The high-octane music would swell, the sound boiling up the stairs to my resentful ears. Mom loved the theme from that show so much that she bought the sheet music. Even though we didn’t have a piano, she learned to hum the notes. A few years ago, Molly found the music in the piano bench and picked it out while I was working in the kitchen. I felt the same curious shiver of resentment and intrigue I’d felt as a child.

Nowadays, women escape by running away to urban spas, yoga retreats or wild-woman weekends of paintball drills and primal screams. Others frequent male strip clubs or dress to the nines for high tea. Back then, women like my mom didn’t have to go any farther than their living rooms.

* * *

We stop at a deli for a take-away lunch, and Molly is drawn to the counter girl’s flat New England accent, which skips blithely over the r and elongates the vowels.

The sub sandwiches are called “grinders,” and the milkshakes are “frappes.” The word feels awkward and foreign in my mouth, and when we place our order, Molly and I don’t look at each other because we’ll start giggling.

We take our lunch to a roadside park with a scenic overlook. There is a sign pointing the way to the Norman Rockwell home.

“I can see where he got his inspiration,” I tell Molly, gesturing at the spill of rounded mountains below us.

“Who?”

“Norman Rockwell.” I indicate the signpost.

“Who’s that?”

Not again. This is crazy. Is it possible that she isn’t familiar with the quintessential American artist of the twentieth century?

“You know, the one who did all the illustrations of kids fishing and families praying,” I say. “He did the cover of the Saturday Evening Post for years. That was even before my time, but you saw those illustrations everywhere—calendars, greeting cards, posters, dentist’s offices.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe we could drive over there, check out the place where he created his art.”

“Let’s not.” She speaks quickly. Maybe there’s an edge of urgency in her voice.

I let the topic go. “I’ve got one thing to say about grinders and frappes, or frapp-ays, however you say it.”

“What’s that?”

“They rock.”

She nods in agreement. The homemade bread and exotic cold cuts—olive loaf, dry salami, maple-smoked ham—and tart dressing and relish are delicious. I tell myself I can start my diet when I get home.

It’s too nice a day to hurry. Molly decides to take a walk, her euphemism for going somewhere private in order to call Travis. I doubt she’ll get a cell phone signal here, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I pull out the quilt and jab my needle into the fabric, piercing through all the layers. The quick silver flash travels fast, but not fast enough. Bit by bit, I am coming to realize that I have failed. By the time we get to the college, the quilt still won’t be finished.