The Recipe for Revolution. Carolyn Chute

here. I want to show you the shops and that view of the mountain. We’ll fill you with country food and good stories. And you can see for yourself where Noof the caterpillar has led the kids.”

      “Yes! Yes!” she cries out. Where did her usual soft feathery reserve fall away to?

      “I’ve visited your place dozens of times over the years,” says he. “But you’ve never been to Egypt even when you and my mother were so tight. She didn’t do much entertaining here other than croquet with my kid cousins. But today this is a regular convention center!! Why—”

      “I know it. I know it. Per—”

      “Why don’t you come Sunday? I’ll have a crew down by the road just to open our little gate for you. Just for you. And Morse. I owe you. It would mean a lot to me, and to the others here.”

      She sniffles happily. Sighs. Says she would like that very much.

      But on Sunday, though the crew of young teens waits by the gate for nearly two hours, letting neighbors pass, the Weymouth car never shows up.

      

Late evening on one of the big porches, the one off the kitchens, see the flutter of Settlement-made candles in stained-glass holders of blue and lavender and rose.