He tore the white tracking receipt off his machine and handed it over the counter.

“Anything else I can do for you today?” Tom asked.

“No,” I said.

“This is the last piece of mail I’ve got.”

I took the receipt, folded it into a small square and slipped it into my coat pocket.

By seven o’clock Friday evening, the little sewing room smelled of fresh paint and lavender linen spray.

Sarah carried the white wooden crib rails through the doorway with the headboard tucked under her left arm.

“The frame fits right between the window and the closet door,” Sarah said, fitting the wooden pegs into the corner brackets.