wanted to know how they had used their talents. The five talent fellow had doubled his talents. So did the three talent fellow. But one servant—he buried it.” Fern put a hand on Julia’s head. “God has given you a good gift and you have an opportunity to give God back a gift. But not if you bury it.”

“But . . . Edith Fisher—”

“Edith Fisher is not the king returning to ask the servants about their talents.” She bent at the waist and cupped Julia’s face in her hands. “You are to answer to God for your life.” She turned and left Julia alone.

As Julia sat in the dimly lit room, a frightening—almost exhilarating—sense of purpose came over her. She placed Menno’s quilt back into the trunk and gently closed it. She opened the bottom drawer of the corner hutch and plunged her hand beneath a pile of seldom-used linens to pluck out her hidden journal. In it were pages and pages of quilt top ideas, waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for the right design, the right fabrics, the right moment. She slipped the journal into her apron pocket, picked up the lamp, and hurried up the stairs to her room. Maybe the right moment was now.

17

C
ontrary to popular belief, Julia did very few things in her life with extreme self-confidence, but designing a quilt top had always been one of them. Her mother used to tell her she had a gift for design and construction, the ability to create the most beautiful and intricate quilts imaginable. And now that she’d started designing again, she felt ideas pouring out of her. They were flooding her brain so fast she didn’t have time to get them down on paper. Something special happened as she put swatches of fabric against each other, something instinctive. She tackled the quilt top with a surety of purpose, led by an inner prompting.

Everyone honored Julia’s request to stay out of the dining room and let her work without interruption or well-meaning suggestions. She started a few patches as trial pieces, just to see how the colors interacted. She laid them out on the dining room table. She stood back to observe her work and ended up throwing them away. She had to start over. They were good, but not good enough.

It was hard. Time was growing short. The fundraising auction Rome had organized was only two weeks away. He was working so hard on it. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. She felt hot, nauseated, and more than a little panicked. What if she couldn’t create something special? What if she created the quilt top but couldn’t get it quilted in time? What if it didn’t raise as much money as last year’s quilt? So much to worry about! But she wouldn’t think about all that now. She had to stay focused.

This quilt was for her father’s new heart—it had to be her best work.

Sadie kept nudging Menno to finish up his breakfast. Julia had scheduled the grand unveiling of the quilt top this morning, and Sadie couldn’t wait to see what this quilt looked like. She felt more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Finally, Menno swallowed his last spoonful of oatmeal and Sadie jumped up from the table.

“Now, Jules?”

Julia took a deep breath. “Now.”

Julia had been working on this quilt fourteen hours a day for the last ten days. She’d barely been seen. She had put up sheets to block off the living room so no one could even peek at the work in progress. Now and then she would emerge to send someone off to the fabric store in town for more thread or a certain color of fabric.

Finally, the moment had come. M.K. ran to the room, with Sadie right on her heels, then Fern and Rome and Menno. M.K., barely able to contain herself, grabbed the sheet and looked for a nod from Julia, then pulled the sheet off.

It was the most exquisite thing Sadie had ever seen: the Lone Star—a common Lancaster pattern—set into bright turquoise blue. Julia had sewn such tiny points together that they almost blurred together like a child’s kaleidoscope. Bold colors, ones that normally would never be thought to lie next to each other, came together to provide incredible depth. A two-inch border of simple but tiny nine-patch pieces rimmed the star. The tiny squares—made up from the very fabrics that she had sent M.K. and Menno off to the store with crayons and orders to match that specific color—blended into each other. Dark green faded softly into light green, reds into pinks. Only the corner patches—made up of boldly contrasting colors—jolted one’s eyes back into focus. The quilt top was fastened into a large quilting frame, ready for quilting.

Sadie wasn’t the only one who was speechless. She, Fern, Rome, Menno, even M.K. who was rarely without words, walked silently around the table, absorbing the sight.

Julia stood by the living room door. “Someone, please say something.”

Rome looked up at her. “Words fail me, Julia. It’s . . . overwhelmingly beautiful.”

“It’s awesome,” Menno said, using a word he had picked up from Annie.

M.K. threw her arms around Julia’s middle for a hug.

Fern was eyeing the quilt with a critical squint. Finally, she gave Julia a satisfied nod. From Fern, that was high praise.

Julia’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink them back, but Sadie could see relief flood her face.

“Now, you all need to leave so I can get busy with the quilting.”

“That’s one thing we can help with,” Fern said. “The ladies are coming to quilt today.” She pointed out the window to two buggies, jammed full of women, rolling up the driveway to Windmill Farm.

Julia joined her at the window. “How did they . . . how did you know?”

Fern shrugged. “Figured it was about time.” She turned to Sadie and M.K. “They’re expecting lunch, so you two . . . hop to it.”

Sadie was stunned.

M.K. read her mind. “She’s letting us in the kitchen!”