Gigi grunted and heaved herself up onto the bus. The engine roared to life, and the bus pulled out of the small grass parking lot, arms sticking out of windows on both sides of the bus, waving to her.
She waved until the bus disappeared around the curve in the driveway. The sounds of children’s laughter and conversation died away as quiet fell on the farm again.
six
Betsy
“Anna Beth?” Betsy checked the clock on the oven and cringed: 11:58. She was supposed to meet her friend for lunch at noon.
“Girl, where are you?” Through the phone, Betsy heard the murmur of lunchtime conversation. “I’m halfway through my first mimosa, and before you ask, yes, I did say ‘first.’”
“I didn’t say anything. Although it is a tad early, even for you.”
“School is out, the little monsters are gone, and I have a three-week break before I have to woman the front office. I’m enjoying my time off. Now, where are you?”
Betsy grabbed a damp rag from the sink. She squeezed the water out and wiped breakfast crumbs from the counter as she spoke. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to miss lunch. My sister called this morning. She’s driving down tomorrow and dropping the kids off with us for a little while.”
“What?” Anna Beth screeched. “How long’s a little while?”
Betsy squeezed one eye closed. “Two weeks?”
“Girl, you are crazy. And very nice.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d be able to swing lunch, but I just finished up with Bankston, I’m dirty, and I have a million things to do before they get here.”
“Well, I’m not having lunch by myself. Lucy and Jackson are squared away at friends’ houses, so I have the afternoon. Tell you what. Why don’t I bring lunch to you? I can help you with your million things.”
“Oh, you don’t need to—”
“Hush. I’ll get some chicken salad to go and I’ll be there in twenty.”
Betsy exhaled and tossed the rag in the sink. “Thanks.”
“No problem. And let’s see . . .” Anna Beth’s acrylic nails tapped the tabletop.
“What is it?”
“This is Jenna you’re talking about, right? Wild child, boyfriends, the whole bit?”
That described Jenna’s younger days to a T, but now? Betsy shook her head. “She’s not like that anymore. She can’t be—she has Addie and Walsh.”
“But she’s all of a sudden leaving them with you for two weeks?”
“Well . . . yeah. I’m fine though.”
“Mm-hmm. I’ll stop at the Pig on the way. I’m bringing you a bottle of wine. Sounds like you may need it.”
Betsy took a quick survey of the house: The casserole dish from this morning’s farmer breakfast still in the kitchen sink. Two baskets of laundry on the couch waiting to be folded and put away. The back porch coffee table covered with printouts of Excel files, results of Ty’s and her last financial “state of the union” meeting. She glanced out the back window just in time to see Ty climb onto the seat of the tractor and crank it up. Carlos stood by directing him between the fence posts into the back field.
She should go out and tell him about Jenna’s imminent arrival with the kids—especially since she hadn’t asked him first. In this case though, it seemed asking for forgiveness might be easier than asking for permission.
Upstairs, the guest room was already made up with crisp sheets and an empty water carafe on the bedside table, ready for Ty’s parents in case they decided to come for an overnight visit. Uninterested in having any part in the family farm, they rarely did. Down the hall, she poked her head into the empty room. It had remained bare all these years except for a double bed with a sky-blue iron headboard salvaged from an estate sale, an old white dresser with glass knobs and an attached mirror, and a white rocking chair from Betsy’s grandmother. Addie and Walsh would need more than this.
She rummaged through the hall linen closet and pulled out a set of sheets with tiny roses set against a white background. Roses always reminded her of Jenna. As sullen as she had been as a teenager, Jenna had helped their father tend his rose garden in the backyard with scientific precision.
She also found the cream-colored cable-knit blanket her grandmother knitted for her before she was born. Betsy had draped that blanket across every bed she’d ever slept in, from her childhood home to Auburn then to Elinore. She couldn’t remember when or why she’d folded it and put it away. She held it in her hands now, thick stitches of cotton as soft as the fingers that made it.
Her grandmother spent decades knitting, her nimble fingers purling and plaiting in ways Betsy never had a desire or inclination for. Spending weeks at her house during summer breaks with Jenna when their parents worked long hours, Betsy grew familiar with the vocabulary and shape of stitches, even if she didn’t pick up the knitting needles herself. As the older, calmer granddaughter, the one more concerned with making others happy, she was the one who sat and kept their grandmother company while she knitted. Jenna ran free on their grandparents’ four acres, laughing with kids from neighboring houses, sneaking kisses and cigarettes.
Even if she never purled on her own, Betsy knew the significance of a dropped stitch. It would start with a little puff of air from her grandmother’s nose, a slight shake of her head, then her fingers quickly working backward to recover that disobedient stitch. She’d go back to just before things fell apart and make the necessary change to prevent the same thing from happening again.
Betsy unfolded the blanket on the double bed and held it by the ends, gently flapping it to settle it across the sheets. Her grandmother’s stitches had held tight all these years, not a dropped stitch in sight. She smoothed her hands across the blanket, straightened the corners, and imagined the
