Free Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) by Ruth Glover

Vivian Condon’s clothes exuded affluence; her demeanor was that of a person who considered herself, who knew herself, to be a person of superiority. She was superbly confident.
    Molly’s calico, though sprigged with tiny blue flowers, edged with ribbon, freshly laundered and crisp, seemed, in comparison, just what it was—a homemade, second-best dress. And at that moment, particularly, Molly seemed just what she was—a hometown girl. Hometown, perhaps, but never second-best!
    In spite of good intentions, Molly found her jaw tightening just a little. With finesse she pulled Kip into place, turned, and reached a small foot below a neat ankle toward the buggy’s iron step, finding Parker at the rig’s side and his hand outstretched to help her down. Unless she was sadly mistaken, there was a look of desperation in his dark eyes.
    “The box—” she said, a little breathlessly, and Parker reached to pick it up from the seat of the buggy.
    “I’m afraid it’s rather shaken up,” she offered as they turned toward the house.
    “Molly, Molly,” Parker said, shaking his head and smiling, “when will you ever slow down? It’s a good thing Kip likes to run.”
    “He’s lucky he’s not hitched to a seeder this lovely morning,” she answered in her defense. “Maybe he was so thankful, he just stepped out.”
    “And maybe you just like to hurry through life,” he said, smiling down at her. “Well maybe not through life,” he amended, “but into it.”
    Yes, and eager to get there , she might have responded, recognizing and loving the light in his eyes. But Vivian still lingered on the porch steps, her lips fixed in a half smile that had no humor in it and no welcome.
    Nevertheless, “Good morning, Vivian,” Molly said in a friendly manner, first names having been decided upon around the Sunday dining table.
    But Vivian was preceding her into the house, and her response, if any, was lost in the rustle of what Molly supposed was the taffeta lining of the four-yard sweep of her skirt.
    Sitting in the middle of the table, beside the sack from which it had apparently been removed, was a loaf of bread and a pound of butter, Vivian’s offering and excuse for coming. The incongruity of it—the society belle and the plebeian foodstuff—wasn’t missed by Molly, who might have laughed under different circumstances.
    Over the back of a chair, as though she intended to stay a while, was Vivian’s cape of silk brilliantine, its collar trimmed with fine black lace and satin ribbon, and its lining made of changeable silk. A Monday costume! Even Molly’s second-best calico would be changed, as soon as she got home, to something worn and serviceable in preparation for Monday’s laundry, which her mother was sorting even at this moment, while water heated on the stove.
    Biting her lip, Molly restrained herself from asking, brightly, of course, “Your Aunt Bea? She’s doing the wash—by herself?”
    Immediately stricken, Molly reproached herself: Molly! Behave yoursel f !
    And so she spoke more humbly than was normal, for Molly, and spoke honestly, “You look very nice this morning, Vivian. Are you off to the one and only store of our wee hamlet? Or,” she added, growing more uncomfortable as she saw the long-suffering look on the other’s face, “the mail—I’m sure you are looking for mail from home. We still look forward to hearing from family in Scotland—”
    It was beyond her. Somehow, Molly sensed, she was missing the mark, and her attempt at conversation faded away. What a mumble-mouth! And she had dared to think she would make a pastor’s wife!
    The day, which had been so bright and full of hope, turned dismal for Molly. She wanted only to get out of there, make her run by the store, get back home in time to help her mother, and find normalcy in her household’s routine tasks.
    “Sit down, ladies,” Parker was saying, having deposited the box on his round oak table. “The coffeepot is still on, and