Chapter 2

I kept my hand on the doorframe. The sewing case pulled against my other wrist, heavy with everything Odessa would need except the thing I had put away.

"Are they?"

Warren glanced at the brass handles. Odessa laid the scissors down carefully, her fingers leaving the loops one at a time.

"For today," he answered.

I looked at the blue squares. I had washed that fabric twice, dried it in the shade, and cut around one pale flaw near the selvage. Junia had chosen blue because pink made every shop look like a mouthful of frosting.

"Only today?"

The room found small work. A spool rolled beneath a chair. Someone straightened a stack already square, while the kettle began its thin complaint behind us.

Warren rubbed his thumb along the edge of my sewing case. He had repaired that edge after I dropped it on the church steps twelve winters ago. The new leather had darkened until only I could find the seam.

"You can't be in both places."

"A serious defect. I meant to have it corrected before becoming a grandmother."

Odessa's eyes stayed on the table. She moved the large scissors away from herself and reached for the smaller pair.

Warren did not smile this time. He pointed toward the Feeley quilt beneath my arm, then toward the blue cloth waiting behind him.

"That baby can't wait."

"And mine can?"

My fingers tightened around the case handle until the metal pressed four cold half-moons into my palm. Nine days. I had made wedding quilts in six and mourning quilts overnight, though Warren had watched my hands cramp closed afterward.

He faced the unfinished border instead of me. The Feeley child had no fat beneath her skin yet. Every hour without enough warmth had frightened the women into whispering, and Warren had heard every whisper.

He began arranging the work as if speed could make it merciful. Odessa could piece the blue top while I finished the border. I could check her corners on Wednesday. The binding could wait until I returned.

"So this is once," I said.

His hand stopped over the paper schedule. The pause lasted long enough for the kettle lid to rattle twice.

"If nobody else comes early."

There it was. He had not looked at Odessa's stitches and found mine wanting. He had looked at a calendar full of unborn children and decided the dates would betray me.

That should have hurt less. My throat still refused the swallow I gave it.

I set the case on the floor and opened the tin. The old cloth lay beneath three narrow remnants, each smaller than my palm. I measured the largest piece once, shifted the ruler, then measured it twice more.

Odessa watched without reaching. She knew better than to ask why I turned the cloth before every cut, or why even its crooked scraps went back into the tin.

I closed the lid. The click sounded meaner than I intended.

"Use any center you like," I told her. "Just don't use mine."

Warren drew the weekly schedule toward him. My name filled every Wednesday line in the same blue ink, with his chair marked by the doorway in a smaller hand.

He folded the schedule once, then pressed the crease flat with his thumbnail.