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for lunch, a slice of pizza for dinner. I had a kitchen the size of most people’s linen closets, so aside from making coffee, my cooking skills—such as they were—went unused. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a maestro in the kitchen. And though she also lived alone, she cooked every day. She cooked for herself, of course, but also for several senior citizens who, as she put it, “needed a little help to get going every day.” She cooked for school bake sales, town picnics, and for the charity drives of all three churches in town. If someone needed help, my grandmother was there with a pie.
    Except, apparently, today.
    I went after her to at least get her to make me some scrambled eggs. I found my grandmother by the front door talking quietly with Nancy.
    “Well hello.” Nancy smiled as I walked toward her. “I wondered whether our paths would cross this weekend.”
    “Hi, Nancy.” I hugged her lightly. “It’s been a while.”
    “Well, a city girl can’t be expected to find many reasons to come up here,” she said.
    “Thanks,” my grandmother responded sarcastically.
    “Don’t take offense, Eleanor. It’s good she has her own life.” She looked me up and down. “Are you staying for a while this time?”
    “No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
    “See, what did I tell you. A life of her own.” Nancy picked up a bundle of small quilts, each about two feet square. The top one was an appliquéd autumn tree with leaves in at least a dozen shades. The piece was simple but it had such depth.
    Nancy’s work was a combination of sewing, threadwork, and beading. She made landscapes, scenes of people at play, animals, and abstracts. I’d seen Nancy’s beautiful handiwork before, and it always amazed me. Before she could stop me, I grabbed the bundle and began looking at the others.
    “This is a work of art,” I told her.
    “Nonsense,” she said, taking the quilts back from me. “It’s just something I do as an outlet.”
    “You could sell those,” I said.
    “I’ve been saying that for years,” my grandmother agreed.
    Nancy just blushed. “I make them for my children,” she answered, patting the quilts smooth.
    My grandmother changed the subject. “Nancy volunteered to open up the shop today, so we can spend some time together.” Then she nodded toward me. I understood the gesture immediately. My mother used to do the same head nod when my uncle gave me a piece of candy.
    “Thanks, Nancy,” I said obediently and looked toward Eleanor, who smiled.
    “No worries at all. Happy to do it. I’d do anything for your granny, you know. Just like most people in town.”
    Nancy headed for the door, and so did we.
    “Did you take the deposit to the bank last night?” my grandmother asked as Nancy was leaving. “You know I hate leaving money in the shop overnight. Makes a great target for thieves.”
    “Honestly, Eleanor,” said Nancy with a laugh. “I’m the one who makes the deposits. And I did it last night like I do every night.” She left quickly, not waiting for Eleanor’s usual sharp reply.
    My grandmother just muttered to herself and handed me something. “It’s chilly. Take this.”
    It was a worn-out leather men’s jacket, the sort of jacket that would sell in Manhattan for hundreds of dollars, and in Archers Rest would be donated to charity.
    “Where are we going?”
    “I thought you were hungry” was all she would say. It was a beautiful fall day. As we walked, I found that I was enjoying the sunshine, the falling leaves, and the quiet of small-town life. And then I thought, how romantic it was, and I was depressed again.
    Heartbreak requires concentration. If you forget for a moment that you’ve been dumped, you might enjoy a bit of sunshine and then, wham, you remember. Then you feel bad about being dumped all over again. I needed to stay depressed, but I couldn’t think of anything in Archers Rest that was bad enough to keep me that way.

CHAPTER 7
    Archers Rest, like a