The Giving Quilt by Jennifer Chiaverini Page A

see so many others who are struggling just to make ends meet from day to day. How could I not share what I have in abundance?”
    Around the circle, the quilters nodded, their gazes faraway as they sank into private reverie, considering, perhaps, not only the anonymous children who would benefit from their Quiltsgiving project, but other people of all ages whom they knew, friends and neighbors and family, who were in need in those difficult times.
    After a moment, Sylvia took the candle from Linnea and indicated the quilts surrounding them with color, beauty, and the promise of warmth. “All of the quilts you see here were made with giving in mind,” she explained, walking around the circle. “Some are Giving Quilts from past Quiltsgivings. Others were made to express love or affection.” She paused by the twelve-block sampler Sarah had made for Matt in honor of their first anniversary. “Others were made in memory of a loved one to comfort the grieving.” Her voice caught in her throat as she paused by the Castle Wall memorial quilt her late sister, Claudia, and Agnes and had made for Sylvia from scraps of her first husband’s clothing after his tragic death in the Second World War. “I hope that these quilts and the stories we’ve shared tonight will inspire you to give, this week and always.”
    And with that, the first day of Quiltsgiving came to an end.
    Early the next morning, the real work would begin.

CHAPTER TWO
    Pauline
    P auline woke before sunrise on Monday morning, but instead of anticipating the fun and potential new friendships awaiting her in Elm Creek Manor on that first full day of Quiltsgiving, her thoughts flew to the Château Élan on the outskirts of Atlanta and what the Cherokee Rose Quilters might be doing at that very moment.
    They were probably still in bed as she was, but sound asleep, wiped out from a late night of talking and laughing and sewing and indulging in wine from the resort’s own vineyards. A record ninety quilters had signed up for their annual benefit retreat, the most important of the guild’s many significant charitable activities, which raised money for several homeless shelters and soup kitchens in impoverished Atlanta neighborhoods. Quilters would travel hundreds of miles and pay not-insignificant fees for an inspirational week of workshops, lectures, and trunk shows offered by the guild’s renowned members, proud to know that the proceeds would support worthy causes. Pauline would bet her Bernina that not one of the Cherokee Rose Quilters had given her a second thought since setting foot on the resort’s beautiful grounds. In such glorious surroundings among their most creative friends, they were surely too busy—and having too much fun—to waste a moment missing her.
    She wished she could say she didn’t miss them.
    Dispirited, Pauline sat up, reached for her cell phone on the nightstand, and called home. Her husband answered on the third ring. “Good morning, sugar,” he said. “Did you get any sleep or did you stay up all night quilting?”
    The warmth in Ray’s voice always made her smile. “This’ll probably shock you, but I got a full night’s sleep. Yesterday evening we had a banquet and a rather dramatic welcome ceremony, and then it was straight to bed.” For Pauline, anyway. Judging by the sounds from the hallway that hadn’t ceased entirely until after midnight, many campers had stayed up quite late, going from room to room to reunite with old friends and meet their neighbors. Someone had knocked softly on Pauline’s door around ten o’clock, but by that time she had already brushed her teeth, put on her pajamas, and curled up in bed with a few quilting magazines, so she had ignored the friendly gesture. “The serious quilting starts after breakfast. Are the kids ready for school yet?”
    â€œThey’re getting there,” said Ray. They