This was the job Harriet would be taking over while Aunt Beth was on vacation. It was well within the realm of possibility she could ruin dozens of quilts before her aunt returned, and the idea weighed heavy on her head.

She was in the kitchen again, wearing the fourth outfit she'd tried on after her shower, when she remembered the envelope. She retrieved it from her sweatshirt in the front coat closet and brought it back to the kitchen. She could count on one hand the times Aunt Beth had written anything longer than a shopping list. She had to admit she was curious.

There were several documents covered in fine print and signed and dated by Aunt Beth. Folded inside these was a single piece of lavender paper. Harriet took this out and started to read Aunt Beth's small, neat script.

"My Dearest Harriet,” it began. It was ominously formal language.

If I had tried to talk to you about what I'm going to say next, you would have argued and might not have agreed. I'm sorry to have made a unilateral decision, but I truly believe this is in your best interest.

She could feel the hair rising on her neck. She already didn't like whatever her aunt was about to tell her.

I'm not selling my quilting business. I'm giving it to you.

Harriet felt her knees go weak. She grabbed for one of the kitchen chairs and barely landed on its edge.

Consider it an early inheritance. Steve died five years ago, and you've been playing dead ever since. Take it from me, it won't bring him back. It's time to start living again.

It's clear that won't happen while you're holed up in that shrine you've constructed in Oakland. I know he wasn't honest with you and I know you're hurt. I also know you sit there and go over the shoulda, coulda, woulda's and in the end nothing is changed. I'm sorry, but he lied, he's dead, you're alone and it's time to move on.

Now we've come to the matter at hand.