Hanna recalled her encounter with Mrs. Harris. She didn’t seem to care for me, either. But she was enjoying her time with Bess and didn’t want to spoil it with unpleasant thoughts. She pointed to the braid of the remaining prairie turnips hanging on the wall.

“They braid them like we braid onions,” she said. “In Chinatown in Los Angeles, you can see garlic braids in all the shops. And the Mexicans braid peppers the same way.”

“Do you think people everywhere do that?” Bess asked. “Braid their vegetables, to store them?”

“Probably, don’t you think? I mean, it’s sort of common sense, isn’t it? Saves space, keeps them dry.”

By the time they finished eating, Hanna felt as if she had known Bess for years.

20

THEY HAD JUST STARTED back to work when Papa’s voice sounded from the shop.

“Right this way, Mrs. Harris,” he was saying.

Bess’s mother? What is she doing here?

Hanna’s shoulders tightened. Her mind reached for a wisp of hope: Maybe she wasn’t really ignoring me outside the grocery; she was just in a hurry to get home—

But another part of her mind was already rebelling. Why do I always do that? Why do I even bother to hope against what I know to be true? Was it because she wanted to believe the best of people? Wouldn’t it be easier to expect the worst, and not be left heartsick time and again? But what would that be like, to spend every hour always thinking badly about everyone around her?

She considered her choices: She could let Bess and Papa attend to Mrs. Harris. That was surely what Mrs. Harris would want—for Hanna to stay in the background, a hired girl, a servant.

Or she could do her work as the future designer and dressmaker of Edmunds Dress Goods . . .

Papa showed Bess’s mother into the workroom. She was wearing a dress of brown calico trimmed modestly with narrow red braid. It was nicely made; Hanna had noticed the same about Bess’s clothes. Mrs. Harris was a good seamstress, and the red trim was an unexpected touch of style.

“Good morning, Mrs. Harris,” Hanna said.

Mrs. Harris nodded politely but did not return the greeting.

Bess looked up from her work with a broad smile. “Hello, Ma,” she said.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Harris said. She turned to Papa. “I hope it’s all right for me to come calling before the shop is open. I thought it my responsibility as a parent to see where Bess is working.”

“Of course,” Papa said. “We’re glad to have you here. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He held up his paintbrush, nodded to Mrs. Harris, and left the room.

Hanna cleared her throat. “Bess, would you like to show your mother around a little? I’ll make some tea.”