As it happened, Julia never would have met her far-flung friends if Maury hadn’t sent her to quilt camp, so she owed him for that too. At the time, though, she had felt so injured and abandoned that gratitude was the last thing on her mind, despite the countless ways he had helped her throughout her career.
She had always known he intended to retire eventually. Most people eventually retired, and he and Evelyn had dropped delicate hints about their retirement plans for several years before he made it official. And yet Julia had sailed along in blissful denial, certain he would change his mind when he remembered how much he loved his work and how much his clients needed him. And yet, somehow, on an otherwise lovely evening in June 1999, she found herself sipping champagne at his retirement party, tempted to seize a bottle and find a secluded corner in which to sulk and drown her sorrows alone.
She might have gone home early, except Maury took her aside fora private conversation in his study. “A little farewell present,” he said, placing the script forA Patchwork Lifein her hands. “You didn’t think I’d leave you without one last great project, did you?”
That was precisely what she had thought, but she wouldn’t spoil the evening by saying so aloud. She had assumed her next project would come through her new agent, a rising star in the business whom she knew only by reputation. Maury had recommended a different colleague, but Julia had instead chosen someone famed for his ruthless determination to do whatever it took to get his clients the roles they sought. The fact that he was the nephew of one of Hollywood’s most powerful directors also weighed in his favor.
But when they finally met in person one week after Maury’s retirement party, she began to suspect that she had made a serious mistake.
“I’m Ares,” he announced when she joined him for a getting-acquainted lunch at a bistro on Sunset Boulevard not far from the agency. After she took her seat, he reached across the table and offered her his hand and a flash of white teeth. Maury would have stood as she approached, and he would have pulled out her chair for her and not returned to his own until he was sure she was comfortable.
“Aries the Ram?” she asked, shaking the younger man’s hand.
“No.” His grin suddenly became almost feral. “Ares, the Greek god of war.”
“How interesting,” Julia had replied, gingerly releasing his hand, realizing that she couldn’t have picked an agent less like Maury if she had tried. Still, perhaps Maury’s approach, a gentleman bargaining honorably on the strength of his word, was too old-fashioned for these crueler, modern times. As the conversation turned to business, Julia resolved to give Ares a chance, despite the casual insults he tossed off about her previous series in his eagerness to praise the forthcoming movie.
It was Maury who enrolled her in Elm Creek Quilt Camp, but it was Ares who made her go through with it rather than arrangingfor private quilting lessons at her home, as she would have preferred. “The Elm Creek Quilters are supposed to be the best of the best,” he noted, “and you can’t cancel a lesson if you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“I wouldn’t cancel,” Julia said, knowing she had already lost the argument. “I want to learn.”
“You have to learn. Your entire career depends on it.”
Julia refrained from pointing out that if shedidlose this role and Ares couldn’t find her another, he was rather useless as an agent. She needed him on her side.
On an August day a few weeks after their first meeting, Ares escorted her to the secluded, nineteenth-century manor in rural central Pennsylvania where her clandestine quilt training would take place. Maury had wanted a place far from the scrutiny of gossip columnists and paparazzi, and from her airplane window, the Elm Creek Valley certainly seemed to be hundreds of miles from anything resembling a city. Julia marveled that the agency’s chartered jet managed to locate the tiny airport at all, much less come to a halt before speeding off the end of the runway. Except for the control tower and a small one-story building she assumed was the terminal, the view through her window revealed only trees and sky.
“I’ve kept your arrival a secret, but don’t be surprised if there’s a crowd gathered around,” Ares warned as the plane taxied to the terminal. “They probably get a limo in this backwater only once every twenty years.”
Julia shot him a look of sharp disapproval. The last thing she needed was an agent who scorned her target demographic. “People in towns like these watch movies. They also keptFamily Treeat the top of the Nielsen ratings for many years.”
“Near the top, anyway,” Ares allowed. “The top of the middle, at least.”
Stung, Julia unfastened her seat belt and held back a retort, reminding herself that she didn’t have to like him to work with him.
Contrary to Ares’s snarky prediction, no crowd had gathered by the limo parked on the tarmac, but it did attract a few curious glances from other travelers climbing ramp stairs into tiny prop planes or collecting their gate-checked bags from oversized carts. As the driver loaded Julia’s luggage into the limo’s trunk and opened the rear passenger door for her, she noticed four women near the terminal entrance greeting one another with shrieks of laughter and warm embraces. As the limo drove through the parking lot, Julia lowered her sunglasses to take a better look, curious. Judging by their eclectic patchwork clothing, pieced and appliquéd like wearable quilts, surely they were quilt campers too.
Suddenly the tinted window began to rise. With a start, she turned in her seat to find Ares with his finger on the button of his armrest. “We can’t have the locals gawking at you,” he said.
Julia thought the women seemed too preoccupied to spare the limo a second glance, but she settled back into her seat, resigned.
For more than an hour they drove in silence past picturesque farms and rolling, forested hills. Julia felt her tension ease as she admired the scenery, but trepidation stirred when, although they still appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, they came upon a large, rustic wooden road sign with beautifully engraved, freshly painted lettering announcing that they had reached the Elm Creek estate.
The driver skillfully managed the sharp turn off the state highway onto a narrow gravel road that plunged into a dense, leafy forest. Even so, Julia instinctively clutched her armrest when she realized that the narrow road had no shoulder. If an oncoming car approached, one of them would have to pull off into the trees to avoid a collision.
“Sorry, it’s a bit rough here,” the driver warned, slowing the limo to compensate.
“The least they could have done was pave the road,” Ares grumbled.
“Not your fault,” Julia replied to the driver, ignoring Ares, raising her voice to be heard over the crunch of tires on gravel. “We’re fine.”
When the road forked, the driver took the slightly wider road on the right. They crossed a narrow bridge over a creek so clear Julia could see stones at the bottom, and soon thereafter, the leafy wood gave way to a vast expanse of sun-splashed wildflower meadow. The road smoothed, and at the end of it Julia spotted a gray stone mansion with tall, white columns supporting the high roof of a broad veranda. As the limo drew closer, Julia spied two stone staircases descending in mirror-image arcs to the curved driveway, which encircled a fountain in the shape of a rearing horse. At least a dozen people were unloading luggage or helping others carry their bags up the stairs and through the tall double doors of the front entrance. With a pang, Julia suddenly remembered how much she had always hated the first day of school. Where would she sit in the classroom? Would she eat lunch alone every day? As lovely as this Elm Creek Manor appeared to be, her heart sank at the thought of spending an entire week there, alone in a crowd.
Instinctively she slipped on her sunglasses again, bracing herself as the other guests broke off their conversations to watch as the limousine slowed to a halt in front of the manor. When the driver opened her passenger door, Ares quickly raced around from his side and offered his hand to assist Julia out. She accepted ungratefully, suspecting he was performing gallantry for the crowd, who watched and whispered to one another as he escorted her up one of the semicircular staircases. The driver followed behind carrying Julia’s suitcases and her favorite Louis Vuitton Neverfull MM tote.
A tall, silver-haired woman who looked to be about a dozen years older than Julia met them at the entrance. “Miss Merchaud?” she inquired pleasantly, studying Julia over the rims of her glasses, which were attached to a fine silver chain draped gracefully around her neck. “I’m Sylvia Bergstrom Compson. Welcome to Elm Creek Manor.”
“Thank you.” Julia followed the woman inside to a splendid foyer with a gleaming black marble floor and a high ceiling open to the third story. Camp registration appeared to be taking place in the center ofthe room, judging by the long folding tables arranged there and the three name-tagged women assisting new arrivals with various forms, maps, and room keys. Beyond the busy scene, Julia spotted a pair of closed doors on the far wall, but to her left, an open doorway revealed glimpses of what appeared to be a large, elegant room divided into smaller spaces by movable partitions. A grand oak staircase in the corner climbed gracefully to the second story, which, like the floor above it, was open to the foyer below. Colorful quilts in an assortment of patterns and styles hung from the high balustrades, offering an enchanting display of antique and modern pieces intermingled. It was all so artistically striking and yet warm and comfortable that Julia felt anxiety slipping off her shoulders as easily as removing a heavy wool coat in fair weather.
