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the quilt bulging out of the top, John walked to the back counter. “They’re ready for checkout,” he told Sharon. “A chest and one of Clara’s quilts. It’s the last one I think. You might want to tell your mother we need more.”
    She reached for the invoice. “I’ll see that mother gets told. I think Clara’s working as hard as she can already.”
    “Maybe one of her daughters can help,” John suggested, although he doubted whether they had time. As his memory told him, all three of them had large families.
    “They’re all busy.” Sharon confirmed his thoughts. “I heard her tell mother that the other Sunday.”
    John filed a note in his mind to tell Aden later that the price of Clara’s quilts needed to be raised, then went back to where the husband was ready to begin loading the cherry chest.
    At the counter the wife waited while Sharon copied the numbers on the ticket and added them up with their solar-powered calculator. “You have a hope chest?” she asked as Sharon was writing the total on the bottom.
    Sharon chuckled. “Do I have a hope chest? Don’t know if it’s a hope chest or not. It’s a cedar chest.”
    “Why cedar?” she wondered more than asked, “John mentioned that back there too.”
    “Keeps things nice,” Sharon volunteered. “Something about the cedar wood—I think. Mom says it preserves clothing—almost makes them better. It might even keep the bugs out too. I’m not sure.”
    The thought crossed her mind in horror. “But the one I just bought was cherry. I’m sure of that. John just said—”
    “Oh,” Sharon replied, quick to assure her, “all our chests are cedar-lined, even when they have different wood on the outside. You get a different look that way, but still the full benefits of the cedar.”
    “Oh,” she said, sighing deeply, “that’s so good to hear. Here I thought I had just made a drastic mistake. Me and my haste. I do so want Candice to have a proper chest. She’s my daughter.”
    “They’re all wonderful chests,” Sharon said, speaking from personal experience. “The different wood can make it more expensive, so we have simple cedar.” Sharon wrinkled up her face.
    “Well,” the wife ventured, “I guess I don’t own a furniture store. I get to buy the nice wood instead of sell it.”
    “Cedar is nice,” Sharon assured her, handing the bill across the counter.
    She wrote out the check, gave it to Sharon, and laid the pen on the counter, finishing just in time to see John and her husband come through the front door.
    “All set,” John announced. “Hope you like everything.”
    She assured him that they would, and with thanks all around, they left.
    It was then that thoughts of Rebecca returned.

C HAPTER S EVEN

     
    Y ou’re going to have to take care,” Mattie said mildly when Rebecca showed up in the kitchen. “Rushing down those stairs like that. One of these days you’re going to trip, fall right down, and break something.”
    “I’ll try—to slow down, I mean. I’m just in a hurry to get busy I guess.”
    “I could use the help.” Mattie motioned toward the dough on the kitchen table. “Roll that out. The pans are still in the cabinet. You can probably get them in before chore time. I need to start supper. With your help, I guess I won’t be late. Just took on a little too much this morning.”
    Rebecca chuckled at the familiar sight of her busy mother.
    “I know. I’m always busy,” Mattie said, looking for the correct cooking pot for heating the canned corn. “You don’t have to laugh.”
    “It’s just good to be home,” Rebecca said, letting the feeling of it all flow through her, the rhythm and pattern of its work was comforting at the moment. Opening the drawer, she found the rolling pin and set to work on the dough.
    Glancing up when the clatter of buggy wheels sounded outside, Mattie said, “The children are home.” Moments later the door burst open, and a rush of small feet filled the living