As night deepened, Mabel’s voice softened into reminiscence by the firelight. She spoke of her late brother, Arthur Winthrop, the two of them building a life from nothing—properties scattered across counties, “more money than I know what to do with now.” Her words flowed warm, painting pictures of summers long past.
Morning brought oatmeal and more stories. Mabel’s eyes lit when praising Charles again—”such a steady hand with it all”—then drifted, unsettled. “He’s all I have. I think.” The pause hung, brief as a shadow, before she smiled and changed the subject to quilt patterns.