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.