The Giving Quilt (17 page)

Linnea was shelving young adult manga when one of the teenage pages dashed over and breathlessly told her that the mayor had called a press conference and the library director wanted senior staff to join her in her office. Linnea dumped her armful of books on a cart and hurried through the library, past contented patrons browsing the stacks or reading in comfortable chairs. Behind the scenes in the area restricted to staff, she passed coworkers grouped around computers watching the press conference stream live over the web, so intent they did not glance up as she raced by. She was the last of the senior staff to arrive in the library director's office. The computer screen had been turned to face them, and the mayor had already begun speaking.

The city council's decision was both more and less than what Linnea had hoped for, and nothing at all that she had expected.

The council had set aside the matter raised by Close the Book, California. Concerns about the library's collection, while certainly worth further scrutiny, were not relevant to the current budget crisis.

Linnea heaved a sigh of relief and closed her eyes. Someone patted her on the back. She had not cost her friends and colleagues their jobs after all.

The mayor continued reading from his prepared statement. Although in principle the city council was opposed to deficit spending, circumstances warranted emergency measures. The city had secured a loan sufficient to fund the library throughout the next fiscal year.

Linnea gasped and seized the arm of the person next to her. In the distance, they heard cheers erupting throughout the library. They were safe. They would not have to close. They had another year, an entire year to come up with a plan to keep their doors open forever.

But the mayor was not finished.

The city council had passed a measure to create a referendum on a dedicated millage to fund the Conejo Hills Public Library—.7 mills for five years. If the referendum passed, during that five-year period, a capital campaign would be launched to newly endow the library foundation to ensure that its operating expenses would be met for generations to come. The special election would be held in December, on the last business day before the holiday recess.

The sounds of jubilation subsided. Inside the director's office, some of the senior staff stared at the computer, while others exchanged looks of stricken dismay.

The city council's plan was sound—reasonable and pragmatic, both for the short term and the long. But who in such troubled economic times would vote to raise their own taxes?

“We have a few months,” the library director said quietly, breaking the silence. “We have time to make our case to the public the way we made our case last week. We'll rally the support of the community. Too many people want us to keep our doors open for us to fail.”

“Too many people won't miss us until we're gone,” muttered the head of the reference department.

Linnea feared he was right.

Autumn found her dividing her time between the children's department and the Vote Yes for Libraries headquarters, better known as Alicia's dining room. Kevin soon became a leader of the movement. They labored ceaselessly to get the word out, to motivate potential voters, and to refute the false and frenzied reports of their opponents, who claimed that the small increase in taxes to preserve an important community asset would result in nothing short of the destruction of life as they knew it.

The holidays approached, but Linnea gave them hardly any thought until Kevin asked if she and Mona had discussed their annual sisters' reunion.

The question caught Linnea utterly by surprise. “I assumed we'd have to skip it this year.” Their husbands always treated them to a getaway week shortly after Thanksgiving as an early Christmas gift, but between the upcoming ballot measure and their tight family budget, Linnea had assumed they couldn't afford to go.

“Of course you don't have to skip it,” said Kevin, appalled. “It's tradition. You and Mona look forward to your week together all year around. You need that time together.”

“I need to save the library.”

“You'll be gone only a week. There will be plenty of saving left for you to do when you come back.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and regarded her earnestly. “I'll be here for the kids and to do my part for Vote Yes for Libraries. You know you'll be able to work better after some time away. You've been too stressed out. A week with Mona is just what you need—and I bet a week with
you
is just what
she
needs.”

Linnea was well aware that Mona was under considerable pressure from her employer, the governor's new directives, and her union. They both needed time away from the stress and strain. So it was mostly for her sister's sake that she acquiesced, but she warned Kevin that he would have to agree to a very modest travel budget or she wouldn't go.

Kevin remembered hearing a distant cousin sing the praises of Elm Creek Quilt Camp at a Nelson family reunion a few summers earlier, and when he searched online and learned about Quiltsgiving, he decided it was meant to be. A week in a historic manor in beautiful rural central Pennsylvania, delicious meals, as much quilting as Linnea could possibly desire, the opportunity to support a worthy cause—all the husbands had to do was come up with airfare, and the sisters would be set.

And so Linnea found herself far from the strife and worry of home, spending precious time with her sister, quilting, making new friends—and resting up for what would surely be the fight of her life.

* * *

Instinct as much as reason drew Linnea toward the grand oak staircase in the foyer. She had already searched the first floor of Elm Creek Manor to no avail. The twins had led her up to the third story, where she had seen the playroom, guest suites, and a trapdoor in the ceiling that surely led to an attic, an unlikely setting for a library. Only the second floor remained unexplored, so that was where she would go.

On the second-floor landing, she glanced down the hall to her right and saw doors to guest rooms, including her own, and she suspected they continued around the corner. To her left, on the far side of the broad stairwell, were two French doors with filmy taupe curtains covering the windows on the inside. She peered at the ceiling and determined that the room was directly below the spacious playroom and likely the same size—large enough indeed for a family's library.

She knocked on one of the doors. “Come in,” someone called to her in reply.

Linnea entered a room that spanned the entire width of the manor's south wing. Between tall, diamond-paned windows on the east and west walls stood dozens of high bookcases, their shelves bowing slightly under the weight of hundreds of volumes. A blaze crackled merrily in a large stone fireplace on the south wall, where an antique scrap Castle Wall quilt hung on the wall to the left of the mantel and what appeared to be unjoined sections of a Winding Ways quilt were displayed to the right. Two armchairs and footstools sat before the fire, and in the center of the room, the twins sat on the floor playing Candy Land, ignoring the coffee table and the chairs and sofas surrounding it nearby. Sarah was seated in a tall leather chair behind a broad oak desk cluttered with a computer, papers, and files; Sylvia sat, one leg crossed casually over the other, in a smaller leather chair on the other side of the desk. Both women looked inquiringly up at Linnea, but it took her a few moments to realize this, as she was transfixed by the books, the glorious collection of leather-bound, antique books among which, surely, several priceless first editions awaited discovery.

“I've been looking for this place,” Linnea said, taking it all in.

“Well, it seems to me you've found it,” Sylvia replied cheerfully. “Were you looking for something to read?”

Linnea laughed. “I'm always looking for something to read.”

“This is the book lady,” James informed Sylvia. “I told you, remember? We already showed her where the best books are.” He turned to Linnea and added, “You can read any of them any time you want. You don't have to ask. It's already okay.”

As one, the women smiled indulgently. “Thank you so much,” Linnea told him. “I think I'd like to look around here too, though. I'm sure there are some wonderful books on these shelves.”

James frowned slightly and shook his head. “Nope. They all have tiny little letters and no pictures.”

“Some of them have pictures,” Caroline said, and she took her brother's hand and led him off to find one.

“When I searched for the library earlier and couldn't find it,” Linnea said, “I was afraid you had gotten rid of it, or that it never existed.”

“Perish the thought,” declared Sylvia. “Rest assured, my dear, this library will remain long as there's breath in my body.”

“Or in mine,” Sarah added.

“People need stories.” With some effort, Sylvia pushed herself out of her chair and beckoned for Linnea to accompany her to one of the bookshelves. “We use stories to teach, to learn, to make sense of the world around us. As long as we need stories, we will need books, and as long as there are books, there will be libraries.”

Linnea's gaze traveled from Sylvia's knowing eyes to the books upon the shelves, family heirlooms treasured by generations of readers. “I hope you're right,” she said softly.

She had no doubt that private libraries like the Bergstrom family's would endure. What she feared for were the even more essential libraries—those that were open to all, those that offered the opportunity for learning and discovery to those who could not find them any other place, to those who needed them most. Their fate, like the fate of her own beloved Conejo Hills Public Library, was far less certain.

CHAPTER FOUR

Michaela

M
ichaela was lying on the floor awkwardly working her way through a series of yoga poses when she heard the plaintive chords of a familiar Bob Dylan song. She lumbered over to the nightstand and snatched up her phone. “Morning, Mom,” she said, flopping down on the unmade bed.

“Good morning, angel. How are you feeling today?”

“My foot and I are both fine, although we're not on speaking terms.” Michaela scowled at the cast. “Why can't it heal faster? If I don't have a good aerobic workout complete with sweat and an elevated pulse soon, I think I'll go crazy.”

“If you do your yoga properly, you'll get there. Have you been drinking the herbal teas I blended for you?”

“Faithfully.” They tasted terrible, but most of her mother's remedies did, in direct proportion to how swiftly they worked. Michaela knew she'd have been in much worse shape without them.

“That's my girl. Keep it up, and think positive, healing thoughts.” Her mother sighed. “I was hoping time away from school would help you relax and boost your immune system, but if you're stressed out and unhappy, it doesn't justify all those missed classes.”

“Mom, relax,” Michaela said, and she heard her mother immediately take a deep, cleansing breath. “I'm having a great time, really. Elm Creek Manor is as gorgeous as you promised, and the food is way better than at school.”

“Have you made any friends? I'm guessing there isn't anyone else your age around.”

Only rarely did Michaela find someone her own age within a gathering of quilters. “I've made a few friends,” she said, thinking of Jocelyn, the sisters, and the other two quilters she'd kind of been hanging out with lately. They were funny and nice, and they didn't make any annoying, disparaging remarks about her age like that one lady at the Candlelight had.

Michaela told her mother about the previous night's program, knowing she would appreciate it. Sarah McClure had given the campers blank journals covered in plain canvas, which they had decorated as their hearts desired—some with fabric, others with paint, ink, dye, or decoupage or a fantastic mixture of techniques. When everyone had finished, they had set their gloriously transformed journals on a table to dry and admired one another's creations. Then Sarah had explained that these were Giving Journals, and that every night, they should describe five ways they had given of themselves to others that day and name five people for whom they were especially grateful.

“What if you can't think of five of each?” a quilter had asked.

Sarah had smiled. “Then tomorrow, think of how you could live differently—more consciously, deliberately, and aware—so that you'll have more than enough to write in your journal. Trust me, the more faithfully you keep your Giving Journal, the more abundant your life will be. The only problem you'll have with writing your nightly entries is paring down the possibilities to only five.”

“I always did like Sarah McClure, and now I have another reason,” Michaela's mom remarked. “I should start a Giving Journal of my own. Did you have any trouble coming up with your lists?”

“A little with the first one,” Michaela admitted. “I've been so focused on making the Giving Quilt and studying at night that I wasn't thinking about giving to others. But today I will.” The second list had been much easier. Michaela was most grateful for her parents, of course, that day and every day. She had also listed Jocelyn, Linnea, and Karen, who had carried dinner trays and quilting supplies for her as she maneuvered around the manor on her crutches. Last but definitely not least on her list was her college friend Emma, who had promised to share her English Lit notes for the week Michaela was missing class—and no one had been more supportive than Emma throughout the dismal months surrounding Michaela's accident.

“‘Incident' is a better word for it than ‘accident,'” she muttered scathingly to herself after she and her mother hung up. Then she remembered her Giving Journal, heaved a sigh, and decided to give the two students who had injured her the benefit of the doubt. They wouldn't know she had done so, but maybe, somehow, through karma or a weight of guilt lifted off their shoulders, they would feel it.

Or maybe they wouldn't, if no guilt had weighed them down in the first place. Michaela would probably never know the truth, and it wouldn't change anything if she did.

She sighed again and hobbled off to get dressed for breakfast.

* * *

With help from Jocelyn and Pauline—two people for the second part of that evening's journal entry and it wasn't even nine o'clock—Michaela managed to get from the buffet to a table to the classroom without dropping anything, falling on her backside, or injuring anyone.

“You know what occurred to me?” she mused as they took their usual seats—Pauline, Linnea, and Mona in the front row, Michaela and Jocelyn seated a row behind. Karen had broken her two-day-old tradition of sitting in the back row and had moved up to take the seat next to Michaela.

“What's that?” asked Jocelyn with an encouraging, expectant look Michaela suspected she practiced a lot on her students.

“We're all involved in education,” she said. “You're a teacher, Karen teaches quilting, Pauline runs an annual quilting retreat where I'm sure lots of teaching goes on—”

“Ran,” said Pauline. “I
ran
retreats, past tense—and really, I only helped. I didn't do it all myself.”

“That's good enough,” said Michaela. “Linnea does a lot of work with literacy in her library, and I'm an education major. That's probably why we all get along so well.”

“What about me?” said Mona.

“Well, you . . .” Michaela thought for a moment. “You're related to a librarian. That counts.”

Everyone laughed—even Gretchen, who had caught the end of their conversation as she took her place at the front of the classroom. “I hope you did your homework and finished all thirty-two of your Resolution Square blocks,” Gretchen said as soon as all the students had taken their seats, “because today we're sewing them together.”

A soft, forlorn wail went up from the back row, evoking a few sympathetic chuckles from other students.

“You have time to catch up,” Gretchen assured the student who was apparently trailing behind her classmates, and then she turned to Pauline. “May I please borrow a few of your blocks?”

“Take as many as you like,” said Pauline, clearly thrilled to have been chosen.

Gretchen thanked her and gathered up a few of her red-and-purple blocks, which were arranged in an orderly stack next to a nearly identical pile of green-and-pink blocks. “You're awesome,” whispered Michaela, impressed.

Muffling a laugh, Pauline gazed heavenward and waved off the praise.

Taking Pauline's blocks to the design wall, Gretchen turned one forty-five degrees and pressed it to the felt until it stuck. “This is called an on-point setting,” she explained, arranging more blocks rotated to the same angle around it. “A straight, horizontal setting is more common, and a bit easier to assemble, but an on-point setting can often create new and interesting secondary patterns. That's the secret to this Giving Quilt's striking appearance.”

Michaela nodded along with the other students and typed a few notes on her smartphone.

“We'll begin by sewing our blocks into rows—unequal rows,” Gretchen continued. “You'll need two rows of three blocks each, two of five blocks each, and two of seven.”

Mona's brow furrowed. “That leaves two blocks left over.”

“No, that leaves two rows of one block each,” Linnea said.

“Well, when you put it that way, it's obvious,” replied Mona, tossing her sister a grin as she reached for her pile of purple-and-gold Resolution Square blocks.

The usual hum of conversation was more subdued that morning, as the campers concentrated on pinning their blocks together and joining them with quick, neat, quarter-inch seams. Some of her classmates pressed their blocks after every seam, and some pressed after completing a row, but Michaela decided to wait until she had assembled all of her rows and press the seams all at once to save herself trips to the ironing station.

As was her custom, Gretchen walked through the classroom while her students labored, offering a word of encouragement here and a helpful tip there. Michaela had just finished pressing her last seam when Gretchen returned to the front of the room and raised her hands for their attention. “I know some of you are still sewing your blocks into rows, but since class is half-over—” A few gasps and exclamations of astonishment interrupted her, and several quilters glanced sharply up at the clock on the side wall to see for themselves. “Time flies when you enjoy your work, doesn't it? Now, don't panic; you'll have all afternoon to finish up, but I do want to demonstrate the next step, especially for you beginners, before we run out of time.”

She instructed them to cut four squares from their background fabrics, nine and three-quarters of an inch by nine and three-quarters of an inch, and then to cut each square on the diagonal twice from corner to corner. “These are your side setting triangles,” she explained, demonstrating with her own rotary cutter, ruler, and background fabric. “You'll have two triangles left over, but unless you're running short of fabric, the time you save using this quick-cutting technique is worth the waste. Besides, extra fabric is never really wasted, is it? You can always use those leftover pieces in another project.”

Her students nodded, watching in the overhead mirror as Gretchen deftly sliced the last of her side setting triangles. “Next you'll cut your four corner triangles,” she said, giving them the proper measurements for two squares that they then cut in half along the diagonal. Borrowing Pauline's block rows, she arranged block rows and setting triangles on the design wall so that the students could see how the various segments were meant to fit together. Although a diagram appeared in the handouts Gretchen had distributed the first day, Michaela snapped a photo with her phone as a backup. Before putting away her phone, she e-mailed the photo to her mom. Almost immediately, her mom texted back a smiley face.

The campers set themselves to work, and after they had been pinning and sewing for a while, Gretchen put on some stirring orchestral music to inspire them. After one particularly vigorous piece almost had Michaela fired up enough to attempt a back handspring despite her cast, she asked anyone within earshot what it was.

“That's
Symphony No. 9 in E Minor,” said Jocelyn. “It's known as the
New World Symphony
because
composed it in 1893 during a visit to the United States.”

“Oh. Classical stuff.” Michaela had assumed it was from a movie soundtrack. “Do you know that because you're a history teacher?”

Jocelyn smiled. “I know that because I love music. My husband plays—” She hesitated. “My late husband played the French horn. There are some achingly beautiful horn solos in this symphony, so he listened to it a lot at home.” Her gaze turned inward. “His friends from the orchestra played an excerpt from the largo movement at his funeral.”

Michaela held her breath for a moment, stunned by the sudden, naked pain on Jocelyn's face. Jocelyn had mentioned her husband a few times that week, but she had never called him her late husband, and she had not mentioned a funeral. Michaela definitely would have remembered that. “I thought you said your husband was a science teacher,” Michaela asked faintly. She didn't know if she should say she was sorry Jocelyn's husband was dead—of course she
was
, but if he had died a long time ago, it might seem like a dumb thing to say. Suddenly she realized it didn't matter how much time had passed—Jocelyn was obviously still very sad and Michaela was truly very sorry for her grief. She should have said so right away, but she had asked that other lame question instead and now it would be too awkward.