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beautiful . . . is it Scott’s?” She tried to sound offhand.
    “His favorite. Sleeps with it all the time.”
    “Gosh, it looks pretty new to have been dragged around by a baby for a couple of years.” She was almost ashamed of herself.
    “He’s only had it ’bout six months.”
    Glory let go of the fishing line. The answer obviously wasn’t going to come without a direct question, and she wasn’t quite ready to resort to that yet. She felt petty enough already.
    The trail was fairly even, well-worn with only slight rises and dips. Scott didn’t once ask to be carried, just trudged along in silence, neither asking questions, nor pointing in curiosity, nor looking beyond the path immediately in front of his feet.
    Halfway to the meadow, a narrow, fast-moving stream cut across the path, tumbling around a cluster of smooth gray rocks. Granny shifted the tote and reeled in the blanket, as if to pick up the toddler. For a moment, Glory stood motionless. Then she stepped up.
    “I’ve got him.” She grasped Scott under the arms and held his sturdy body away from hers. Then she stepped carefully from the dry top of one rock to the other. Immediately when she reached the other side, she set him back on his own little feet. Then she shoved her hands in her pockets. It was no more personal than lugging a bag of potatoes over the obstacle.
    When Granny joined her on the far side, she gave Glory an odd look, slightly puzzled yet slightly reproachful.
    Again, Glory felt almost ashamed of herself. What kind of woman was she that she was so resistant to physical contact with this little boy?
    She turned away from the question, fearing what she’d see inside herself. She walked on ahead, leaving Granny to set Scott up with his quilt once again.
    The raspberry bramble was probably within two hundred yards of Granny’s house, yet felt as isolated as Blue Falls Pond. It sat on the edge of a small clearing, a patch of brilliant sunlight in the green gloaming that covered most of the hollow. Here there was nothing but the still heat of the afternoon and the rustle of foraging squirrels.
    Glory blinked against the brightness as she stepped into the clearing. Even with Granny wearing sunglasses, Glory noticed that Granny paused behind her and waited for her eyes to adjust before leaving the shadowy trail.
    Immediately the heat of the sun mixed with the heavy humidity, making Glory pluck her T-shirt away from where it clung to her chest. A butterfly flitted in front of her, black wings glistening in the sun, bright blue tail shining like a beacon. She felt Scott’s presence by her leg and wondered if his brown eyes—Eric’s eyes, she realized—followed the flighty course of the butterfly too. She didn’t glance down to see.
    “Whew!” Granny fanned herself. “Hot one. Let’s put Scott in the shade over here.”
    She spread a blanket under a tall yellow buckeye tree near the thicket. Then she pulled out his toy ship.
    Scott soberly walked over and plopped down. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.
    “Maybe we should give him a drink,” Glory said.
    Granny smiled, rummaged in the canvas tote, and brought out a Sippy Cup. She poured water from a bottle into it and handed it to the boy. Then she lifted the bottle toward Glory. “How about you?”
    Glory took a long drink, then gave it back to Granny.
    When she looked down at Scott again, he was moving the boat in the same tedious circles as he had earlier in the day. He still hadn’t said a word.
    “Alrighty. Let’s get to pickin’.” Granny handed Glory a small galvanized bucket. “I’m thinkin’ cobbler.”
    Glory grinned and nodded. Berry cobbler and ice cream. The remembered taste sprang onto her tongue. At least once every year during berry season, she and Granny would pick berries and make a cobbler. Then when Pap came home from work, the three of them would eat the entire thing while it was still warm, melting the ice cream into a pool of creamy sweetness.