Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] by Key on the Quilt Page A

good one.”
    When Max returned, Mrs. McKenna suggested that Georgia stay and help the doctor while she and Jane got the water. She glanced Jane’s way. “If that’s all right with you?”
    No one talked to inmates that way. Jane didn’t even answer, just nodded and prepared to follow her through the doorway. It was impossible not to admire the polished wood floors in the hall, the turned spindles on the stair railing, the gleaming kitchen. Jane almost complimented the house, then thought better of it. Making small talk probably wasn’t wise. Anything she said might be taken as her paying entirely too much attention to things that were no concern of hers.
    Mrs. McKenna had the luxury of a well right outside the kitchen door. Actually, Georgia probably benefitted more from that pump than anyone. Mrs. McKenna didn’t seem like the kind of woman who hauled water very often. In fact, she’d fit right in among the fashion-plate models for
Demorest’s
magazine or
Harper’s Bazaar.
    Jane glanced over to where the second guard lounged in the shade of the combination carriage house and barn. Did Mrs. McKenna realize just how closely he was watching her from beneath the brim of his stained hat?
    Apparently oblivious, Mrs. McKenna set her pail down and reached for the pump handle. “I’ll pump,” she said and began to do just that. Now that it was just the two of them, the warden’s wife seemed to feel an obligation to fill the silence. “Thank goodness the men didn’t have to go down too far before they struck water,” she said. “The apartment in the central building was lovely, but I’d just gotten the earth turned over for a flower garden back home in Brownville when Mr. McKenna decided—” She broke off. Her cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry.” She reached for another pail. “I didn’t mean—” She gave a nervous little laugh. “I didn’t mean to be so insensitive to your… situation.”
    The poor woman was embarrassed. Jane nodded toward the dark square of earth just past the barn. “You’ve a big garden planned.”
    Visibly relieved at being handed a topic of conversation, Mrs. McKenna nodded. “My husband thinks it’s ridiculous, what with the trustees raising so much food just across the way, but…” Her voice sounded wistful. “I don’t suppose they’ll be growing okra, now, will they?” She shrugged. “That’s what I was doing when the alarm sounded. Planting okra.” She sighed. “I haven’t any idea whether there’s any hope it’ll grow.”
    “It’ll do fine,” Jane said. “One of my neighbors grew a mess of it every year. She used to bring gumbo to our quiltings. It makes my mouth water just to think of it.” The silence that met the statement sent a chill through Jane almost as harsh as if she’d stepped beneath the cold stream of water gushing out of the pump head. Who did she think she was, anyway, discussing gardening as if she were still a lady?
    The pails filled, Jane bent to heft the two largest ones, but Mrs. McKenna intervened. “I know I look like I’ll break, but I won’t.” With a soft grunt, she bent and hefted a pail of water, then returned to the topic of gardens. “Do you think I should put a fence up? Georgia wants chickens, but we hear coyotes every night.”
    Jane didn’t think the guard, who’d found an excuse to leave the shade by the barn and follow them to the house, needed to hear her making small talk with the warden’s wife. When he offered to take Mrs. McKenna’s pail of water, Jane glanced his way. Again, a warning sounded. Yet another guard who bore watching.
    “No thank you,” Mrs. McKenna said. “We’ll be fine. You feel free to go back and lounge in the shade.”
    Was it her imagination, or was the comment laced with a touch of sarcasm? Jane ducked her head and bit her lip to hold back a smile. Back inside, Mrs. McKenna filled a pitcher and glasses of water while Jane poured the rest into the huge iron pot atop the oven. “You’re