Rebecca's Return Read Online Free PDF Page B

way to the edges of the quilt.
    “No,” she said in John’s direction, who was waiting respectfully, his tablet ready. “Most certainly not hope chest material.”
    John nodded because he agreed, sale or no sale, the truth was the truth. The husband, having done his own evaluation agreed for other reasons. “I think you’re right. Maybe this one over here…Now that’s perfect. Take a look at this one.”
    She turned toward her husband and crossed the short space between the two racks to the quilt in question. Coming in close and then stepping back, she said nothing as she looked the quilt over. The center had a circle of squares, overlaying each other like fallen dominoes. Each square was made of multicolored squares within squares, and a six-sided, solid-lined hexagon surrounded the circle of squares. An outer border, made of many brightly colored rectangles, finished the design perfectly.
    “That’s it,” she said firmly. “Perfect. The patchwork of life. So many different colors and ways of putting it together—then overlapping each other. We’ll take it.”
    “I think it’s nice too,” the husband agreed, then tried quickly to cover up his pleasure at the lower price by a half-hearted protest. “It could be quite mature for a five-year-old. But I suppose Candice will grow into it.”
    “It shows her where to go,” she said, standing in front of the quilt, her face contented.
    The husband was obviously in a leaving mood. “So let’s get this stuff into the Navigator, then on the road.”
    John wrote the price and description on his tablet, copying down the name of the maker of the quilt, which was how they kept track of quilt inventory. The price varied with each quilt, both from Aden’s evaluation of its intricacy and from the quilter’s own report on the time it took to make. This one had Mrs. C. Kemp’s name written on the back of the price tag.
    Excusing himself, John went into the storage room at the back of the store. Finding a box and a step stool, John returned to where the quilt hung. All the quilts were fastened by their upper edges to the frames, a little out of reach of even someone of his height.
    Asking both of them if they would stand on either side of the quilt to keep it from brushing the floor, John undid the snaps on top and released it carefully. The folding process began even before he was off the stool. “Makes it easier with help,” John said to express his thanks. Taking the half-folded quilt, he completed the task by himself.
    When the woman noticed the tag on top of the quilt inside the open box, she bent over to look at the name. “Who is Mrs. C. Kemp? Is she the one who made this?”
    John nodded.
    “Can you give me any information about her? What she’s like?”
    “Sure. That would be Clara Kemp, about sixty years old, I think. Her husband died of cancer some years ago.” John searched his memory. “Five years, now,” he concluded. “She lives by herself just outside Unity. Still keeps up the small farm her husband left her. Most of her income comes from these quilts though.”
    “She’s Amish?”
    John nodded, smiling and thinking of Clara sitting in the back row in church on Sundays. She often held a grandchild in her lap when one of her daughters needed help. Clara was as faithful and upbuilding a member as they came.
    “Oh. That’s perfect!” she exclaimed, delighted with the news. “What an excellent role model for Candice. Hardworking woman, no doubt. Suffering her share in life. She must have a heart of gold—working with her hands.” She stroked the quilt lovingly, as if to reach out and touch the woman who had stitched the delicate threads in each design.
    “Clara is a godly woman,” John agreed because Clara was just that, and he felt it was appropriate to mention it. Pride was a great pitfall, he knew, and praise could knock a person down quicker than anything. But Clara wasn’t there to hear him, and so he said it.
    Lifting the box, with