GABY DECIDED SHE would make the DVD dupes later, then take them to the FedEx store. Right now, she had to get out to the barn. Her workday had officially begun.

She stopped for half a second to check herself in the hall mirror. “Not too bad,” she said, “for being up half the night.”

She was going to the barn to feed breakfast to twenty or more homeless folks from town. She’d been doing it every day for over twenty years. Her parents and grandparents had done it before her—made breakfast for migrant workers who came in the autumn to pick apples and pumpkins, and for families overwhelmed by the Great Depression, then for unemployed workers from the glove and hat and shoe factories across the border in upstate New York.

One of the best parts was doing these breakfasts with her friends, her buds, male and female. What made it even more enticing these days: Three of them had asked for Gaby’s hand in marriage. She hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t said no either. And none of them had taken back his offer. In fact, they were all pressing her for an answer. There had even been an argument or two between them.

Tom Hayden owned a local farm. He was a former professional hockey player, handsome as sin. And possibly the sweetest man around. Jacob Coleman, the rabbi at Am Shalom Temple in Great Barrington, was another do-gooder like Gaby. He was a serious man, but with a terrific sense of humor. No one could make her laugh like he did. Marty Summerhill was Peter’s younger brother. Her pal for years. Always, always there for Gaby. The fourth friend present was Stacey Lee Pashcow, a middle-aged divorcée whom Gaby had grown up with. Hardly a day passed that she and Stacey Lee didn’t have lunch or coffee together, and a couple of times a month they’d go to Boston to hear the symphony or maybe a Dave Matthews concert. Once or twice a week Gaby stopped by Stacey Lee’s restaurant/store, the Farmer’s Wife, in Stockbridge, where she helped out—chopping chicken breasts, fluting pie crusts, icing the county-famous Chocolate Tart Stacey Lee.

This morning her latest video performance had made Gaby late, so she jogged toward the cooking area in the barn. What was it that Emily always said—Run, Emily, run?

“Hate those powdered eggs,” she said to Jacob, who was stirring a pot of yellow goop on the woodstove in the corner.

The good-looking rabbi leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I know you do, purist that you are. But until those ten hens of yours can produce forty eggs a day, this is the best we can do. Maybe a nice Christian miracle would help? Can you arrange that?”

Gaby patted Jacob’s shoulder and smiled at Marty, who was about to pass out silverware and napkins to the hungry-looking people sitting around three wooden tables.

Then Gaby spotted Stacey Lee, who was practically whirling around the barn—sweeping up goat manure, consolidating trash from yesterday’s breakfast, doing the lousy jobs that no one else wanted to do.

Finally Gaby joined Tom, dishing hot oatmeal into bowls. She worked quickly and efficiently at his side, noticing that almost every bowl had a chip in it. She insisted that they use real dinnerware—no paper or plastic, except for the napkins.

“Morning, Tom, you look terrific this a.m.”

“Morning, Gaby, you’re gorgeous as always. God, just look at you!”

Gaby grinned. “And they wonder why I work the oatmeal bar with you.”

Tom smiled back at her. “You could make it official. You and me? Oatmeal forever?” Of course Gaby didn’t answer.

At that point, Stacey Lee began collecting money at the tables. Gaby felt that everybody should pay something for breakfast, even if it was just a few pennies, and even if they had to borrow the small change from her or one of the other helpers.

“Thanks for coming!” Gaby announced, as she did every morning. “We couldn’t do this without you. Now, who’s hungry?”