“So you did. I didn’t realize.” No wonder, Nell thought, she was so protective of Mia. “Whatever your sister thinks, you’ve got a daughter at the heart of it.”

“Damn right.” She gave a little nod, then set down her glass. “Do whatever you need to do here. I’ll be right back.” She started out, turned back. “If Syl the Pill comes back before I do, just tell her how you work at the bookstore and stopped in to ask me something about work.”

“No problem.” Keeping tabs on the time, Nell organized the meal, slipping the salad and the dressing in the refrigerator, sliding the scalloped potatoes and the herbed green beans in with the roast.

She peeked into the dining room, saw the table had yet to be set, and hunted out dishes and linens.

“First half of your payment,” Lulu announced as she came back in with a wrinkled shopping bag.

“Thanks. Listen, I didn’t know what dishes you wanted, but I think these’ll work well. It’s family, and they’re casual and cheerful.”

“Good thing, as that’s all I’ve got.”

Lulu waited while Nell dipped into the shopping bag, then smiled smugly at the gasp of pleasure. “Oh, oh, Lulu!”

It was a simple design, a mock turtleneck that could and would be worn with everything. But the color was a deep, rich blue and the material was as soft as a cloud.

“I never expected anything like this.” Already, Nell was holding it up, rubbing her cheek against the shoulder. “It’s absolutely wonderful.”

“You wear too many neutrals.” Pleasing herself, Lulu tugged and fussed, then stood back to admire the result. “They wash the color out of your face. This brings it in, goes with your coloring. I started on the second one, nice tunic length in a good strong red.”

“I don’t know how to thank you. I can’t wait to try it on and—”

“They’re back,” Lulu hissed, and immediately began shoving Nell toward the door. “Go! Get.”

“You need to toss the salad just before—”

“Yes, yes. Go!”

Nell clutched her new sweater as Lulu slammed the door in her face.

“Serving,” she finished and chuckled all the way to the car.

The minute she got home she stripped off her sweatshirt and slid into the magnificent sweater. Unable to get a satisfactory view from top to bottom, she dragged a chair in front of the mirror and stood on it.

There’d been a time when she’d had dozens of sweaters—cashmere, silk, the softest cottons, the thinnest wools. None of them brought her the sheer joy of this one, handmade by a friend.

Or close enough to a friend, she thought. And payment for a job well done.