“Judy works for her father at Wasserman’s Hardware,” Mrs. Fryt told Dolly. “Until she can manage to catch herself a husband.”

“Grandma!”

Corinne broke in. “Speaking of lack of commitment, remember Wilma Mickelson? Every May Day, Wilma would promise to help with the fall bazaar. And then by the Fourth of July she’d tell us, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the time.’”

“Quilting was never Wilma’s cup of tea,” said Thelma gently, touching her pearls.

Corinne laughed. “But Wilma let us down like that ten or fifteen years in a row!”

“This was the woman who lived in the house across the street?” Dolly asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Fryt said. “And an unfortunate choice it was when John Mickelson selected Wilma for his bride. She never was any sort of mother to those four children. Not that he was much of a father. He paid more mind to that bank of his than to any of those children. And Wilma was so busy playing that piano—she left the children to the maid!”

Mrs. Fryt shook her head. “And I can tell you, that maid didn’t keep much of an eye on them. There was many a time I had to go out and calm them down. Oh, they were wild, always playing in the street. Football, baseball, anything they could holler about. Those boys would be out there in their short pants and their caps.” She met Dolly’s eyes. “Jack and Chase were the oldest, and Harry was the third boy, about four years behind Chase. You could pick any of them out halfway across town, those blond heads and that swagger they all had. The youngest was a girl, named Jinny. There were times when she was five, six, seven years old that she’d be out there with her brothers, her skirts flying up for all the world to see, sliding in at home plate. No proper mother would have let her carry on like that. But those boys thought it was the funniest thing. You could tell they were letting her get the home runs, pretending they couldn’t pick up the ball and such. Chase, especially, had a soft spot for Jinny.” Light glinted across Mrs. Fryt’s glasses. “I wouldn’t let my Jeannette play with those Mickelsons. They were too rough.”

“They weren’t so bad, Mother,” Jeannette said.

“Jeannette,” said Mrs. Fryt. “For all you’ve been married to Albert Wasserman some thirty years, and for all Jack Mickelson would never give you a second look, I don’t think you’ve ever gotten over fancying him.”

“That isn’t true, Mother.”