Sister's Choice by Emilie Richards Page B

Jamie said, as she and Alison climbed up to the porch. Her mind began to whirl with changes she would make, a window enlarged here, a pergola there, a different sort of roof entirely over the front porch.
    “Before I became mistress of the manor, Ben’s family had lived here for five generations. They were talented carpenters, and when they decided to add on, they didn’t throw it together higgledy-piggledy like some do. It’s substantial and well-constructed. Of course, upkeep went by the wayside when I moved away. Renters and such. Cash should have moved in, but he claimed it was too big for a single man.”
    Jamie wondered why the family had been so willing to let the house deteriorate.
    “They want to sell it,” Grace said, as if she were reading Jamie’s mind. “The family kept the house up, but only to the point that if somebody bought the land and wanted the house, too, it could be salvaged. But they don’t believe that will happen.”
    Jamie didn’t know what to say.
    “I intend to live forever and keep them from selling anything,” Grace said. “It belongs to me, lock, stock and acreage. In the unlikely chance that I die someday, I’m investigating the possibilities of a conservation easement. I don’t ever want to see a housing development where these orchards stand.”
    Jamie felt her way through what seemed to be a loaded subject. “You don’t sound angry.”
    “Oh, we understand each other. Everyone is trying to do what’s right. So far, our paths just won’t meet, that’s all. But where there’s love, there is, eventually, a solution.”
    Jamie liked that philosophy. She supposed a version of it had spurred her to volunteer as Kendra and Isaac’s surrogate.
    “But come in, come in, don’t dawdle. Lucky’s waiting for her friends.” Grace threw open the screen door, which was sagging on its hinges, and let the girls inside.
    The interior was in better condition than the exterior. Walls had been freshly painted, woodwork and floors polished. The house seemed to have fireplaces in every room, and each one was more interesting than the last. Jamie followed her children to the kitchen, admiring what looked like primitive antiques but were probably long-held family pieces. The walls had been painted light, bright colors that reflected the sunlight streaming through the un-curtained windows. Ripest apricot, exotic orchid, grassy green. And everywhere she looked, there were quilts. Not the old-fashioned quilts Jamie had investigated in the surrounding towns at antique and craft shops, but quilts like none Jamie had ever seen.
    “Grace, the quilts! They’re magnificent.” Jamie stopped, although she knew her girls would disapprove, and pointed to one that hung from a wooden rod behind a sofa. “That one’s incredible.”
    “I’m glad you like them. They’re all mine. Except for the one in the front parlor. That was a swap with another quilter.”
    “Kendra told me there were quilters everywhere you look around here.”
    Grace gave a low laugh. “I doubt she meant me. I gave up traditional quilts a while ago. I figured life was too short to redo what better quilt makers had done centuries before me. I never perfected my hand-quilting stitch, never got the hang of perfect piecing. I can do both well enough to get by, but this is my passion.” She waved at the quilt that had stopped Jamie in her tracks.
    All the quilts Jamie had noticed shared bright colors, interesting textures and items incorporated into the surface that she had never associated with quilts. Items like feathers, beads, old jewelry, branches, sprays of gilded wheat and ordinary nuts and bolts. Some had open spaces adorned by strips of ribbon or lace. Others were trapezoids or irregular hexagons. The one thing they all had in common? They brought the old farmhouse walls to life.
    This quilt, almost double-bed size, was made of gold-and-red strips of every size and shape, sprinkled with crystal beads and what looked like