Forever Never Ends Read Free Page B

spring.
    That last stitch is a mite loose, but after all it's a quilt. It’s the wrinkles and loose threads and whatnot that gives them character. And the handmade look sells so good down at the antique shop.
    Maybe she’d give this quilt away instead of selling it. To Eula Mae or one of the Mull kids, Lord only knew they needed all the help they could get. And it's not like she needed the money, what with Donnie doing so good.
    Okay, now, Mister Needle, don't jump at my old fingers like that. A body'd think you lived off my blood the way you act.
    She didn’t see Donnie yet. Ralph might have been trying to pull a fast one, make a horse trade, though Ralph was plumb out of horses. Ralph had big ears, and mountain lore held that was a sign of a long and enduring lover, but she didn’t see how any woman could ever stand to put him to the test. This was one of those times she didn’t like Donnie’s being a moonshiner. Because of the company it drew.
    But, she had to admit, she liked store-bought groceries and the new Wagoneer and not having to keep up pole beans and yellow squash like her sisters. Donnie had promised a satellite dish come summer. And he was right proud of his work.
    “Family tradition,” he called it, and his cheeks got all puffy and cute when he smiled.
    Well, family is family, after all, and I'll stand by my man come heck or high water.
    Maybe the apple didn't fall far from the tree, and maybe one bad apple spoiled the whole bunch, and maybe the worm turned, but Donnie had never lifted a hand against her. She knew for a fact none of her sisters could say the same about their good-for-nothing husbands.
    And Donnie got respect. His customers came from all walks, not just the down-and-outers like Ralph and his kind. Chief Crosley was kept greased up and shut up with a monthly case and Chester Mull was regular as prunes and oatmeal. Half the Moose Lodge were customers. Even some of them snooty Lion's Clubbers weren't above a little illegal pleasure. And that old preacher, not Blevins, but the one before him, Hardwick, paid a call every Monday come rain or shine.
    She had time for her hobbies and when she wanted a weaving loom, Donnie ran right out and bought one without batting an eye, two thousand dollars just like that. It sat over there in the corner with dusty strings hanging from it like cobwebs but Donnie hadn’t ever said an unkind word about her not using it anymore. She took another glance out the window, at the sky going thick as flies on molasses.
    No Donnie.
    She let her attention wander from the quilt in her lap to the kitchen. It was cluttered with cookbooks, recipes, and enamelware, bought by Donnie so she could finally win the chow-chow contest at the festival. He’d even bought her a Cuisinart.
    “It's science ,” he’d told her. “Not luck or old mountain secrets, else Elvira Oswig wouldn't be getting the blue ribbon year after year. She got the system down, is all.”
    Blossomfest was coming up this weekend and that last batch of chow-chow was going to win for her. Donnie had said wasn't no judge on Earth going to be able to pass up this year's Moody entry.
    And here he came now, wobbling down the trail like he'd taken too many samples and holding his head like it was a broken bucket leaking water.
    Lordy, girl, get your old bones up and help him into his chair, ‘cause you know he works hard for you and never once asks for thanks, only a little hanky-panky once in a while, but they ALL do that. And anyway, that don't take much time at all, and if it keeps Donnie home, then I'm glad to oblige.
    She put aside her needle and scraps. Her husband stumbled up the steps, feet dragging as if his boots were filled with creek mud.
    "Hey, honey, are you feeling okay?" she asked, standing and brushing the threads from her lap.
    To tell the truth, he looked like heck warmed over and he was nodding, but that didn't mean nothing because he hated to complain. He put his arms around her, but his