Category:

Summer knew that to be true. For most guests of Elm Creek Manor, the approach was a significant, almost reverential act, filling them with the sense that they had arrived at a unique, separate, sheltered and sheltering place, a haven from the chaos and disappointments of ordinary life. As their cars emerged from the dense forest, the gray stone manor would suddenly appear in the middle distance, steadfast and welcoming, surrounded by a wildflower meadow. Moments later, the visitors would glimpse the tall, white pillars supporting the high roof of the broad verandah that spanned the width of the manor. As they drew closer, they would see the twin arcs of the stone staircases descending from the verandah to the driveway, which encircled a fountain in the shape of a rearing horse, the symbol of the Bergstrom family.

Through the years, Summer had always enjoyed observing their arriving guests as they took in the scene for the first time, awestruck and thrilled that they would be able to spend a week in such a magnificent setting. She too still experienced that same thrill from time to time, even though Elm Creek Manor had become as familiar to her as her childhood home, only a few miles away. Sometimes the manor felt like her true home, the home of her heart.

"I'm sure," Summer assured the driver, smiling. "Please take the back way. I'm not a visitor."

"You mean you're one of the quilt ladies?"

Her smile deepened. "You could say that, although that's not my official job title."

He shrugged, bemused, and drove on. "You don't look old enough to be a quilter."

"Careful," she teased. "Don't judge by appearances. Quilters come in all ages, all genders, all shapes and sizes and colors. You should know that already, if you bring quilt campers here as often as you claim."

"Fair point," he said amiably. "No offense intended." 

"None taken."

"So you're a real Elm Creek Quilter." He shook his head, impressed. "And at your age."

"Not only that," she said, "I'm a founding member."

She could understand his surprise. She was still a student at Waterford College in 1997 when the Elm Creek Quilters welcomed their first campers to the renovated and refurbished historic manor for a week of quilting, friendship, and celebration of their beloved traditional art. Elm Creek Quilts had utterly transformed Summer's life—and not only hers, but those of her colleagues and all the quilters they had hosted through the years.

Even now, with Elm Creek Quilt Camp securely established as the most popular and renowned quilter's retreat in the country, Summer marveled to think that if events had not unfolded as serendipitously as they had, Elm Creek Quilts never would have existed.

Summer was ten years old in 1986, when she and her mother moved to the Elm Creek Valley for Gwen's new job as an assistant professor of American Studies at Waterford College. By the time Summer started fifth grade that fall, her friends from her new neighborhood had already told her of the mysterious mansion hidden away in the woods on the outskirts of town, falling into ruins around the reclusive elderly widow who lived there, alone, with no family and few visitors. Some people said Elm Creek Manor had become a station on the Underground Railroad soon after German immigrant Hans Bergstrom built it in 1854. Others said the stately old mansion was haunted by the ghosts of its former occupants, too fond of their beloved ancestral estate ever to leave. Summer believed the first rumor but not the second, though she had little evidence to support her conclusions. She had never seen Elm Creek Manor except in old photographs, and she had glimpsed its sole living occupant, Mrs. Claudia Bergstrom Midden, only a handful of times on her rare visits into town.

One day, Summer and her mother were browsing for fabric at Grandma's Attic, the cozy, charming quilt shop across the street from the campus's main gate, when the tinkle of the bell on the door announced a new arrival. Glancing up at the sound, Summer froze at the sight of the mysterious Mrs. Midden entering, dressed in monochrome grays and whites, support hose, and sturdy black low-heeled pumps. A hush fell over the shop as the silver-haired, stooped figure moved slowly through the aisles leaning heavily on her black cane, the strap of a worn leather purse over her shoulder, a shopping basket dangling from her elbow. Summer was extremely curious but too well brought up to stare, so she merely watched from the corner of her eye as the older woman bent to peer closely at one bolt of fabric and then another through horn-rimmed glasses, the lenses so cloudy and scratched Summer wondered how she could see much of anything.