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the orange.” She ran her hand along the curving gold path.
    â€œAnd that leaves what? Death?”
    â€œI haven’t found the right fabrics yet.” She sat back on her heels. “I hope you don’t think it’s morbid. It’s more of a journey than a real life. Think of it as a book, not as me. I’m not trying to find the right fabrics for my own death.”
    â€œI didn’t think that.” James stood. “I think it’s spectacular, beyond brilliant.” He reached down and pulled her to stand beside him. “When you talked about them, I couldn’t envision them and certainly never got close to this.”
    â€œSid’s clients have good taste. It wouldn’t be so pretty with felts and cotton twill. But beyond that, I choose each because of a memory or a texture that speaks to me. Some are simply my favorite colors. Like that orange with the gold fiber? The midlife? That’s a sunset to me.” She pulled, first at one panel then the other, and folded them under the window. “It’s probably taken too long to finish it, though. Four years borders on strange.”
    â€œHow much is left?”
    â€œFourteen squares. Some of the fabrics Sid’s clients have chosen this spring are extraordinary; I expect I’ll find the perfect pieces and have it ready for the finisher by summer.”
    James raised his eyes and looked back across the apartment. “And your table? It’s not what I imagined either.”
    â€œI thought I described that pretty well—books stacked for the legs and glass on top.”
    James walked to it and squatted again. “It’s a little more than that. You’ve got an order down here, don’t you? Americans in this leg . . .” He twisted to the right. “And English here. Victorian mostly.” He leaned farther. “But also here. What’s the difference between these two legs?”
    â€œBoth English. These are the love stories, though not all romantic. Austen, Brontës, a couple Dickens, Hardy, Gaskell, and these . . .”
    â€œMystery, deception . . . That’s why Shakespeare’s in both.” He walked around to the fourth leg. “Whoa . . . Childhood.” He crouched again. “ The Velveteen Rabbit . I loved that book. And Beatrix Potter. And Frog and Toad . These are fantastic. Do you read any of these?”
    Lucy picked up the inch-thick glass top. “I just pull off the top, and voila . But I have to put them back before I can replace the glass or it’s not even—so, no, I don’t read any of them very often. They’re best under here. Maybe someday I’ll get some bookshelves—and a real table.”
    â€œDon’t you miss reading them? You of all people.”
    Lucy stared at the table, pondering it. “Yes, some are my favorite stories, but they aren’t particularly my favorite books.” James shot her a questioning glance. “Many of those are Birthday Books and, while I love them, I don’t mind seeing them squished a little.”
    James turned away, scanning the apartment again.
    â€œYou expected more . . . Stuff that reflects me, who I am, collections, something . . .” Lucy slowly spun around in the empty room as well. “But I wanted to bring in things that have meaning, objects that I truly love, and it’s so hard to find—”
    â€œHey, hey.” James caught and tugged her arm until she was folded into his embrace. “Stop. What you have here is gorgeous, creative, and thoughtful.” He whispered into her hair and pulled her closer until her entire body pressed against his. “So you put too much pressure on case goods. There’s no shame in that. Home doesn’t always come easily.”
    She laughed into his shoulder. “Case goods?”
    She could feel his lips pressing against her hair. They moved from her crown, to her forehead, to her cheek. “And you