The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (15 page)

The family sewed and talked and remembered bygone days and departed loved ones until the clock struck midnight. The New Year had begun, offering a fresh start, a new beginning. Sylvia said a silent prayer that the year ahead would be kinder to them than the one before, that the family would know prosperity and peace, and that time would ease the ache in their hearts.

The next day they ate pork and sauerkraut and the women quilted from morning until nightfall. By the time Sylvia went to bed, two hours past her usual bedtime, the Bergstrom women had finished four quilts, each just the right size to comfort a child.

True to his word, the next day Sylvia’s father drove her to the Children’s Home in Grangerville. Sylvia presented the quilts to the supervising nun and promised to make more quilts, as many as they needed, though it might take her a few years. When her father asked about the two brothers, Sylvia held her breath, afraid that the nun would shake her head sadly and say that the boys were unhappy, or worse yet, that they had run away. But instead she reported that they were settling in fine; they got along well with the other children, followed the rules, and did their chores. She had written to their parents in care of the post office in the boys’ hometown, but she was not hopeful of a reply. “Sometimes the parents have moved on by the time their children make their way to us,” she explained, with a gentle turn of her hand that suggested both loss and forgiveness. “Other times, I imagine, they are too fearful or ashamed to write back, or they don’t know how to read or write. That’s if they ever receive the letters we send. I’m sure some of our children are not entirely honest when they tell us where they came from. Far too many have good reason to fear their parents’ finding them.”

The nun kept her eyes firmly on Sylvia’s father’s, not sparing a glance of misgivings for Sylvia as adults often did when they forgot themselves and spoke of adult concerns in front of children.

“I would give the boys a home if I could,” her father said. “My wife passed on a few months ago, and my business is failing. I have three children of my own. It—it wouldn’t be possible for me to take in two more.”

The nun lowered her gaze and nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

He dug into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a folded bill. “For the boys,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “When I can do more, I will.”

“You’ve already done a great deal.” This time, the nun turned her smile upon Sylvia and gave the folded quilts a pat. “Both of you. God bless for your generosity. I know you won’t forget our children.”

Sylvia’s father took her by the hand and led her back out to the car. As they left Grangerville, Sylvia summoned her courage. “Father?”

“Yes, Sylvia?”

“You said the business is failing.” She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying. “Is it?”

Her father was silent for a long moment. “It hasn’t failed yet.”

Sylvia never forgot the boys they left behind that day, or the other lost and abandoned children, or the nuns who watched over them. As the Great Depression wore on, whenever she felt sorry for herself, frustrated by made-over hand-me-down clothes, disappointed by the lack of treats and pleasures that had filled her early years with delight, she swallowed her complaints and forced herself to imagine how much worse off she could have it, if not for the family who loved her, if not for the farm.

Years later, after the nation climbed back on to its feet and their wealthy customers returned as her father had always promised they would, still she kept her New Year’s resolution. Every winter she made several quilts for the Children’s Home; every year her father drove her to deliver them and to check in on the boys. One year they arrived to find a different nun running the orphanage, for her predecessor had died. Another time they learned that the younger brother showed great aptitude for carpentry and had been apprenticed to a local craftsman; a year later, they discovered that the older boy had run off to join the army.

Long after she left Elm Creek Manor, when it became a more practical matter to send checks rather than quilts, Sylvia continued to think of the brothers and wonder what had become of them. On New Year’s Eve, when she brought out her UFOs and made at least one useful thing to give to someone in need, she imagined them healthy and happy, with families of their own and all the joys of home that had been denied them as children.

A
FTER
A
RUNA
had taken Sylvia and Andrew through the entire house, the newlyweds thanked her and departed. Sylvia took Andrew’s arm as they strolled through Central Park, lifting her face to the gray sky as snowflakes danced lightly against her eyelashes. This year, the New Year’s Reflections quilt would become the one useful thing she made for someone else. Had she known, somehow, that she was not making the quilt for herself when she had cut the first pieces? Had she sewn the Four-Patch, Pinwheel, and Bright Hopes into the centers of the Mother’s Favorite blocks as a reminder of her childhood resolution? Sylvia still believed Great-Aunt Lucinda’s plainspoken truth that one should do whatever one could to bring comfort and hope to others in need, even if, as Claudia had bluntly pointed out, one person’s efforts would not be enough to set everything to rights. The New Year was the perfect time to look outward as well as inward, for resolutions did not have to be about self-improvement alone. They could very well reflect a wish to make the world a better place—even if in small ways, even if for only one person.

If Sylvia could reach Amy, if her peace offering could persuade her stepdaughter to let go of her anger and reconcile with her father, it would be the greatest gift of happiness Sylvia could give Andrew. And to Amy, who did not know that her stubbornness would hurt more people than her father. Anger and misunderstanding could destroy a family from the inside out, as conflict forced everyone to take sides. Even refusing to favor one side over the other would be seen as taking a position, until even the unwilling were drawn into the conflict. Sylvia had seen this happen to her own family, and she would not let it happen to Andrew if she could help it, if she could show Amy another way.

W
HEN
S
YLVIA AND
A
NDREW
returned to the 1863 House, Sylvia’s emotions swirled as she told Adele about the visit to the old Lockwood home. Even the physical experience of the place had done little to evoke the elusive sense of connection to her mother’s past.

“Except in the nursery,” she said. “I could imagine my mother sitting on the window seat, embroidering her Crazy Quilt, gazing out at Central Park and longing for…something. Or someone. I don’t know.”

Adele’s smile was full of compassionate understanding. “Maybe since you have such indelible memories of your mother at Elm Creek Manor, it’s difficult for you to sense her anywhere else.”

“I suppose so.”

“We found one of the Colcrafts’ quilts when we bought this house,” Adele reminded her. “Did your mother leave behind any of her quilts in the Lockwood home?”

“I didn’t see any.” Her mother’s patchwork certainly would have stood out among the Indian décor. “I’m sure Aruna would have mentioned it. I didn’t expect to find any of my mother’s possessions there. The Bergstroms couldn’t even hold on to her quilts. I spent the last few months searching for several my sister sold off decades ago.”

“Did you find them?”

“I found her Crazy Quilt in excellent condition for its age, and the new owner sold it to me for what she had paid—plus a week at quilt camp for her daughter-in-law. The quilt my mother had made to celebrate my parents’ anniversary had been cut up to make quilted jackets. Andrew bought the last one for me at an art shop in Sewickley.” The jacket was pretty in its own way, but the quilt had been a masterpiece. Sylvia could not understand what could have possessed the woman who cut it up. “Just a few days ago, Andrew and I tracked down my mother’s long-lost wedding quilt to a traveling exhibit from the New England Quilt Museum. We had searched quilt shops and museums across the country and had tracked down leads from the Internet, and in the end, it was a tip from a quilter staying at our last bed and breakfast that led us to the right place.”

“Think of the odds against finding a single quilt after so many years,” Adele marveled. “Did you bring the wedding quilt with you?”

“Why, no,” said Sylvia. “Even though my mother made the quilt, it isn’t mine anymore. My sister sold it long ago. I don’t know exactly how it ended up in the hands of the museum, but I can’t simply take it from them.”

“You could buy it.”

“If the museum is willing to sell it, I suppose I could.” How wonderful it would be to take the New York Beauty quilt home to Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia would cherish it always as a memento of her mother, and she would display it for all the quilt camp’s guests to enjoy. But should she? As a part of the museum’s collection, her mother’s wedding quilt would be seen and enjoyed by many more people. It would be properly cared for and preserved for generations to come. Perhaps taking it home for the enjoyment of a relative few was selfish, and offering it freely to the world was what her mother would have wanted.

“I’ll have to think about it,” said Sylvia.

Adele reached for her purse. “While you’re thinking, I know a place that might provide some inspiration. You’re sure to meet several quilters eager to offer their opinions whether you want them or not.”

While Andrew relaxed in front of the fire with a copy of Adele’s manuscript, Sylvia and Adele took a cab to the City Quilter, a quilt shop in Chelsea that Adele promised was the best in New York. Sylvia was inclined to agree; she had visited the shop once, when it first opened, and she had been delighted by the fabric selections and courteous service. To her surprise, when she and Adele entered the shop, salespeople and customers alike greeted her as something of a celebrity. “I loved your quilt
Sewickley Sunrise
,” gushed one woman, her arms overloaded with shopping bags. “I think it’s your best work.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia, concealing a wince. She knew the woman didn’t mean any harm.
Sewickley Sunrise
had won Sylvia many ribbons and now belonged to the Museum of the American Quilter’s Society’s permanent collection, so it was undoubtedly her best-known quilt. Still, she had made it so long ago that it pained her whenever anyone told her it was her finest creation. Did they honestly believe she had shown no improvement since then, no growth as an artist?
Sewickley Sunrise
would always remain one of her favorite quilts, but she preferred to believe that her most recent work was far superior and that the best was yet to come.

Sylvia and Adele browsed through the rainbow of fabric bolts displayed on the shop walls, and after their selections were cut and folded, Sylvia searched the display case for a spool of thread in a suitable shade of blue. When she brought the New Year’s Reflections quilt from her tote bag to match the thread color to the binding fabric, several onlookers quickly clustered around to catch a glimpse of her work-in-progress. When the quilt shop owner suggested she drape the quilt over a table in the classroom so that everyone could have a better look, Sylvia was happy to comply. She hoped Amy would respond to the quilt as warmly as those quilters did, admiring her adaptation of the Mother’s Favorite design, the harmonious colors, and the precise piecing. When one customer asked how she had decided which patterns to include in the center of each larger Mother’s Favorite block, Sylvia said only that each one reminded her of a New Year of her past—resolutions made and abandoned, opportunities for new beginnings gladly accepted or stubbornly ignored.

As the quilters bent over the quilt, Adele drew close to Sylvia to murmur in her ear. “Your points are so perfect no one would ever know that you’d had a stroke. You should be proud. I know it wasn’t easy.”

With a jolt, Sylvia suddenly wondered if that was why she had felt compelled to give this particular quilt to Amy, out of the many she could have chosen. Had she subconsciously hoped it would prove to her new stepdaughter that she was perfectly sound, that she had completely recovered from her stroke and would not be a burden to Andrew? Sylvia hoped not, or at least she hoped that Amy would not think so, because that would diminish the beauty of her gift.

Besides, she had stitched most of those blocks long before her stroke, so as proof of her current dexterity and mental acuity, it was flimsy evidence indeed.

Sylvia smiled so that Adele would not realize that the generous praise troubled her. She folded up the quilt and returned it to her tote bag, thanking the onlookers for their kind words and reminding them to visit the Elm Creek Quilt Camp web-site for more information about the upcoming season of quilt camp. “I hope to see you next summer,” she said as she and Adele made their way to the cash register. Several customers called out that she could count on it.

Outside, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and although the wind was still brisk, Sylvia assured Adele that she felt quite comfortable walking. “Good,” said Adele. “I have something to show you.”

Mystified, Sylvia strolled along with her friend, up Fifth Avenue back toward Midtown. Surely Adele did not mean to show her the Empire State Building or Rockefeller Center or any of the other obvious tourist stops, which Adele pointed out only in passing. Just as Sylvia’s curiosity could bear it no longer, Adele stopped at the corner of a large building in a busy shopping district. “We’re here.”