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deep down she suspected she wasn’t ready for the responsibilities of motherhood. Why, she couldn’t even stand up to her mother without feeling guilty. What made her think she could take care of a child? She couldn’t even make up her mind about getting a new hairstyle, and the thought of seeing a doctor made her woozy. So how would she ever be able to handle a sick child in a medical emergency? She’d never be able to do it.
    Vernie’s crackling voice cut into her thoughts. “Did you see the way Dr. Marc’s son was looking at Annie Cuvier at the New Year’s Eve party? We’ll be having another wedding before too long if I’m not mistaken.”
    Barbara exhaled softly. Annie and Alex would probably fall in love and have beautiful, smart, talented babies. Dozens of them. They’d eat luscious homegrown winter tomatoes while Barbara grew old and useless, remaining at home with her Mom and Dad. Russell would get sick of the situation and take off like Stanley Bidderman did, leaving town without a word of explanation, while Barbara sat in her empty bedroom and cried—
    â€œOw!” Barbara pulled the needle from her fingertip, then stuck her finger in her mouth.
    Cleta pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Do you need a Band-Aid?”
    â€œI’m fine.” She
thrust the needle back into the fabric.
    Bea picked up the thread of conversation. “Did you see Isabel Potter’s new baby? She’s the lady who manages the butcher shop on Shore Road. Beautiful little baby. Surprising after thirty-nine hours of labor. Most of ’em have a pointy head after all that.”
    Cleta perked up. “Thirty-nine? Why, I thought thirty-six hours was bad. I thought I’d die.” She laughed. “Once I heard about this woman whose water broke on the way to the hospital. They had to yank her out of the car so she could give birth on the side of the road.”
    Olympia’s nostrils flared slightly. “My sister-in-law knew a woman whose child was coming prematurely. They took her to the hospital and sewed the birth canal shut so the child couldn’t come out for another week or so. That poor woman must have suffered agony—”
    Tuning out the stories, Barbara concentrated on her stitches.
    Awash in sympathy, Cleta watched her daughter. Barbara had to be hearing every word, and such things weren’t proper topics of conversation for a young woman of her sensitive nature. Barbara didn’t need to be hearing about babies and doctors and sutures. She didn’t need to be thinking about anything but growing up and being happy.
    While the others might disagree with her, Cleta knew Barbara was better off staying at the bed-and-breakfast where Cleta could watch over her. It had always been that way, and it should always be that way—at least until Barbara was older.
    â€œI wish we had some more fund-raising ideas for Puffin Days,” Vernie said, returning to the original topic. “Maybe the men will have some suggestions about how to fill the community chest.”
    â€œFloyd won’t have any new ideas.” Cleta sighed. “He’s only concerned about getting new tires for the fire truck. The old ones are worn to the steel belt, but the city budget won’t stand the purchase of new tires. He’s fussed over it for months now.”
    â€œWinslow is trying to find money in the church budget for new hymnals,” Edith said. “It’s embarrassing when the tourists have to read over our shoulders to sing the hymns.”
    â€œMoney.” Olympia clucked softly. “Never enough when you need it, is there?”
    Cleta glanced at Barbara as a question rose in her mind. Did Russell have enough money to move out? He kept his business affairs to himself, but even though he’d purchased a boat, he was bound to have a little something set by . . .
    She bit her lip and buried a loose thread between the batting and