It wasn’t that Jackson hated Sundays. It was more like they bored him. He wasn’t a churchgoing guy, never had been. He’d usually stayed home even on the occasional times when Uncle D. J. felt the need to go to Sunday services. His uncle had always said that if the almighty God rested one day a week, then humankind should do so, also, whether he went to a church-house building or not. So any kind of work in the shop was taboo on Sundays.

After putting in sixteen- and eighteen-hour days as a lawyer, Jackson had decided that Uncle D. J. was right in his thinking and had always put aside his work and rested on Sundays. That week he had his usual breakfast of a bagel with cream cheese and strawberry jam smeared on top and two cups of coffee, and he was headed outside when he noticed the hope chest sitting against the wall in the living room.

The key had been taped to the back and wasn’t visible, and there was no way he would betray Miz Lucy’s trust and open the old thing. But he couldn’t help wondering about what could be inside. Those three grandchildren of hers seemed like decent sorts, so why hadn’t she just given them their inheritance—whether it was just a bunch of keepsakes or a bundle of cash—instead of making them quilt?

“She was a haunted soul,” Jackson said out loud as he carried his phone out to the porch and sat down in Uncle D. J.’s old wooden rocker with the wide arms. I could feel a kinship with her. I don’t know what she had faced in the past, but I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere until I came here. I’d only gone into the law business to please my brother and sister and my folks. I wish I had told Miz Lucy how much our visits had meant to me before she passed.

He was about to bring up the contact list on his phone and give his folks a call, like he always did early on Sunday morning, when the phone rang. He smiled when he saw his mother’s name pop up on the screen. “Good morning,” he answered cheerfully. “How are things in Bay City?”

“Great!” his mother said. “You are on speaker. Your dad is right here beside me. We’re ready for church, but it’s a little early to go that way. How are things in Blossom?”

“You ready to come back to work yet?” James’s deep southern voice asked.

“I work every day, Dad.” Jackson smiled.

“You know what I mean. You were a crackerjack lawyer.”

“And now I’m a crackerjack hope chest and furniture builder. I don’t have an ulcer, and I don’t have to take depression pills.” Jackson bit back a sigh.