“My daughter would like this book … how much do you want for it?”

“Two?”

“I like that price. You have yourself a deal, pretty lady.”

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, but paused and then knelt down to look at my baskets, the top edge of his golf bag tapping my table. I’d brought three of them with me: one had green and black weaves; one had a red, white, and blue pattern; and one was plain straw-colored, with some dark brown edging.

“How much for these?”

“Thirty dollars,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. He didn’t react, just nodded. “They’re handmade, by yours truly.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s my hobby.”

He stood up. “They’re beautiful—you have a good eye for design.” I really thought he would buy one, but then he just pulled two dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I replied, forcing a smile.

“Good luck.”

“Have a good one.”

For the next hour, I stayed busy. People came by and bought my old sweaters, CDs, and most of John’s books. One pregnant woman bought all of my maternity clothes and all of Michael’s newborn baby outfits. I charged her $25 for everything, and she was thrilled.

“Baby clothes are so expensive,” she said, handing me the money.

“I just hope you’re having a boy!”

She laughed, her brass beaded earrings tinkling as her head shook. “Even if I’m not, she wouldn’t know the difference.”

“It’s not healthy for a girl to be dressed exclusively in pink, anyway,” said a young woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses, who was fingering one of my sweaters.

“I agree,” said the mother-to-be. “Kids shouldn’t be put into categories.”

“Especially not from birth,” I chimed in.

The mother-to-be moved along, after wishing us a good day. A young man, tall with ruddy skin and blue eyes, met up with her and draped his arm around her shoulders. I suddenly felt a twist of jealousy, and self-pity threatened to sweep over me.

“Miss? How much are these baskets?”

The person speaking to me had a gentle voice, articulate, enunciating her letters exactly.

“Thirty,” I replied, looking more closely at her. She had snowy hair and soft, liquidy brown eyes, but her cheeks were smooth, soft.

“That’s what my husband said, I think,” she said, nodding as if we’d just agreed on something of significance. “He sent me over here to look at them.”

“The man with the golf clubs?”

She grinned, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s my Bob.” She picked up the straw-colored basket with the dark-brown edging and examined it carefully. “He said one of them would match the colors of my kitchen, so it must be this one. I just got new cabinets and new butcher-block counters in exactly this color. This would work well as a fruit basket for the main counter.”

“It is pretty,” said the young woman with the glasses, who knelt herself to look at my baskets.