The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Harrisburg struck up a lively tune that beckoned couples to the dance floor. Sylvia looked around for Elizabeth, but Claudia grabbed Sylvia’s hand and dragged her over to a corner where they could play ring-around-the-rosie in time to the music. Sylvia had no interest whatsoever in playing a baby game to what was obviously a quickstep, but when she saw Elizabeth on Henry’s arm, she gloomily played along to appease Claudia. When the song ended, she slipped away and wove through the crowd to Elizabeth, but now her beautiful cousin was waltzing with Uncle George, and Sylvia knew she would be scolded if she interrupted.
    Her turn would come, she told herself, but dance after dance went by, and always Elizabeth was with Henry, or her father, or Henry’s father, or one of her uncles. Mostly she was with Henry. When she finally sat out a dance, Sylvia raced to her side. “There you are,” Elizabeth exclaimed, and as far as Sylvia could tell, her cousin was delighted to see her. “Are you having a good time?”
    Sylvia was miserable, but Elizabeth could easily fix that. “Can I have a turn to dance with you?”
    Elizabeth fanned herself with her hand. “Absolutely, right after I rest with some of your father’s punch.” She looked around for Henry, but Sylvia quickly volunteered to get Elizabeth a cup, and she hurried off through the crowd of dancers and onlookers to the fireplace at the opposite end of the room.
    Her father sat by the fireside, joking with his brothers and Henry’s father, who waited impatiently to sample her father’s renowned Feuerzangenbowle . Into a large black kettle he had emptied two bottles of red wine, some of the last of his wine cellar. Sylvia caught the aroma of rich wine and spices—cinnamon, allspice, cardamom—and the sweet fruity fragrances of lemon and orange. Her father stirred the steaming brew, careful to keep the fire just high enough to heat the punch without boiling.
    “At this rate it’ll be midnight before we can wet our whistles, Fred,” one of the neighbors teased.
    “If you’re too thirsty to wait, have some coffee and save the punch for more patient men,” Sylvia’s father retorted with a grin. “Sylvia can show you to the kitchen.”
    Sylvia froze while the men laughed, relaxing only when she realized none of the men intended to take her father up on his offer. Although many of their neighbors of German descent had brewed their own beer long before Prohibition, few could obtain fine European wines like those Father’s customers offered him to sweeten their deals. They wouldn’t leave the fireside without a glass of Father’s famous punch, and neither would Sylvia. She was determined to serve Elizabeth before Henry did, to prove just how unnecessary he was.
    Father traded the long-handled spoon for a sturdy pair of tongs, grasped a sugar cone, and held it over the kettle. With his left hand, he slowly poured rum over the sugar cone, or Zuckerhut as the older Bergstroms called it, and let the liquor soak in to the fine, compressed sugar. At Father’s signal, Uncle William came forward, withdrew a wooden skewer from the fire, and set the sugar cone on fire. Sylvia watched, entranced, as the bluish flame danced across the sugar cone and carmelized the sugar, which dripped into the steaming punch below. When the flame threatened to flicker out, her father poured more rum over the Zuckerhut until the bottle was empty and the sugar melted away. With a sigh of anticipated pleasure, the uncles and neighbors pressed forward with their cups as Father picked up the ladle and began to serve. Sylvia found herself pushed to the back of the crowd, and not until the last of the eager grown-ups had taken their mugs from the fireside was she able to approach her father.
    He eyed her with amusement. “This isn’t a drink for little girls.”
    “It’s not for me.” Sylvia glanced over her shoulder and spied Elizabeth still seated where Sylvia had left her, laughing with