On her last morning home, the pale Ozark light slanted through the bedroom window, catching in the folds of the shirts Isobel was folding into her carry-on. The suitcase sat open on the quilt her grandmother had stitched by hand—faded blues and soft creams worn to a buttery texture after years of washings.
The door creaked open and Fancy slipped in, her hair loose, a mug of coffee in hand. She perched on the edge of the bed with a sigh that was half affection, half ache.
“Hey, sis,” she drawled, her smile tilting with mischief and sentiment. “You’re gonna be missed more than you know.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Isobel said, smoothing the cotton of a neatly folded shirt before tucking it into place. “And don’t forget—you, Bill, and Skylar have a standing invite to come visit me. Any time.
