The colors in the squares of the quilt top before them looked like they had been thrown together haphazardly by a drunk—and Nanny Lucy had sworn that not a drop of liquor had ever entered her mouth. “That has to be the ugliest quilt I’ve ever seen. Did she make y’all sew this up when I wasn’t around? It looks like something a beginner might do, not an accomplished quilter like Nanny Lucy.”

“Not me,” Flynn said. “You were here when I was.”

April shook her head. “Me either. I never put a top together in my life. Like I said, I hated anything to do with sewing.”

Nessa took a deep breath. “Do y’all remember this place always smelling like roses? And did you ever wonder why she used a quilt as decoration behind the sofa and not family pictures?”

“Of course I remember the smell of roses. They’re planted everywhere, so it stands to reason that in the summer it would smell like roses around here.” Flynn frowned and pointed toward the quilt. “I’m glad she didn’t hang that thing above the sofa.”

“She loved the scent of roses. Maybe they made her think of good times in her life. She seemed to be happiest when she was quilting or else working with all the roses in the front yard,” April said. “And I agree with Nessa. This does not look like one of Nanny Lucy’s projects. Maybe Uncle Isaac was right when he said she was losing her mind. As far as the pictures go, I don’t think she liked any of her kids or grandkids well enough to put our pictures on the wall. She tolerated us, but that’s about as far as it went. I learned when I was pretty small that she had good days and bad days, and to steer clear of her on the latter ones.”

“Shhh . . .” Nessa put a finger to her lips. “If the wind or the angels in heaven carry that statement about her not being in her right mind, Daddy is liable to take us back to court again and put you on the stand. Can’t you just hear it? ‘Judge, I think my mother was insane because she made an ugly quilt.’” Nessa laughed, but she wondered if Nanny Lucy had suffered from depression from a young age, and if so, if it was something genetic that Nessa would inherit someday.

She shook her head to get such thoughts out and poked Flynn in the arm. “I always gave her rose-scented sachets for holidays. You might want to take them out of her dresser drawers before you unpack your things. The women might not flock around you like flies on a fresh cow patty if you smell like roses.”

“Then I will leave them right where they are,” Flynn told her.