Chapter 20: The Ninth Quilt

My mother stood in the doorway of the apartment in her church coat, holding a long garment bag in both arms.

I had put on a dress in four minutes and Giles had put on a shirt buttoned one hole off.

She looked at the scarf still lying on the hall floor, and then at the ceiling, and said nothing.

"Mom," I said. "How did you find us?"

"Phyllis gave me the address. I called her from the airport."

"You flew."

"I haven't flown since your father's funeral."

She came in without being asked and set the bag on the couch.

"May I sit?"

"Of course."

She sat on the edge of the cushion with her purse in her lap, the way she had in the probate court.

Giles stood by the window.

"I came to say something," my mother said, "and I need to say it before I lose my nerve."

I waited.

"I sat in the last row at your wedding. I watched you marry a man I'd called a stranger, and I looked at your face."

"You looked happy. I hadn't seen that in a long time."

She pressed her lips together.

"Dean showed me a receipt for the roof. He told me you'd let him carry it alone."

"I paid half, Mom. I have the bank record."

"I know. I looked, on Wednesday. I went to the bank myself with my own card."

Her voice shook, and she steadied it.

"He took the five cards from my mailbox. He sat at my table and ate my pot roast every Sunday for two years, and he had your letters in his pocket."

"I called him a good boy to the whole church."

"Mom."

"I'm not done."

She turned to Giles, who looked startled.

"Mr. Archbold, I was short with your mother at church for years, because she kept asking after my daughter."

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