Shivering, Julia pulled on her hood and tucked her hands into her pockets. How surreal and incomprehensible it was that Elm Creek Manor, the setting of countless joyous memories, had become the scene of so much self-inflicted misery. Worse yet, she had hurt people for whom she cared deeply. Paige, of course. The other Patchwork Players, who would no doubt feel deceived and manipulated once they compared notes about Julia’s invitations and questionable motives. Sarah and the other Elm Creek Quilters, who were counting on the success of this unprecedented week of autumn quilt camp to convince Sylvia to expand their season and help resolve their urgent financial issues.
Julia took a deep, shaky breath. If nothing else, the generous fee she’d offered for the actors’ quilting boot camp had paid for the manor’s new roof, with enough left to tide the Elm Creek Quilters over until camp resumed in the spring. That was a narrow silver lining on a very gray cloud, but she’d take it.
A gust of wind sent dried leaves scuttering across the gray stone pavers, and if her eyes weren’t deceiving her, a few minuscule icecrystals were swirling in the air. Her coat was no match for such weather, so she retraced her steps and returned to the manor, only to find that the cornerstone patio door had locked automatically behind her. She considered her options. She could enter through the front door and risk an encounter with her disgruntled and justifiably outraged colleagues as she passed the ballroom, or she could slip in the back way unobserved, and perhaps stop by the kitchen in passing and beg a warming cup of tea from kindhearted Chef Anna.
“Right,” said Julia aloud, shivering as an ice crystal slipped down the collar of her jacket. “The back door it is.”
The gravel path didn’t extend from the cornerstone patio to the rear of the manor, so Julia trudged through the grass, brushing graupel from her sleeves and longing for the warm gloves she’d left behind in her suite. To her relief, she found the back door unlocked, and she quietly crossed the threshold into the small, rear foyer. She wiped her feet on the mat, removed her coat, and ran a hand through her hair before continuing toward the kitchen, beckoned onward by delicious aromas and warmth and the sound of cheerful voices.
The kitchen was the nineteenth-century manor’s most modernized space, with state-of-the-art appliances, marble counters, efficient workstations, a central island, spacious cabinets, and a walk-in pantry on the other side of the room. Closer to the doorway where Julia lingered, eight cozy booths lined the walls, offering a welcoming gathering place for faculty and campers alike to catch up with friends over a cup of tea and a snack any time of day, although the Patchwork Players apparently hadn’t discovered it. On the wall above the nearest booth hung a bright, cheerful quilt Sylvia and Anna had made together, a charming appliqué still life of fruits and vegetables framed by blocks with a culinary theme: Broken Dishes, Cut Glass Dish, Honeybee, and Corn and Beans. As far as Julia knew, the kitchen’s only remaining artifact from the manor’s early years was the dark walnut refectory table and benches arranged between the booths and the cooking area.
Anna and her two assistants were so engrossed in their work that Julia decided to forgo her tea rather than get in the way. Just as she turned to go, Anna called out, “Hi, Julia. Do you need something?”
Julia turned back around, managing a smile. “I’d love a cup of chamomile tea, whenever you have a moment.”
“Sure,” Anna gestured toward the booths. “Sit anywhere you like. I’ll bring it to you.”
Julia thanked her and settled into the farthest booth from the doorway and windows. Setting her coat on the seat beside her, she retrieved her phone from the pocket and was a bit startled to discover that she had five missed messages. Each of the other Cross-Country Quilters had called, Donna twice, no doubt in response to Julia’s forlorn email. Sighing, she set the phone on the table, covered her face with her hands, and rubbed her temples. When she picked up her phone again, she considered which friend to call back first, and dialed her therapist instead.
Her therapist was with a client, but she called back five minutes later, only moments after Anna brought Julia a cup of tea and a pumpkin scone. Julia and her therapist had barely exchanged hellos before out tumbled the whole sordid story—quietly enough, or so Julia hoped, that Anna and her staff would not be disturbed. Her therapist occasionally prompted her with questions, and sometimes Julia would pause to think deeply before answering. Eventually Julia felt, if notbetterabout her predicament, at least more capable of coping with it until they could meet in person the following week. In the meantime, her therapist assigned her some journaling exercises and encouraged her to think less about why she had not been honest with her friends—that was fairly obvious—and more about how she had not been honest with herself.
After they hung up, Julia carried her dishes to the counter and thanked Anna for her hospitality. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she said apologetically, for she could see how busy Anna was, “I’d begrateful if I could have my dinner brought to my room this evening, please.”
“Of course,” said Anna, regarding her with concern. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you all right?”
“Hard to say,” Julia replied, managing a grim smile. “I’m working on it.”
On her way upstairs, she saw that the lights were on in the ballroom, suggesting that the rest of the company had not abandoned the Nine-Patch quilt or lost interest in improving their skills before shooting began. It was a heartening thought, but not enough to compel her to join them. She made it to her suite undetected, and since her phone was nearly out of charge and she was too weary to talk anyway, she composed a single email in reply to the very long thread that her woeful lament to the Cross-Country Quilters had provoked. Her friends were worried about her, concerned and sympathetic, and not one of them said that they had warned her, or that she should have known better. They knew she was painfully aware of that already.
Dinner in her suite was tasty and comforting, but lonely. She was nearly finished when someone knocked on her door and called her name. Recognizing Lindsay’s voice, she was tempted to answer, but dread quickly overcame her longing for companionship. Eventually Lindsay went away, so Julia finished her meal, packed for the trip home, and went to bed early.
The next morning, Julia woke before her alarm with a knot of apprehension in her stomach. After some deep breathing, she rose and did yoga in her room rather than crash the Zumba party. She showered and dressed, and since it was still rather early for the rest of the company to drag themselves out of bed, she steeled herself, put her shoulders back, and went downstairs to breakfast, though she had little appetite. She had hoped to be the first to arrive, but Edna and Marisa were seated together, quietly chatting over waffles and coffee, while Dylan and Jason were loading their plates at the buffet. Ednaand Marisa fell silent at the sight of her, but they returned her tight smile and nod with slow nods of their own.
“Good morning,” she said to the men as she joined them at the buffet.
“Good morning,” Dylan replied politely.
“It is for some of us,” said Jason, taking a second waffle and moving off, all without looking at her.
It was going to be quite a day.
As Julia and her therapist had discussed, she chose a nutritious breakfast, poured herself a cup of herbal tea, and took a seat at an empty table, not at the direct center, but not isolated on the fringes either. She ate slowly, contemplatively, and as others filtered into the room and glanced her way, she made eye contact and nodded in greeting, and was usually offered a nod or a brief wave in reply. No one sat with her, but she had expected that. She ate enough to get through the morning and left the banquet hall before most of the company had arrived, so not everyone was given the opportunity to shun her.
Her therapist would have asked her to reframe that thought, but Julia gave herself a pass.
Usually Elm Creek Quilt Camp ended with a Farewell Breakfast and show-and-tell on the cornerstone patio, but the morning was blustery, overcast, and cold, and Julia couldn’t imagine that anyone was in the mood for sitting outside in a circle and fondly reminiscing about the magical week they had spent together. The long flight to LAX would give them ample time together, whether they wanted it or not.
Not long after Julia returned to her suite, Sylvia and Andrew knocked on her door. While Andrew collected her luggage, Sylvia peered at her inquisitively over the rims of her glasses. “I trust you slept well, Julia, dear?”
“Yes, thank you.” Julia inhaled deeply and exhaled shakily. “No, if I’m being honest, I didn’t. I had too much on my mind.”
“So I understand.”
Though Sylvia’s expression was sympathetic, Julia felt a rush of embarrassment. “Word travels fast in Elm Creek Manor.”
“Sometimes it does. Sometimes secrets remain so for decades.” A pained frown appeared on Sylvia’s face for a moment but quickly vanished. “That’s rarely a good thing. You were right to tell the truth as soon as you did.”
“I wish I could take it all back,” Julia blurted, then shook her head. “I don’t mean my confession. I had to come clean. I mean blathering on to that director about Paige and the series. I just—wasn’t thinking. Or if Iwasthinking, I was thinking only of myself.”
