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you.”
    â€œTake good care of that. It’s the key to your heart and very precious. Mustn’t be given to anybody who is anything less than your soul mate. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a card that goes with your present.” She rustled through her handbag. “Hmm. I must have left it in the house. Come inside and I’ll give it to you.” She opened the car door.
    â€œThat’s all right, Abbie. Give it to me at the quilt circle.”
    â€œIt’s a very funny card,” she said, climbing out of the car. “I spent a lot of time picking it out. Come along, Margot. I insist.”
    She started walking toward the house, not looking back because it would never occur to Abigail that anyone, particularly me, would fail to follow her instructions once she insists upon something.
    I got out of the car. Abigail knows me too well.

5
Margot
    W e went in the side door. Abigail snapped on a light and we walked through an orderly anteroom with winter coats and hats hung on pegs and boots—garden boots, hiking boots, riding boots, snow boots—standing at the ready in tidy pairs on grooved trays designed to catch mud or melting snow. Three open cupboards on the opposite wall held an assortment of sports equipment—tennis rackets, golf clubs, and cross-country skis. Abigail is very athletic.
    The kitchen was just as well organized, with gleaming copper pots hung on a rack over the stove, a long wall of cream-colored cabinets with dishes lined up like museum collectibles behind doors of beveled glass. Of course, Abigail has much more storage space than I do, and a full-time housekeeper, but I couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of self-reproach when I compared Abigail’s tidy kitchen to mine.
    I’ve got to reorganize my kitchen. Soon. Maybe tonight. The last thing I need this Christmas is for my mother to come into my house and start throwing out little hints about me being messy or, worse yet, putting on an apron and starting to clean. The minute she walks into my house and starts picking up things, or pulls my vacuum out of the closet, I feel like I’m nine years old again.
    I leaned against the counter, tapping my foot while Abigail opened a kitchen drawer and looked through a blue-flowered file folder for my card.
    â€œIt’s not here,” she said, frowning. “Hilda must have moved it. I’ve told her a million times … Never mind. I’m sure it’s on my desk.” She walked to the hallway.
    â€œAbigail, it’s all right. Really. Why not wait and give it to me later?”
    â€œNo. It’s a birthday card and I want to give it to you on your birthday. Come on.”
    I followed her down the hallway and into the dark living room, completely unsuspecting until Abigail turned on a table lamp and everyone I know and care about in New Bern—Evelyn, Charlie, Garrett, Franklin, Ivy, Virginia, Tessa and Lee, Madelyn and Jake, Dana, Wendy Perkins—jumped out and shouted, “Surprise!”
    I stood frozen, utterly shocked. Evelyn came over to give me a hug. “Don’t be mad. I told you that we weren’t planning on giving you a surprise party at the shop. You didn’t say anything about a party off-site.” She laughed and everyone joined in.
    My plan for celebrating this birthday was not to. But when I saw my friends popping up from behind the furniture like jacks-in-the-box, complete with silly grins and funny paper hats, I reconsidered.
    After the shouts and the hugs, the kisses and congratulations, Evelyn and Madelyn brought out a beautiful cake, shaped like a bed and draped with a fondant icing quilt in pink, green, and white patchwork squares with four tall pink and white twisted candles, like four carved bedposts on each corner of the cake.
    â€œOh my!” I exclaimed, leaning over and gently poking the fondant with my finger to confirm that it truly was a cake. It looked so real, like a quilt on a