The scene between them last night had been awful. Emily had said really hurtful things, the worst being her accusation that Meg was glad Sabra was gone. Meg had been too stunned to respond. Fortunately, once she’d traced her pattern on the monk’s cloth she was using for this particular rug, hooking was something she could do without thought. A lap frame held the fabric taut, and she plied the hook with her right hand while her left hand manipulated the wool beneath the stretched cloth. The pattern was one she’d been excited about when she imagined it: deep purple wine grapes, ready for harvesting, the vines forming a pattern she could see in her mind’s eye. She had cut the strips of wool narrower than usual to allow for finer detail. If the rug came out the way she imagined, she knew it would sell for a substantial price in the gallery downtown. Wine tourism had transformed Frenchman Lake. The roar of the school bus’s diesel engine and the squeal of brakes gave her advance warning.
