And though she herself would never get over John’s death, Dottie knew she wasn’t going to be able to begin to adjust unless she got out of there.

If Margaret had only herself to worry about, she might have let it all consume her as well. She might have buried herself in the quilts on John’s bed and never left. But there was Dottie and John’s baby to consider above all else. Margaret needed to rally from the grief to be the support that Dottie needed at this time.

Margaret knew that her parents’ immediate gloom of the news would mellow into an acceptance of something one should never have to accept. But it was still too early. They’d lost their only son. And though she’d lost her only brother, she knew something they did not—that he lived on in the child that Dottie was carrying.

She hoped Dottie would be ready to tell them soon.

As it was, she showed William’s letter to Dottie, revealing that she’d told him about the baby.

The discovery that John knew and was happy gave Dottie a peace she might not have arrived at otherwise.

On the first night of their return to the Sock ’Em Club—as Gladys continued to call their knitting klatch—Oliver had stopped by with flowers and chocolates for them all, and then left just as quickly as he’d arrived. Margaret had to hand it to him—with his gentlemanly manners came an extraordinary consideration not only for Gladys but for her and Dottie as well. This time, Gladys had even rewarded him with a voluntary peck on the cheek.

The following evening, they’d already made their way through half of the box, declaring the caramels to be their collective favorite.

“I, for one, think that the baby will be the best medicine for everyone,” suggested Gladys as they began to talk again about the future. Death had a way of burying the living in the past. Gladys knew it well enough, having lost her mother so tragically. So she was just the one to pull her friends out of their grief.

Dottie nodded, her eyes still reddened by the burn of tears. “You’re right. There haven’t been a lot of reasons for hope lately. But this”—she rubbed her stomach with a flattened palm—“this is all the reason I need.”

The women grew pensive with their own thoughts, and for a moment, all that could be heard were the staccato clicks of their knitting needles. Metal on metal.

“That would be a nice name for a girl,” offered Margaret. “Hope.”

“Hope Beck,” Dottie tried. “I like that. It’s simple. I’ll add it to the list.”

Gladys squirmed, and Margaret asked her what was wrong.

“It’s nothing.”

“Gladys, I have never known you to keep something to yourself.”