Free Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt by Jennifer Chiaverini Page B

found her asleep in the armchair, holly leaf appliqués scattered on her lap, thimble still on her finger.
    If the men of the family were surprised to discover fourteen strudels displayed on the kitchen table, they said nothing of it at dinner. Maybe, Sylvia hoped, they had not gone into the kitchen at all. Maybe they would stay away until the pastries were wrapped in wax paper, tied with ribbon, and safely tucked away out of sight in baskets, ready for delivery. By an unspoken agreement, the women said nothing of how Sylvia’s mother had spent her day. Throughout the meal, Sylvia found herself nervously waiting for her mother to divulge the truth, but Eleanor spoke little. As soon as dinner was finished, she excused herself and went upstairs to bed.
    As soon as she was out of earshot, the men revealed that they were well aware of the secret. Uncle William criticized their wastefulness, while Sylvia’s father wondered angrily why they had allowed Eleanor to work herself so hard.
    “We couldn’t have stopped her,” said Lucinda. “Not without a good reason, not without divulging the truth about our finances. I don’t even know if that would have convinced her.”
    “But you used up the last of the flour,” said Uncle William.
    “I have eggs to trade for more.”
    “We encouraged her to rest,” added Lydia. “Most of the time she was simply sitting, peeling apples.”
    “Obviously that was enough to exhaust her.” Sylvia’s father rose and shoved in his chair, and only then did he seem to remember his three children still seated at the table, hanging on every word. Even two-year-old Richard looked solemn and anxious. “But she’ll be fine after a good night’s rest.”
    Sylvia knew her father had added the last for their benefit. She wanted to believe him.
    The next morning, Sylvia came downstairs to breakfast to find her mother in the kitchen packing the strudel carefully into baskets. She was shaking her head in mild exasperation as her husband tried to coax her back to bed. “I am not tired, and I am not about to linger in bed on the morning of Christmas Eve,” she told him. “I need to take these around to the neighbors now so that I’ll return before we send William and Nellie out to find a tree. I don’t want to miss that.”
    “At least let me drive you,” Sylvia’s father persisted.
    Eleanor stopped packing the baskets and looked him squarely in the eye. “Freddy, in all these years you have never treated me like an invalid and I forbid you to start now. You cannot protect me from what is coming, but you can make this time more bearable. Don’t bury me before I’ve passed.”
    The anger in her mother’s gentle voice shocked Sylvia. “Mama?”
    Her father turned his head toward her with a jerk, but her mother looked up more slowly, as if she was not surprised to discover Sylvia in the doorway. “What is it, darling?”
    “What’s coming? You said something is coming. I heard you.”
    Her mother said nothing.
    “Christmas,” her father said abruptly. “Christmas is coming. Have you forgotten what day it is?”
    Sylvia shook her head, both in response to his question and in rejection of his false reply. “Mama?” she said again, pleading. “Why are you angry at Daddy?”
    Her mother hesitated. “Because I know he’s right.” She forced a smile, but Sylvia saw tears in her eyes. “I do work myself too hard sometimes, especially at this time of year. Freddy, I accept your offer to drive me. Thank you. Sylvia, would you come along, too, and help me give out the famous Bergstrom strudel to our friends? It’s only fitting, since you helped make them.”
    “Of course, Mama,” said Sylvia, forcing cheer into her voice. Silently she chastised herself for not heeding her father’s wishes. How many times had he warned the children not to tire their mother? If Sylvia and Claudia had not agreed to help their mother make strudel, perhaps she would have stayed in her chair in the parlor,