The Quilter's Legacy Read Free Page B

site—”
    Sylvia raised a hand. “You know I don't do e-mail. I appreciate what the Internet has contributed to our business, but I will not drive another nail into the coffin of the fine art of letter writing.”
    “No one will force you to send e-mail.” Summer guided her into the chair. “This is a Web site. It's different.”
    “Go on,” urged Andrew. “It's important.”
    Sylvia sat down, slipped on her glasses, and peered at the computer. The title at the top of the screen read, “The Missing Quilts Home Page.” Down the left side ran a list of phrases: “Home Page,” “Help Find Missing Quilts,” “Report Your Missing Quilt,” and “Reunions! Quilts Found.” Other quilt-related topics followed, including articles about protecting quilts from theft and how to properly document quilts—which had long been one of Sylvia's pet causes.
    “Perhaps this is worth a look,” she admitted.
    Summer slid the mouse into Sylvia's hand. “Use this to move the pointer over the links, and if you want to read the article, click the mouse.”
    “I have used a computer before, dear,” said Sylvia dryly, but she did as instructed. First she read the page about documenting quilts and was pleasantly surprised to discover the author provided a clear and thorough description of the appropriate steps. Next she clicked on the “Help Find Missing Quilts” link. On the screen appeared the names of at least fifty quilts, accompanied by pictures too small to be seen clearly even with her glasses.
    “Click on the thumbnail.” Summer took the mouse and clicked on the first tiny picture. That took them to a new page, which included a larger photo of the quilt, a list of the quilt's dimensions, colors, pattern, and fabric, and a brief narrative describing how it had disappeared from the quiltmaker's car after an accident. The quilter had been taken from the scene in an ambulance, and by the time she could arrange to have her possessions secured, the quilt was gone.
    “How terrible,” exclaimed Sylvia. “What kind of person would steal a quilt, especially from someone in such circumstances? It's outrageous.”
    “Keep reading,” said Summer, and used the mouse to direct Sylvia to the previous page.
    From there, Sylvia linked to each of the missing quilts in turn and read about quilts taken from summer cottages, vanished from the beds of residents of nursing homes, fallen from baby strollers or left behind at schools, stolen from quilt shows or lost in the mail en route to and from quilt shows, and, perhaps most troubling of all, more than two hundred children's quilts made by a Michigan church group for an orphanage in Bosnia, taken in the theft of the truck hired to transport them to the airport.
    “It's tragic,” muttered Sylvia, shaking her head. All those precious quilts so lovingly and painstakingly made, separated from their proper owners, perhaps forever. “Please tell me there's some good news.”
    “Try that Reunions link,” said Andrew.
    Sylvia clicked on “Reunions! Quilts Found,” which linked to a photo gallery of quilts that had eventually found their way home. The stories of their discoveries were comforting, but few.
    “They don't find many, do they?” said Sylvia, pushing back her chair and removing her glasses.
    “But they do find some,” said Andrew. “That red-and-white one was missing for thirty years, and it was finally found.”
    “My mother's quilts have been missing longer than that.”
    Summer sat on the edge of the desk. “You'll never find them if you don't look.”
    “Chances are I won't find them this way, either.”
    Summer frowned. “You know, you sound exactly the way you used to, before Elm Creek Quilts, back when you first returned to Waterford. Contrary and negative and pessimistic about everything.”
    “I most certainly do not. Not now and not then. I'm just being realistic.” Indignant, she added, “How would you know anything about my temperament back then? We