"You've got about ten years before that shirt fits."
Over by the fire, Claire had looked up from the mail. Wade saw her face change. He did not know yet what he was seeing; he only registered that the smile she'd started to make for June stopped halfway, as if somebody had put a hand on it.
"Where did you get those clothes?"
June looked down at herself, at the shirt and the gloves, as though the question was strange. She shrugged inside the enormous flannel, and the shoulders of it rose and fell a beat behind her own.
"From the barn."
Wade's smile stayed on his face a moment longer than it should have, out of habit. Then he looked at his wife. Claire was still sitting on the hearth rug, a seed catalogue in one hand, and she was looking at June and not at him.
"Whose?"
June brightened, pleased to know an answer that the grown-ups didn't.