Chapter 3
Although Maury hadn’t agreed to help Julia quite the way she had hoped, she still left the Benowitz residence no less determined
to persuade the cast and crew not to abandon A Patchwork Life. The Cross-Country Quilters didn’t have Maury’s connections, but they were her dearest friends, each of them wise in her
own, unique way. They would surely come up with some creative solutions together.
As it happened, Julia never would have met her far-flung friends if Maury hadn’t sent her to quilt camp, so she owed him for
that too. At the time, though, she had felt so injured and abandoned that gratitude was the last thing on her mind, despite
the countless ways he had helped her throughout her career.
She had always known he intended to retire eventually. Most people eventually retired, and he and Evelyn had dropped delicate
hints about their retirement plans for several years before he made it official. And yet Julia had sailed along in blissful
denial, certain he would change his mind when he remembered how much he loved his work and how much his clients needed him.
And yet, somehow, on an otherwise lovely evening in June 1999, she found herself sipping champagne at his retirement party,
tempted to seize a bottle and find a secluded corner in which to sulk and drown her sorrows alone.
She might have gone home early, except Maury took her aside for a private conversation in his study. “A little farewell present,” he said, placing the script for A Patchwork Life in her hands. “You didn’t think I’d leave you without one last great project, did you?”
That was precisely what she had thought, but she wouldn’t spoil the evening by saying so aloud. She had assumed her next project
would come through her new agent, a rising star in the business whom she knew only by reputation. Maury had recommended a
different colleague, but Julia had instead chosen someone famed for his ruthless determination to do whatever it took to get
his clients the roles they sought. The fact that he was the nephew of one of Hollywood’s most powerful directors also weighed
in his favor.
But when they finally met in person one week after Maury’s retirement party, she began to suspect that she had made a serious
mistake.
“I’m Ares,” he announced when she joined him for a getting-acquainted lunch at a bistro on Sunset Boulevard not far from the
agency. After she took her seat, he reached across the table and offered her his hand and a flash of white teeth. Maury would
have stood as she approached, and he would have pulled out her chair for her and not returned to his own until he was sure
she was comfortable.
“Aries the Ram?” she asked, shaking the younger man’s hand.
“No.” His grin suddenly became almost feral. “Ares, the Greek god of war.”
“How interesting,” Julia had replied, gingerly releasing his hand, realizing that she couldn’t have picked an agent less like
Maury if she had tried. Still, perhaps Maury’s approach, a gentleman bargaining honorably on the strength of his word, was
too old-fashioned for these crueler, modern times. As the conversation turned to business, Julia resolved to give Ares a chance,
despite the casual insults he tossed off about her previous series in his eagerness to praise the forthcoming movie.
It was Maury who enrolled her in Elm Creek Quilt Camp, but it was Ares who made her go through with it rather than arranging for private quilting lessons at her home, as she would have preferred.
“The Elm Creek Quilters are supposed to be the best of the best,” he noted, “and you can’t cancel a lesson if you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. ”
“I wouldn’t cancel,” Julia said, knowing she had already lost the argument. “I want to learn.”
“You have to learn. Your entire career depends on it.”
Julia refrained from pointing out that if she did lose this role and Ares couldn’t find her another, he was rather useless as an agent. She needed him on her side.
On an August day a few weeks after their first meeting, Ares escorted her to the secluded, nineteenth-century manor in rural
central Pennsylvania where her clandestine quilt training would take place. Maury had wanted a place far from the scrutiny
of gossip columnists and paparazzi, and from her airplane window, the Elm Creek Valley certainly seemed to be hundreds of
miles from anything resembling a city. Julia marveled that the agency’s chartered jet managed to locate the tiny airport at
all, much less come to a halt before speeding off the end of the runway. Except for the control tower and a small one-story
building she assumed was the terminal, the view through her window revealed only trees and sky.
“I’ve kept your arrival a secret, but don’t be surprised if there’s a crowd gathered around,” Ares warned as the plane taxied
to the terminal. “They probably get a limo in this backwater only once every twenty years.”
Julia shot him a look of sharp disapproval. The last thing she needed was an agent who scorned her target demographic. “People
in towns like these watch movies. They also kept Family Tree at the top of the Nielsen ratings for many years.”
“Near the top, anyway,” Ares allowed. “The top of the middle, at least.”
Stung, Julia unfastened her seat belt and held back a retort, reminding herself that she didn’t have to like him to work with
him.
Contrary to Ares’s snarky prediction, no crowd had gathered by the limo parked on the tarmac, but it did attract a few curious glances from other travelers climbing ramp stairs into tiny prop planes or collecting their gate-checked bags from oversized carts.
As the driver loaded Julia’s luggage into the limo’s trunk and opened the rear passenger door for her, she noticed four women near the terminal entrance greeting one another with shrieks of laughter and warm embraces.
As the limo drove through the parking lot, Julia lowered her sunglasses to take a better look, curious.
Judging by their eclectic patchwork clothing, pieced and appliquéd like wearable quilts, surely they were quilt campers too.
Suddenly the tinted window began to rise. With a start, she turned in her seat to find Ares with his finger on the button
of his armrest. “We can’t have the locals gawking at you,” he said.
Julia thought the women seemed too preoccupied to spare the limo a second glance, but she settled back into her seat, resigned.
For more than an hour they drove in silence past picturesque farms and rolling, forested hills. Julia felt her tension ease
as she admired the scenery, but trepidation stirred when, although they still appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, they
came upon a large, rustic wooden road sign with beautifully engraved, freshly painted lettering announcing that they had reached
the Elm Creek estate.
The driver skillfully managed the sharp turn off the state highway onto a narrow gravel road that plunged into a dense, leafy
forest. Even so, Julia instinctively clutched her armrest when she realized that the narrow road had no shoulder. If an oncoming
car approached, one of them would have to pull off into the trees to avoid a collision.
“Sorry, it’s a bit rough here,” the driver warned, slowing the limo to compensate.
“The least they could have done was pave the road,” Ares grumbled.
“Not your fault,” Julia replied to the driver, ignoring Ares, raising her voice to be heard over the crunch of tires on gravel.
“We’re fine.”
When the road forked, the driver took the slightly wider road on the right.
They crossed a narrow bridge over a creek so clear Julia could see stones at the bottom, and soon thereafter, the leafy wood gave way to a vast expanse of sun-splashed wildflower meadow.
The road smoothed, and at the end of it Julia spotted a gray stone mansion with tall, white columns supporting the high roof of a broad veranda.
As the limo drew closer, Julia spied two stone staircases descending in mirror-image arcs to the curved driveway, which encircled a fountain in the shape of a rearing horse.
At least a dozen people were unloading luggage or helping others carry their bags up the stairs and through the tall double doors of the front entrance.
With a pang, Julia suddenly remembered how much she had always hated the first day of school.
Where would she sit in the classroom? Would she eat lunch alone every day?
As lovely as this Elm Creek Manor appeared to be, her heart sank at the thought of spending an entire week there, alone in a crowd.
Instinctively she slipped on her sunglasses again, bracing herself as the other guests broke off their conversations to watch
as the limousine slowed to a halt in front of the manor. When the driver opened her passenger door, Ares quickly raced around
from his side and offered his hand to assist Julia out. She accepted ungratefully, suspecting he was performing gallantry
for the crowd, who watched and whispered to one another as he escorted her up one of the semicircular staircases. The driver
followed behind carrying Julia’s suitcases and her favorite Louis Vuitton Neverfull MM tote.
A tall, silver-haired woman who looked to be about a dozen years older than Julia met them at the entrance. “Miss Merchaud?”
she inquired pleasantly, studying Julia over the rims of her glasses, which were attached to a fine silver chain draped gracefully
around her neck. “I’m Sylvia Bergstrom Compson. Welcome to Elm Creek Manor.”