Setting my bag on the floor next to a vacant chair, I pull out my supplies. Spool of thread. Pincushion. Thimble. One of the potholders I’d started. I spy scissors on the table, so I leave mine in the bag. I feel awkward and inept as I run the thread through the eye of the needle, but my hands are steady and I remind myself that even though it’s been a while since I stitched, I’ve been practicing. I spent many an evening as a girl, needle and thread in hand, under the watchful eye of my mamm. I hope the memory comes back with enough steam for me to pull this off.

“We’re having siess kaffi if you’d like some, Kate,” Laura says without looking up from her work.

“I love sweet coffee.” I’m about to get up to pour myself a cup when the Mennonite girl who’d been manning the counter brings one to me. “Danki.”

The coffee is strong and sweet, with just the right amount of milk. One sip and a hundred memories rush through me. I was sixteen years old the last time I had sweet coffee. My mamm took my sister, Sarah, and me to a neighbor’s farm to see a new baby who had come into the world three weeks ahead of schedule. All the local Amish women had gathered, helping the new mother with her chores—cleaning and laundry—even putting up the tomatoes she’d been canning. Most brought a dish. I wasn’t into socializing with my elders back then, but I recall there was such cooperation among the women, a lot of laughter—some of it at the expense of the men, most of whom were in the barn smoking cigarettes. And there was such love for that new baby. As angry and unhappy as I’d been back then, I remember laughing because they passed him around for so long that he fell asleep, and even then they didn’t put him down.

“Has anyone heard from Fannie?” Lena asks of no one in particular.

“Not since I took them over that strawberry-rhubarb pie last week,” Ada says. “Poor thing is trying to be brave, but she just sits at the kitchen table crying all day.”

“They weren’t at worship on Sunday,” Naomi comments.

“Seems like that would have brought them some comfort,” Lena puts in.

Laura gives me a somber look. “Fannie and Samuel are the ones who lost their daughter, Rachel.”

“There was a story in The Bridge.” I feign a shudder. “Such a terrible thing.

“And they’re such nice people,” Ada says.

I keep my eyes on my stitching. “I’ve not met them yet.”

“I was thinking about taking them a chicken casserole,” Laura says. “Maybe we can go together.”

“I’d like that,” I tell her.