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doll’s bed. “Who thought this up?”
    Virginia, who, in her eighties, is more on the ball than most women half her age, waved her hand over her head. “Guilty!” she called out. “Though it wasn’t exactly my idea. I saw something similar on the Internet.” That’s what I mean about Virginia; though her specialty is meticulously and exquisitely handmade quilts using heritage techniques, she is always willing to try new things. Virginia has more Facebook friends than I do.
    â€œAnd Madelyn baked it,” Tessa added, beaming as proudly over her best friend’s accomplishment as if it had been her own. “Isn’t it amazing? You know, if Madelyn hadn’t decided to become an innkeeper, she could have made her living as a baker.”
    I looked up at Madelyn, who was shooting a look at Tessa. When Madelyn, widow of an infamous Wall Street financier, was living a glamorous life in New York, the paparazzi followed her everywhere. But now I’ve noticed that she doesn’t really like being the center of attention.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, Madelyn. Too beautiful to eat.”
    â€œIt better not be!” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I spent all morning baking it. Go on, Margot. Blow out the candles before the bedposts burn down.”
    â€œYeah,” Garrett, Evelyn’s son and the Cobbled Court Quilt Shop’s official “web dude,” agreed. “Get on with it, Margot. I’m starving!”
    I leaned over and pursed my lips, ready to blow, but was stopped by Ivy, who cried, “Wait a minute! Don’t forget to make a wish.”
    I paused for a moment, wondering what to wish for. It seemed I already had so much. But then I remembered what Abigail had said about Reverend Clarkson in the car and what I’d said back: “You can never have too many friends.”
    Closing my eyes, I made a silent wish about myself and friendship and Reverend Clarkson. When I was done, I leaned down again and blew out all four candles in one breath, never supposing anything would come of it.

6
Philippa Clarkson
    I have to go to the bathroom. I really, really do.
    If Tim were here, he’d give me a hard time for not remembering to go before I left. But why would I? It was always his job to remind me. Well, not his job exactly, but he always did remind me and I came to depend on him for that. And so many other things. Funny the things I miss about him, even now. Funny to think I’d ever miss being teased for having a bladder the size of a thimble.
    I could have gone when I stopped for gas near Sturbridge, but the line to get into the ladies’ room ran out the door. Why can’t people who design buildings figure out that women need twice as many toilets as men? It’s all a matter of clothing complications and personal plumbing. Don’t architects take anatomy in college? Anyway, I didn’t stand in line and wait because I was afraid I’d be late to meet this person … what was her name?
    I’d written it down on a scrap of paper and stuck it in my coat pocket before I left, but repeated groping through my pockets unearthed only an ATM receipt, a business card for my gynecologist, a used tissue, and three cherry-menthol cough drops. I have a cold.
    I have to go to the bathroom and I have a cold and, for the life of me, I can’t recall the name of the very first person I’ll meet from my very first congregation. This does not bode well. Why can’t I remember? I’m usually so good with names.
    I’m nervous, that’s why. Who wouldn’t be? Getting your first pulpit is as good a reason as any for a case of nerves, especially under these circumstances.
    What is that woman’s name? I know it starts with an “M.” Mary? Marion? Margaret? That’s it. Margaret. I think it was Margaret … or something like that. No, it was Margaret. Definitely. This is no time to start