Ginger would rather have stayed in the kitchen with Betsy or even gone to the moonshine room with Kate. Truth was she’d take going to the cornfield with Sloan over all that. Sloan had a mysterious air about him that made her want to get to know him better. His eyes said he’d known pain and his smile was guarded, but she loved it when he slid one eyelid shut in a wink. She felt as if they were sharing a secret that no one else had any idea about.

As she climbed the stairs behind Connie, she compared Sloan and Lucas. Both were good-looking guys. Lucas had black, curly hair that he wore a little too long and brown eyes that were constantly darting around. Now that he was gone, she could see that he was always looking for an easy way to make a dollar—legal or not, it didn’t seem to matter. He’d sweet-talked her into moving out of the shelter where they’d both been living and into an apartment with him about a year ago. He’d told her that in a few months he’d have enough money to buy them a house.

“This is my room.” Connie threw open a door. “Come right on in and we’ll see what the dress looks like on you.”

Ginger followed her inside, trying not to stare, but it was impossible. Wallpaper with trailing pink roses surrounded her. The full-size canopy bed had a pink-and-white checkered ruffle around the top and a matching bedspread. The stool in front of the vanity was covered with pink velvet, and pillows of every shade of pink were scattered on the bed.

“I like pink,” Connie said. “I’ve had that bed since I was a little girl. I only wish that I could talk Kate and Betsy into digging a hole big enough in the Cottonwood Cemetery to bury me in it.”

Ginger shivered at the idea of Connie dying, but when it happened, she’d probably never even know. Her time at the Banty House would be over on Monday morning.

Connie went to her closet and found the dress, pulled the plastic bag up over the hanger, and laid it on the bed. “Are you too modest to try it on in front of me?” she asked. “I can step out into the hallway if you are.”

Ginger bit her tongue to keep from giggling. Connie couldn’t know that she’d slept in shelters that had as many as sixteen women in one room. “I’m fine with you being in the room.” She jerked her shirt up over her head and kicked off her shoes. Then she stripped out of her jeans, removed the dress from the hanger, and slipped it over her head.

Connie took one look at her, fell back on the bed, and laughed so hard that she got the hiccups. When she could finally talk, she said, “Darlin’, you look like a bump in a tent.”

“I can wear what I have.” Ginger couldn’t see a long mirror anywhere, so she had no idea just how she looked. However, she felt exactly like what Connie had said. She started to take off the dress, but Connie slid off the bed and took her by the hand.

“Honey, it can be fixed. We’ll just go on over to the sewing room. I already have ideas about it.” Connie led her to the last room on the left and opened the door. “Mama insisted that we all learn to sew. I’m not as good as she was, but in thirty minutes I can easily turn that dress into something that will look good on you.”

“How?” Ginger asked.

Connie took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face a floor-length mirror. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and then she giggled. She truly did look like a bump in a tent. There was no way that Connie could ever make this dress usable—especially in thirty minutes.

“First, we’ll take the sleeves out. I only picked out this dress because all three of us have old-women arms. I call them bat wings because they flap in the air when we raise them. We needed something with sleeves,” Connie said. “And then we’re going to remove the collar. You’ve still got a nice firm neck, so you don’t need a stand-up collar. When I get those jobs done, I’ll put a little bit of elastic under your boobs. That way it will fit right above your tummy.” She talked as she helped Ginger remove the dress. “I’ve got a belt with pretty diamonds—well, not the real things, but sparkling stones—that will finish it off.”

Ginger couldn’t see that any of those things would help. “But, Miz Connie, it will ruin your dress.”

“Honey, my closet is so crammed that I’ll never miss one dress,” she said as she got out a tiny pair of scissors and went to work. “I’m thinking that we need to cut two inches off the bottom, too. I can do that after we dye eggs. You’ve got good legs. Enjoy them, girl. They’ll turn cheesy when you get old. I’ll have it all done by bedtime and you can try it on again. What size shoes do you wear?”

“Seven,” Ginger answered.

Connie cocked her head to one side. “I think you probably wear about the same size shoes as Mama did. She’s got a lovely pair of white satin flats that will work. Don’t worry, darlin’. She never wore them. I wouldn’t want to wear a dead woman’s shoes, either, not even Mama’s, but she bought them to wear the last Easter she was with us, and then she passed before the holiday.” She rattled on as the sewing machine buzzed.

“You’re really good at sewing,” Ginger said.

“Mama insisted that we be self-sufficient as much as possible.” Connie glanced down at Ginger’s hands. “You must have white gloves, but don’t worry, I’ve got a drawer full. I’ve got a pair of pretty lace ones that will go perfect with this dress.” Connie laughed. “I feel like I’m dressing Cinderella.”

“A very pregnant Cinderella.” Ginger went to the window and looked out over the field where Sloan was riding on a small tractor. He sure wasn’t Prince Charming on a big white horse, but then, it had been years since Ginger believed in fairy tales.

Chapter Four

Ginger had thought that dyeing eggs was going to be a two-hour job, but she was dead wrong. The dining room tablecloth had been removed and replaced with newspaper. Four place settings had been arranged with paintbrushes, glitter, glue, all kinds of cute little stencils, and everything that could be imagined to decorate the eggs.

“All this just to put the eggs in the grass and then eat them tomorrow?” Ginger asked.

“Honey, the real prize isn’t the end; it’s the journey itself,” Kate told her. “This is one of our traditions, and we love this part of it as much as hunting the eggs.”

“And after they’re decorated, we put them in the refrigerator,” Betsy told her. “That way, it’s safe to use them tomorrow. We always, always have egg salad sandwiches for supper on Easter night.”

Ginger made a mental note right then to have lots and lots of traditions for her baby, and one of them would be decorating Easter eggs. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “What do I do first?”

“You are the artist,” Betsy answered. “If you want the background to be a color, then you start dipping like this.” She picked up a boiled egg, settled it into a wire loop, and slowly submerged it in a bowl of blue dye. “The longer you leave it in there, the darker the color that you’ll get.”

Kate giggled under her breath.

“What’s so funny?” Connie asked.

“I was just wonderin’ if I’d be totally white if I soaked myself in buttermilk for a whole day,” Kate replied. “Maybe then I’d look like Edith Wilson, and I could have gotten a husband like Max.”

“Honey, you never would have had a chance with someone like Max Wilson. No way would a budding preacher man want a woman who came from the Banty House.” Connie laughed out loud.

“Or who had black blood in her veins, but I do remember the buttermilk days.” Betsy laughed with her sister.

“What’s so funny?” Ginger asked.

“I read about women soaking their hands and using buttermilk compresses on their faces in an old magazine I found in the attic back when we were little girls.” Connie dried her eyes on a paper towel.

“And she took a whole gallon of buttermilk up to the bathroom and Mama caught her smearing it on her arms and neck and face.” Kate drew a design on an egg and started painting a lovely picture of a little duck swimming in water.

“Did it work?” Ginger asked.

Connie shook her head. “Nope. I’m still not one thing or another.”

“I’ll tell the rest of the story,” Kate said. “We had one of our sister meetings in my bedroom, and we figured the lady in the article got it all wrong. It had to work from the inside, so we all three asked for buttermilk every night with our supper. I gagged with every swallow and still hate the taste today.”

“How long did you do that?” Ginger asked.

“About a week, and then one night at supper, Mama told us that it didn’t matter what we were on the outside,” Kate said. “What mattered was what we were on the inside—in our hearts and how we treated other people. I was so glad that she said that, and I’ve never put buttermilk in my mouth again.”

“Your mama was a smart lady.” Ginger put an egg in a little wire holder and dipped it in red dye just long enough to turn it pale pink. Maybe if she made sure all her eggs were shades of pink and decorated to please a little girl, her wish for a daughter would be granted.

“Yes, she was.” Connie picked up the silver glitter.

“It was after the buttermilk week that I asked her who our father was,” Kate said.

“You didn’t know?” Ginger asked.