nodded, looking around the room as if seeing it looking very different. “I’ll want tables to hold bolts of fabric on this side,” she said, gesturing. “And then some open space where I can have a bed to show how a quilt will look and a counter near the door for checking out.”
Daniel made notes on his pad that no one would ever understand but him. “What about the walls?”
“They’ll need to have several different-sized racks to hold quilts, crib quilts, wall hangings and table runners.” She unfolded a sheet of paper, and they both bent their heads over it. “See, here are the kinds and sizes I need and where I thought maybe they could go.”
She’d printed it all up for him with sketches. “So neat,” he said. “Just like your schoolwork used to be.” He glanced at the boy, standing quiet and solemn next to his mammi. Did he ever laugh? “When we were in school together, your mammi had the best printing of anyone in the school. Whenever a sign had to be made, we’d get her to do it.”
Lige nodded, as if he didn’t doubt it, but still he didn’t smile or speak. Well, he’d get a smile out of the boy even if he had to stand on his head to do it.
He turned to Rebecca. It wouldn’t be bad to get another smile from her, as well. “Do you want to make decisions about the rest of the house today, or just focus on the shop for now?”
“Just the shop today,” she said quickly. “It’s more important than getting moved in right away.”
“If I know your mamm and daad, they’d be happy to have you stay with them in the grossdaadi house for always, ain’t so?”
Her lips curved a bit, but her blue eyes were still dark and serious. “That’s what they say, but we shouldn’t impose on them.”
Now all he could do was stare at her shuttered face. “Impose? Since when is it imposing to have you home again? Your folks have been so happy since they knew you were coming that they’re acting ten years younger. Sam and Leah and their young ones have been marking the days off on a calendar because they’re so eager. You’re not imposing.”
Rebecca stiffened, seeming to put some distance between them. “It’s better that I stand on my own feet. I’m not a girl any longer.” She looked as if she might want to add that it wasn’t his business.
No, it wasn’t. And she certain sure wasn’t the girl he remembered. His Rebecca, so open and trusting, would never have doubted her welcome. Grief alone didn’t seem enough to account for the changes in her. Had there been some other problem, something he didn’t know about in her time away or in her marriage?
He’d best mind his tongue and keep his thoughts on business, he told himself. He was the last person to know anything about marriage, and that was the way he wanted it. Or if not wanted, he corrected himself honestly, at least the way it had to be.
“I guess we should get busy measuring for all these things, so I’ll know what I’m buying when I go to the mill.” Pulling out his steel measure, he focused on the boy. “Mind helping me by holding one end of this, Lige?”
The boy hesitated for a moment, studying him as if looking at the question from all angles. Then he nodded, taking a few steps toward Daniel, who couldn’t help feeling a little spurt of triumph.
Carefully, not wanting to spook Lige, Daniel held out an end of the tape. “If you’ll hold this end right here on the corner, I’ll measure the whole wall. Then we can see how many racks we’ll be able to put up.”
Rebecca, who had taken a step forward as if to interfere, stopped and nodded at her son. “That’s right. You can help with getting our shop ready.”
Daniel measured, checking a second time before writing the figures down in his notebook. His gaze slid toward Lige again. It wondered him how the boy came to be so quiet and solemn. He certain sure wasn’t like his mammi had been when she was young. Could be he was still having trouble adjusting to his daadi’s dying, he supposed.
“Okay, gut. Now, you let the end go, and I’ll show you how it pops back to me. Ready?” Lige put his end on the floor and took a cautious step away, as if not sure what to expect.
“Now.” Daniel pushed the button, and the steel measure came zooming back, rerolling itself. “There. Did you ever use one of these before?”
Lige shook his head and hurried over to Daniel without hesitation. “Can we do it some more?”
“Sure thing. Let’s measure how wide the window is, because we wouldn’t want a quilt to cover it, would we?”
Without being told, Lige pulled the end out so that they could measure the width of the windowsill. When they’d finished, Daniel held out the tape measure to the boy. “Do you want to roll it up this time?”
Lige came eagerly, his shyness of Daniel forgotten. Daniel put his large hand over the boy’s small one, showing him the button. “Now, push.”
Lige did, and the tape measure performed its vanishing trick again. He looked up at Daniel, and the sight Daniel had been looking for appeared. It was tentative and a little stiff, but it was a genuine smile.
“Did you see, Mammi? I did it all by myself.”
“Yah, I saw.” Some of the color had come back into Rebecca’s pale cheeks, and she met Daniel’s gaze with one that was so filled with fierce maternal love that it startled him. “Denke, Daniel.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Somehow that simple incident seemed to dissolve much of the strangeness between them. They worked their way around the room, measuring and talking about what she wanted in the shop, until finally Daniel squatted down and put his notebook on his knee to figure out an estimate.
He stole a covert glance at Rebecca, who was saying something to her son. He hadn’t missed the slight apprehension in her face when he’d talked about the supplies they’d need. Was the money a problem?
It shouldn’t be, not if she’d just sold a thriving farm, but how did he know? He’d do the work gladly for nothing in the name of their old friendship, but he knew Rebecca wouldn’t hear of it. That steely independence of hers was new, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Finally he had an approximate materials cost worked out. He stood, catching that trace of apprehension in her eyes.
“How much will it cost to do what I want?”
In answer, he held out the notebook page. “That’s an approximate guess as to the cost of the materials. Unless the mill has upped its prices for a board foot,” he said. “Just joking,” he added quickly, not sure she was in the mood for humor.
“But that’s not including your work,” she said. “I should give you the whole amount...”
“Not up front,” he said, interrupting her. “You pay for the initial materials, so I can start. Then you can pay my labor when the job is finished.” Seeing the objection rising in her face, he added firmly, “That’s how it’s always done, Rebecca. If that outlay for materials is more than you can manage at one time, we can always break the job into smaller units.”
“No, no, that’s okay.” She opened a small bag and began
