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Annie stayed for a week. Like one of Emily’s samplers, the prairie showed her a little of everything—sunshine, storms, rain—while Emily taught her how to make corn cakes and clean out the pigpen and the horses’ stalls and collect eggs from the hens.

Through the steady focus of the chores, they found their way back to each other, sharing memories and stories, singing favorite songs each evening to the familiar tune of their father’s fiddle.

They placed a telephone call to Nell from the general store.

She was so excited and surprised to hear their voices, and so sad that she wasn’t with them, that she could barely talk through her sobbing.

They struggled to hear her anyway because of bad static on the line.

Henry took a photograph of them together with an old Kodak, which they promised to mail to her.

On Thursday, Henry drove them both to the weekly supper club, where everyone was delighted to meet Annie, who easily charmed them all with her talk of city life and her playful good humor.

“I feel like we already know you, Annie,” Laurie said as they settled to a game of cards. “Emily talks about you all the time. Telling stories about the two of you and your sister Nell.”

“Nice stories, I hope!”

“Of course! Makes me a little envious, if I tell the truth. I never had a sister. Always felt I missed out.”

“We were lucky,” Annie said. “We always got along well. Apart from a few squabbles.”

“You and your husband will be hoping for a sister or two for baby Dorothy, no doubt,” May added. “Lots of little Gales whirling around the place!” She laughed at her joke.

Annie smiled. “Not too many, I hope. Gales develop into cyclones, and we all know how destructive they can be! I have nothing but admiration for women who have an infant to deal with at the same time as a willful toddler. One is quite enough to manage for now.”

Emily observed Annie closely as the conversation unfolded, watching for any clues or unusual reactions.

“It’s a shame we hardly see one another anymore,” Annie continued.

“First, Nell moved to California, and now Emily is all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. I was hoping to find her miserable and begging me to take her back to Chicago. Unfortunately, she appears to have made an absolute success of it all.”

Emily was surprised by Annie’s generous endorsement, and in front of all the women, too. She brushed the compliment aside.

“Well, your loss is our gain, Annie,” May said. “Emily has been a breath of fresh air. She’s a born natural prairie woman. Has the gift. Would be a crying shame for her to have wasted it on a life in the city.”

Emily was touched. She’d so often felt like the curious outsider; it was lovely to hear how much she now fitted in and belonged.

“What is it you do, Annie?” Ingrid asked.

Emily’s confidence was buoyed by the kind remarks that had come her way.

“My sister is a kept woman,” she teased.

“She left her position as a window trimmer at a reputable department store to concentrate on her new appointment as Mrs.John Gale. You won’t find any calluses on those perfectly manicured hands, let me tell you! ”

“I’m not employed anywhere at the moment,” Annie corrected. “But I’ve never worked harder since becoming a mother.”

The others emphatically agreed with her on this, discussing how physically demanding motherhood was, not to mention emotionally exhausting. Emily sat quietly, conscious that she had nothing to add to the conversation.

“I was sorry to leave Field’s,” Annie continued. “But I can’t say I miss our awful supervisor breathing down my neck, making everyone’s life a misery. There’s always someone intent on spoiling all the fun, isn’t there.”

“Sounds like Wilhelmina West,” May Lucas said. “You’d be afraid to look at her the wrong way.”

Emily had thankfully avoided running into Wilhelmina West so far. The other sister never seemed to leave the house.

“I feel sorry for the West sisters,” Ingrid offered. “I think they’re misunderstood.”

Laurie Miller turned to Annie. “They lost their parents when they were very young,” she explained. “Their aunt and uncle took them in. It’s just the uncle now—Ike—and I’m not sure he’s long for this earth.”

“Not that they’ll mind,” May added. “Sitting on a tidy inheritance apparently.”

“I didn’t realize they were orphans,” Emily said. “How sad.”

“A sorry business,” May said. “The mother died in childbirth, delivering Wilhelmina. The father drank himself to an early grave. Rumor is that Wilhelmina blames herself for her mother’s death, and that’s where her bitterness and bad temper come from.

She can’t bear to see happy families—mothers and children especially. ”

Something of the explanation resonated within Emily. She understood that inclination to look away, to avoid other people’s contentment.

“That’s why she’s so protective of her sister, too,” May continued. “Hardly lets her out of her sight, or out of the house, for that matter.”

The close bonds between sisters was something that Emily definitely understood.

As the evening progressed, the conversation inevitably turned to the latest gripes and moans about the men. Emily could laugh along with them now, joining in as they each shared a story or anecdote about something ridiculous their husband had done.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to washing Henry’s underwear, no matter how much I love him,” she said.

“Buckle up, child. That’s not even the half of it.” May added. “Wait until he starts to lose his faculties, then we’ll talk!”

“Surely one of us has found the perfect man,” Laurie said. “Annie? Your husband sounds like he is fully house-trained.”

“My sister has a housekeeper,” Emily said. “I doubt she has to deal with John’s underthings!”

“And she intends to keep it that way,” Annie said, earning a supportive “Amen” from the others.

“We love them all the same, though, don’t we,” Laurie said fondly. “You learn to forgive—or ignore, your ear attunes to their strange noises, you watch their hair thin and their skin sag where they once had muscles, and you love ’em anyway.”

“Speak for yourself,” May Lucas said. “I’d put my Zeb on the next train out of town if I could afford to.”

“Ah now, May. He ain’t all that bad.”

“You try being married to him for thirty-three years, then tell me what ain’t bad.”

“You must have loved him once, though, May,” Emily said.

“You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? But I can honestly say I never felt an ounce of love for that man. Truth is, I should never have married him.”

“Why did you?” Annie asked. “If you don’t mind saying.”

“Because he asked before anyone else, and because my folks couldn’t afford to keep me at home. I should have married Fred Isaacs. Loved him all my life, but it wasn’t meant to be for us. I still think about him. Only time I ever think about Zeb is imagining him six feet under.”

Everyone howled laughing at that, but a trace of poignancy laced the air.

“May, that’s so sad,” Emily offered when they’d all wiped the tears from their cheeks.

“Maybe, but that’s how life goes sometimes. We make the best of what we’ve got. I knew a woman got herself pregnant only to discover, months later, that her husband didn’t have the good seed and could never father a child. He knew she’d cheated on him the minute she told him she was expecting.”

Emily watched Annie’s face closely, observing her reactions.

“What happened?” Annie asked.

“The poor man never said a word about it. Accepted the child as his own. All I’ll say is, if you’re lucky to find a partner you truly love, look after him. Give him whatever he wants—five children, eight meals a day, sex in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Sounds exhausting!” Emily said.

Just then, Henry appeared at the screen door, ready to take Emily and Annie home. The women all looked at him and burst out laughing again.

As they prepared to leave, Emily overheard Annie asking May about the woman who’d had another man’s child.

“Did the marriage last?” she asked.

May smiled. “They made it work for a couple of years, but they were both miserable. Eventually, she took the child and ran off with her lover. They had three more children and were together for fifty years.”

“That’s so brave, and romantic! She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She was. That woman is my mother. She got her happy ending after all.”

—

Emily and Annie sat on the porch together when they got back from town that night. The humid heat clung to their skin like fabric and the ’hoppers sang in the tall grass as the seat swung gently beneath them. There was a sense of departure in the air—Annie was due to return to Chicago the next day.

She’d been unusually reflective on the way home and remained quiet as they sat together.

“You must be excited to see Dorothy,” Emily prompted. “And John. Can’t wait to get home to them, no doubt.”

For a moment, Annie didn’t reply. “I envy you, Emily,” she said at last.

“Envy me? Why?”

“For what you have here, with Henry. I see how happy you are together, how good you are together. May’s right. True love is a precious thing. It should be treasured, protected whatever the cost.” She took in a deep breath before letting out a sigh.

Emily’s skin prickled. Was she finally going to tell her? Admit to what she’d done?

“Which is why I think you should tell Henry,” Annie continued.

“Tell him what?”

“About the baby you lost.”

For a moment, Emily couldn’t speak. She’d been prepared for Annie’s confession. Instead, she felt as if she were being accused of a similar deception.

“Well, I disagree. We don’t always do what we should, do we.” Emboldened by Laurie Miller’s generous measures of corn whiskey, frustrated by Annie’s remark, and galvanized by her impending departure, Emily couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Maybe there are things you should tell John, too.”

“What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath. “I heard you, Annie. I heard you talking to Dorothy the day she was born, whispering about her father.” Emily turned and looked Annie directly in the eye.

“I know it isn’t John.” She’d said it. The words were out now and could never be taken back.

A sense of relief and dread washed over her.

“You should tell him the truth, before he finds out.”

Annie looked visibly shocked, as if she’d seen some terrible thing.

“It is none of your business, Emily. You don’t have the faintest idea what you are talking about.”

“It’s Leo, isn’t it. The aerialist. He came back.” She reached for Annie’s hand, but she pulled away, as if jolted by an electric shock. “You can tell me, Annie. Talk to me.”

Annie stood up abruptly, sending the seat swaying erratically as she stared at Emily. Her hands shook. She’d never looked so hurt, or angry, not even when she’d found out that Emily had married Henry behind her back. For a moment, Emily was almost afraid of her.

“I’m going to bed. And I never want to talk about this again, Emily. Do you understand? Never.”

“Annie, sit down. Please. I just…”

“Promise me you will never mention this again, Emily. To anyone. Not even Henry.”

“I promise. I won’t…”

“I know what I’m doing. If John finds out, it could ruin everything.”

Annie made her way inside, the screen door banging shut behind her.

Emily took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“I really hope you do know what you’re doing, Annie,” she whispered. “I really hope you do.”

—

Annie left the next morning, as planned.

They stepped around each other at breakfast, avoided eye contact, talked about anything and everything else. Henry sensed there was something wrong, but Emily brushed it off when he asked.

“She’s just ready to go home,” she said. “Can’t wait to see Dorothy. Best not to say anything. It’ll only upset her.”

As Henry loaded the trunk, Emily went to Annie to embrace her.

“I’m sorry you’re leaving like this, Annie, but I’m glad you came.

It meant the world to me to have you here, to see the home we’ve built.

” She lowered her voice. “I couldn’t bear for you to go back without saying something.

You can tell me anything, Annie. We’ve always shared our secrets with each other. ”

Annie stepped into the car. She wouldn’t even meet Emily’s eye.

Emily refused to give in, refused to let Annie leave like this. She bent down to the open window. “Promise you’ll bring Dorothy next time? We would both love to see her.”

Annie turned her face to Emily’s. There was such sorrow in her eyes, such pain. The sparkling emeralds now dull unpolished stones.

“Goodbye, Emily.”

Her words carried a chilling air of finality.

Emily watched from the porch steps as Henry cranked the engine and the tires turned over the earth until the car was enveloped in a cloud of dust. The classic disappearing act. A grand finale, without the applause.

She shivered, despite the warm day. She wrapped her arms around herself and stepped inside, where she stood for a moment, lost and alone, like a stranger in her own home.

On the table, propped beside the milk jug, was a photograph.

She picked it up and looked at the image of a sweet little girl, curls the color of a New England fall, rosy apples in her cheeks. It felt as if she was holding her heart in her hands as the name fell from her lips.

“Dorothy.”

She turned the picture over then. On the back were three words.

For Auntie Em.