Chapter 1

"Alma, let Odessa take this one. You've got the Feeley baby to finish."

My husband said it standing in the doorway of the hall with eleven women at the tables and the kettle still going, and Odessa already had my scissors in her hand.

Twenty-four years I have made the welcome quilt for every child born in this town. My own granddaughter was due in nine days.

"Sure," I said. "I've always wanted to see somebody else do the fiddly bit."

I make jokes when I am hit. Every woman at that table knew it, and every one of them looked at the kettle.

Steam clicked under its lid. I kept my palm flat on the cutting table, beside the blue squares I had washed, pressed, and measured three times. There were thirty-six of them. The center square lay apart beneath my paper pattern.

Odessa turned my scissors over once, testing the weight. She had come back to town with two suitcases and nowhere settled to sleep. Her seams had always been finer than mine, a fact she had never needed to announce.

Warren carried my sewing case from the shelf. For twenty-four years, he had sat beside that same doorway every Wednesday, drinking coffee until I swept the last thread from the floor. Now he set the case beside my chair as though this had already been agreed.

The Feeley girl had arrived eight weeks early that morning. Her quilt still needed one long border, the binding, and every loose thread checked. She could not wait nine days. Warren's face held the calm certainty he used when there was work and only one sensible person to do it.

I lifted the center square and measured it again. Then once more. The cloth was smooth under the ruler, worn soft without a single raised knot. I placed it inside my tin instead of beneath Odessa's hand.

One of the women reached for the kettle and missed its handle. Porcelain knocked against wood. Nobody laughed, so I did.

"Don't boil it twice. It starts tasting like Warren's coffee."

His mouth moved, almost a smile. That was worse. He believed I had made the room easy again.

I packed the Feeley quilt, two spools, my thimble, and the narrow binding I had cut before breakfast. The blue pieces for my granddaughter stayed spread across the table. Nine days was plenty of time, if a person believed babies respected calendars.

At the door, I turned back. Odessa had drawn my scissors close to the first blue square. Her thumb rested in the larger brass loop, exactly where mine had polished it bright.

"You'll need the small pair for the corners," I said.

Odessa looked down at the scissors in her hand. "Warren told me these were mine to use."