The Giving Quilt by Jennifer Chiaverini Page B

chatted for a bit about how Colton had overslept and Kori had eaten only half an orange for breakfast, again, but they were both more or less ready to head out for the bus. Then Ray, who knew her through and through, abruptly changed the subject. “Sugar, you’ll have fun this week. Just push Brenda right out of your head. Don’t let her miserly spirit ruin your vacation.”
    â€œYou’re right,” said Pauline, raking a hand through her long, wiry hair, tangled and tousled even more than usual thanks to her restless night. “I shouldn’t.”
    â€œGet out of bed, go for a walk, and put a smile on your face when you go down to breakfast. You’re going to have just as much fun at Thanksquilting as you would’ve had at the guild retreat. You’ll see.”
    She had to smile. “It’s Quiltsgiving, not Thanksquilting.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference?” They both laughed. “I love you, sugar, and I miss you. Take care of yourself.”
    She promised him she would, and she assured him she loved and missed him too, and then they said good-bye.
    Ray was absolutely right. She was at Elm Creek Manor, for crying out loud. What was there to regret? Resolute, she flung back the pretty pink-and-yellow Friendship Knot quilt and climbed out of bed, vowing to have a wonderful Quiltsgiving from the get-go. And if she couldn’t manage that, at the very least, she would stop wallowing in self-pity. She couldn’t waste another second longing for the circle of friends that had broken and reformed without her—and imagining Brenda, self-satisfied and smug, privately gloating over Pauline’s absence.
    She changed into her sweats—the thickest, warmest she owned but untested against a northern climate—laced up her walking shoes, tugged on a knit hat and gloves, threw on her coat, and left her room, greeting the few other campers she passed along the way as she descended the grand oak staircase to the foyer. When she opened the front door, a cold gust of wind made her shiver, and when she stepped out onto the verandah, the sight of frost on the crisp green lawn gave her pause. As the heavy door closed behind her, she might have given in to the temptation to hasten back inside if she had not spotted two campers at the foot of one of the curved stone staircases, bundled up as she was for cold-weather exercise. Their heads were bent close together over a map of the estate, and when the taller of the pair straightened and pointed off to the north, Pauline recognized them as the two blond sisters she had met at the Candlelight ceremony the previous night. The taller, elder sister was Linnea—Linnea the librarian from Los Angeles, Pauline had noted when she introduced herself at the Candlelight ceremony, the better to remember her. She prided herself on her quick, sharp memory, and she didn’t consider it cheating to resort to mnemonic devices from time to time.
    The librarian must have felt Pauline’s eyes upon her, for she glanced up. “You look like a woman who knows where she’s going,” she called. “Are there any walking trails around here?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” Pauline admitted as she descended the stairs. “I was going to walk through the north gardens and the orchard, trail or no trail.”
    â€œThat sounds like a good idea,” said the shorter sister, and with no further ado the three women fell into step as if they had planned to walk together all along, striding briskly along the circular driveway before stepping off onto the lawn.
    â€œYou’re the 911 operator, right?” asked Linnea. Her thick, ash-blond hair was blunt-cut at the chin and held back from her face by a wide, black knit band that served as earmuffs. “From Georgia? Paula?”
    â€œPauline,” she corrected with a smile. “And yes, I am, and I am.”
    â€œI’m Linnea.” She indicated her sister