Rosemarie sat on the open porch in the oak chair,

the hardback book on the table beside her.

 

Sunbeams washed over her. The book wasn’t 

the Bible so she had to hide it from Jonas 

 

or he’d toss it to the pigs. Like he’d done before

He didn’t believe in any reading except 

 

The Good Book, like his mama. But he didn’t even

read that anymore. The knitting bag sat at her feet. 

 

The Hearts in Love afghan pattern coming together. The

afghan’d be done by the end of summer, in time 

 

for her to swap it for the soft leather satchel 

that Burt wanted, the one that sat in the window 

 

space at Wilson’s General Store. She picked up 

her wine glass, looked critically at the sour mash

 

in the sunlight. The sunflower on the label

had grown up right by the back door. 

 

But that’s what that city feller’d wanted. A picture 

of a real sunflower. He’d paid Jonas a wrinkled $20 

 

bill to take that picture. Jonas didn’t care about 

the flowers by the house, but he kept the $20 

instead of giving it to her. That’d be his last mistake.