“One more,” my companion says, and we both know it will stretch out to five.

“Your daughter’s adorable,” I tell her.

“Thanks, but she’s not my daughter.” The woman glances over at Molly, her fleeting look filled with insight. “Amanda’s my granddaughter.”

Oh, man. She’s a grandmother. I don’t want to be a grandmother. I’m not finished being a mother.

Yet when she finally reels in her dog and calls to the dark-haired little girl, and Amanda runs into her arms, there is a magical joy in their bond. It’s sweeter, somehow, than motherhood, probably because it’s simpler.

“Drive safely,” I tell them.

“You do the same,” she says, “and good luck with the quilt.”

Chapter Eleven

Eleven

On the final leg of our journey, the landscape is a patchwork of forest, field, stream and village, stitched together at the seams by country roads and rock or whitewashed fences.

“God, do people actually live here?” Molly wonders aloud, taking it slow as she navigates the Suburban down a hill to an old-fashioned town, complete with white church spire and village green. “It looks like a movie set.”

She’s right. It’s a strange and beautiful land, innocent and pristine, yet with a faint air of danger that comes with alien territory. As a girl, I dreamed of traveling far, but I never did. In my family, vacations were few and far between, and when we went somewhere, it was usually a car trip to a state park. For my parents, life at home was enough.

My mother had a favorite escape, and it was as simple as turning on the TV. She was fanatical about the TV soap Dallas, about a family like none we’d ever known. In my head, I hear the brassy theme song that heralded the start of the show. It’s one of the most vivid memories of my childhood. The churning melody signaled my dad’s bowling night and my mother’s sacrosanct program. On Sunday nights, the routine never varied. She would shoo him out the door, then fix an Appian Way pizza out of the box, oiling her hands with Wesson and expertly spreading the dough in a thin circle on a round baking sheet. A splash of canned tomato sauce, a sprinkle of questionable-looking cheese, and heaven was only minutes away.

Unlike any other day of the week, we didn’t have a proper, sit-down family dinner on Sundays. No salad or side dishes, no pretense of a token vegetable. Just slices of hot pizza and glasses of cold milk. Maybe a Little Debbie for dessert.

Then, despite my deeply resentful protests and martyrlike sighs, I was sent to bed. Even in the summer, when the light lingered for an extra hour, Mom made me decamp upstairs to my room, because Sunday nights were sacred. They were Dallas nights.