“But what about you?” I asked. “Are you all right? For money, I mean.”

“Don’t you worry about me.” Hannah patted my arm. “I still have my retirement. And my quilt sales. Why, I got another commission last week.” She kept talking, snatches filtering through the noise in my head. Something about her trip at Christmastime. Another grandchild.

She’d made us a wedding quilt. Me and John. A traditional double-ring design for the queen-size bed in our first apartment. I’d loved that quilt. But it didn’t match the style of our new house. Now we had everything matching, coordinated drapes and duvet cover and lots of fussy pillow shams that John threw on the floor.

Not that it mattered. I guess my brain didn’t want to face up to what she was really saying: I couldn’t hire anybody to help on the farm. There wasn’t any money.

Hannah paused, looking at me expectantly. The blood rushed in my ears. Had she asked me a question?

“Excuse me?”

“When are your sisters coming home?” she repeated.

“Christmas.” Almost three weeks away. “Well, Jo is coming. Amy is in Paris.” She’d cried, leaving. “And Beth got a part in a show.”

Our mother wouldn’t hear of them changing their plans simply because she needed, in her words, “a few medical tests.” That was her way. Keep going, keep moving, keep working, through deployments, disappointments, dry wells, and broken hearts.

“I heard Beth auditioned for something,” Hannah was saying. “In Branson, right?”

I nodded, pulling myself together. “She got the call last week.” Before we knew Momma would spend Christmas in rehab. “Colt Henderson wants to use one of her songs in his show, so they added Beth to the chorus. She’s playing an angel, I think. Oh, and an elf.”

“That’s wonderful news. Good for her.”

“It is wonderful. She’s so talented.”

“Gonna be hard, though.”

“Yes.” My sisters and I had never been apart for the holidays. Ever. “They’ll be all alone on Christmas.”

“I meant for you. All that work.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“You want to lay off milking now anyway,” Hannah said. “Those goats will start having babies in a couple months. Give you all a little break before then.”

I nodded. “Do you know . . . Is there enough inventory that I could sell at the farmers’ market on Saturday?”

“Should be. The chèvre’s still good for a couple weeks. And that marinated feta, that keeps awhile. Check the walk-in.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Miss Hannah watched me, a frown creasing her dark face. “You never did like working with a lab partner. It’s a big step for you, coming here to ask for help. I’m just sorry I—”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s not your problem.” It was mine. “I’ll talk to Dad,” I said. I wondered what kind of salary he drew from his nonprofit. Enough to pay Hannah the money Momma owed her?

“Honey, your daddy doesn’t do a damn lick around the farm. I’m talking about John. Your husband.”