He nodded slowly and then turned to look at her, leaning his side against the counter. "How did you know it was me atthe door? I could see you through the Ring camera app, but you wouldn't have seen me."
Seaton wondered how much she should say.
She had to answer his question, but she wasn't sure how much she should admit. She didn't want him to think she was a busybody.
Seaton fiddled with a few of the flowers to spread them out in the vase. "I've seen you a few times," she explained, "and I'm currently working from home, such as it is. So I knew what you looked like after seeing you coming and going."
He didn't question it and she relaxed a little more.
"Were you sewing when I knocked?"
"Sewing?"
She rolled her eyes at herself.
The sewing machine was on the kitchen table. The light was still on.
"Yeah, sorry. I haven't found a job outside the house yet, but while I'm looking for one, I thought I'd use my skills to make some money." She smiled at the thought of her grandmother sitting at the same machine. They really knew how to make sewing machines back then. "My grandmother was handicapped. Before she was confined to a wheelchair, she had a walker and she wanted to carry things with her. So, we figured out these little pockets of sorts. People can use the ties on the top to attach it to the bar on the front of walkers or on the back handles of a wheelchair."
She walked back to the table and held up one of the finished items.
“There are smaller pockets for things like glasses, remotes, and then bigger pockets for paperback books or word search books. Some people roll up their newspapers to take them around with them. Right now, I sell them on Facebook Marketplace, Instagram, oh, and Etsy is my go to. But I’m tryingto get accepted into a local craft fair. So I’m building up a stockpile to take. Hoping people will want to get something cute and functional for the seniors in their lives…”
She grimaced and shook her head as she lifted the vase onto the counter.
"You didn't ask me all of that. You just asked if I was sewing."
Her rush of energy suddenly bottomed out and she started to crash.
"Hey," Sam touched her hand for a second, catching her attention, "don't stop telling me about what you're making. I want to know."
She narrowed her gaze at him. Curious.
His tone of voice was engaged. His expression was interested.
It was easy to tell because she'd had years and years of the opposite.
Daryl didn't let her ramble.
He barely let her talk at all.
Unless there was a purpose for her to speak, he frowned on it.
Literally.
He barely looked at her unless he was taking her to task for some kind of wrongdoing. Or if he was glaring her into submission.
It was a gross understatement to say that it was nice to have someone interested in hearing her talk.
She was practically craving it, like dry soil soaking up water.
"I guess," she drew in a breath and let it out, "I don't know what to say or when, staying at home most of the time, I guess I don't really get those social cues."
That was one way to explain it. It was easier to say that than to admit that her husband liked her to stay at home and take care of his needs.
"Well," Sam turned, leaning his back against the counter, "how about we get out in the world for a little while?"
"Out? Like, how? Where?"
