A Memory Away. Melinda Curtis

twin angle? Some guys will do anything to avoid paying child support.”

      Jess tied her apron on as she weighed what she’d been told. The man she’d hoped she might be in love with wasn’t Duffy. She was sure of that. “I believe him.”

      “That’s a shame. If you can’t find a baby daddy, you’ll need a sugar daddy.” Vera shook a finger in Jessica’s face and asked her something in Spanish she didn’t understand. When Jess stared at her blankly, Vera said, “How can you raise a child alone? Without a man’s steady head and regular paycheck?”

      “Women raise kids by themselves all the time.” Jess was more interested in providing Baby with family roots than a secure bank account—although that would be nice, not to mention having a father figure around.

      “Yes, but women shouldn’t bring up babies alone. You’re a smart girl. All you need to complete the package is to learn your native tongue to catch a good man.” Her smile and nod indicated Jess was this close to attracting the right guy. “Smart girls always find sugar daddies.”

      “I’d just like to find my memories,” Jess said.

      Vera muttered in Spanish again and then stared at Jess as if she were a problem child. “I said memories won’t keep you warm at night, but maybe your baby’s uncle can.”

      “I have an electric blanket,” Jess deadpanned. “And to be clear, even though I’m having dinner with Duffy this weekend in Harmony Valley, I am not planning on a brother swap so that I can have an insurance policy.”

      “You should listen to me. I know what I’m talking about.” Vera laughed and turned on her loud mixer. “You be careful driving out there. Big storm coming in with flooding predicted. It’s bad enough you’ll be on leave soon. I need you every day until that baby is born.”

      Given Harmony Valley was sixty miles northeast and at a different elevation, Jessica wasn’t worried about the weather. That was days away. Storms sped up or slowed down, and forecasters often predicted flooded roads during rainstorms and nothing ever happened. Jessica hadn’t seen any roads under significant water since she’d moved to Santa Rosa from Sacramento last summer.

      No. Jessica was more concerned with Duffy. Was he going to show up for their dinner? And could his presence help reveal more of her lost memories?

      Would she ever know if Greg had loved her?

       CHAPTER THREE

      “HOW CAN I tell you this, Eunice?”

      Eunice Fletcher braced herself because Agnes Villanova—town councilwoman, president of Harmony Valley’s widows club, manager of the boutique the women in town ran and general town cog—was often the bearer of bad news.

      “Who died?” Eunice clutched the yellow cotton pieces of a baby quilt she’d been cutting when Agnes stopped by her house. “Mildred? It was Mildred who died, wasn’t it?” Another town councilwoman.

      “Mildred is fine. It’s—”

      “It’s Rose.” The third councilwoman. It’d been years since a spot on the council had opened up. “I knew the poor dear was on her last legs mentally.”

      “Rose is fine. Sharper than ever.” Agnes ran a hand through her pixie-cut gray hair, and pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself from saying more.

      “Quit beating around the bush and tell me who died. I’m very busy here.” Stitching quilt pieces together at the window that faced the old Reedley place. The two-bedroom bungalow next door was being rented by one of those winery employees. A tall fellow named Duffy, who rose early, made eggs for breakfast with a sprinkle of cheese and liked cream in his coffee.

      “It’s you, Eunice. I came to talk about you.”

      The yellow blocks fell to Eunice’s lap. “I’m not dying.”

      Agnes sighed. “It’s about you.”

      Eunice stacked the blocks on top of each other, smoothing out the creases with her liver-spotted fingers. “You need to work on your delivery, Agnes. I thought someone had died again.” Mae Gardner had recently passed. Eunice hadn’t even realized Mae was sick. “What about me?”

      “It’s your baby quilts.”

      “Are they selling? I’m making them as fast as I can.” She’d make them faster if Duffy was home more often. Sewing gave her an excuse to sit by the window.

      “Maybe you should slow down.” Agnes pulled the pink sunflower quilt Eunice had made from her tote and unfolded it. “We can’t sell a baby quilt with Frankenstein stitches.”

      Eunice squinted at where Agnes pointed to the fabric. “Frankenstein stitches,” she harrumphed. “Have you seen the way my corners meet? They’re perfect. And my stitches are wonderful.” Her grandmother had taught her how to sew by hand, back before they made fancy machines.

      “You can’t see your stitches, can you?”

      Eunice didn’t want to admit she couldn’t. The comment about Frankenstein hurt.

      A truck pulled into the driveway next door. Agnes turned, blocking Eunice’s view.

      “Is that Duffy?” Eunice craned her neck. “His license plate has two eights at the end.”

      Agnes gave Eunice a chastising look over her shoulder. “How can you see across the yard and not see the stitches on your quilt? Have you tried reading glasses?”

      Eunice suppressed a gasp. “No one in my family has ever needed glasses.” The Fletcher women were beauties, every one.

      “You can deny needing glasses all you want—”

      “And I will.”

      “But until your stitches improve, I need you to make something else for the shop.” Mae’s Pretty Things was a boutique that carried handmade gifts for the tourists, the ones everyone was sure would start showing up soon. Or as soon as there was wine to sell.

      Eunice narrowed her eyes. “What other things?”

      “That’s why I’m here. To see what other things you can make that aren’t sewn together.”

      If that wasn’t the most infuriating statement. “I don’t make other things. I sew.” Over the years, she and Mae had stitched together everything from pot holders to placemats.

      “Eunice, you taught kindergarten and youth Bible study. You have to be crafty to have worked with kids all those years.”

      And she had been. “We colored. We finger-painted. We glued things.” Not fine art by any means, but it qualified as crafty.

      Agnes frowned. “Oh.”

      “Yes, oh.” Eunice looked at the sunflower quilt block she’d meticulously pieced together. The corners were square. The angles perfect. She’d never worn glasses in her life. “You want something else? I can color you a picture with crayons. Or create turkey portraits made from painted handprints. Or glue Popsicle picture frames decorated with colored glitter.”

      “You need glasses.” Agnes’s words were as short as she was.

      “I’m not going to hide my eyes behind a pair of homely frames.” Her mother would spin in her grave at the thought.

      “Don’t be vain, Eunice.”

      Too late. “My cousin Kim had a great body. My sister Julia had beautiful red hair. Kim gained weight. Julia went gray. But I still have my peepers.” Eunice had violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor. And Eunice was still alive. “My eyes are my best feature. Everyone says so.” She’d made a good living modeling with those peepers. She wasn’t about to cover them up.

      “And yet you can’t see.” There