It was a daunting thought. She had never given a party; in fact, she hadn’t been to one since those parties of Mama’s. She thought back and realized that what she mostly remembered was how exciting it had been to see a group of people in one place, enjoying themselves and each other.

A second recollection came to mind then: serving soup to the Indian women and girls . . .

You feed people. That’s part of what makes a party.

There was no bakery in town, and fresh fruit would cost a fortune to have shipped in. But I could make a cake, or some cookies.

She looked at Papa. “I’ll need lemons, for lemonade,” she said.

“Cost too much,” he objected.

She thought for a moment. “Ginger shrub, then.” Shrub was made with powdered ginger and cider vinegar stirred into cool water with a little sugar. It was a pleasant, refreshing drink that would cost a lot less than lemonade.

“Hmm.”

“And you’ll need to get in white flour and white sugar.”

He put up his hands. “Anything else?”

She knew he was being sarcastic, but he didn’t sound angry. “Papa, the party was your idea. If we’re not going to do it right, we oughtn’t do it at all.”

One of Mama’s sayings.

“Write me up a list,” he said. “I’ll get what I can. It might not be everything you need, so you’ll just have to make do.”

15

THE NEXT WEEK, Hanna and Papa carried the last few boxes from the rented house into the store building. It was the two of them now; with the heavy work done, Papa no longer needed Charlie Hart’s help.

The shop’s second floor had been divided into two bedrooms. On the landing at the top of the stairs, there was space for two chairs, with a small round table between them. Not big enough to be called a parlor, it would still be a nice place to sit and read during spring and fall. A lamp stood on the table.

There was a bedroom on either side of the landing. Hanna’s room was at the back of the house, Papa’s at the front. She had already put up a curtain over Papa’s window; now she did the same for hers. Her bedroom held very little—a bedstead, a shelf along one wall, hooks for hanging clothes. Mama’s old plaid shawl was draped at the foot of the bed. The books Miss Lorna had given her were lined up on the shelf.

She took a long look around. Her room. Not a rented place, not the wagon, but a room in a house that they owned.

“Hanna!”

Papa was calling from the front of the shop. She hurried down the stairs and out the door to the board sidewalk, where he was folding the stepladder. He had just put up the shop’s new sign.