Chapter 2

I cut the first slice cleanly and slid it onto Whit's plate. He passed it to the bride without looking at the layers inside.

The second slice went to the groom. By the sixth, the knife had warmed in my hand, and the room had settled into the old rhythm. People brought plates. I filled them. Someone carried them away.

Perry stayed beside the stand, lifting the next empty plate before I reached for it. She wiped a streak of lemon filling from the silver base. Each time a guest praised the cake, her shoulders drew back another inch.

I kept cutting. The knife knew where the supports sat, where the filling ran thick, and how much pressure kept the sponge from tearing. My wrist stopped aching once I found the pace.

"See?" Whit leaned close enough for me to hear him over the music. "You still get to do your part."

My thumb tightened against the wooden handle. I had sharpened that knife before sunrise while he stood in the yard with his phone pressed to his ear.

"I can finish serving," I said.

"Sure. Today." He nudged a stack of plates toward Perry. "But from now on, let her handle the cakes. Your hands shake when you're tired."

The knife tapped the plate. A thin wedge of frosting folded over and landed facedown beside a sugar flower.

Perry replaced the plate before anyone could take it. She did not meet my eyes. Her fingers closed around the ruined slice, pressing hard enough to bend the paper rim.

I reached for another plate. Whit had already turned toward a guest who wanted more coffee, the matter finished in his mind.

One of my nieces came behind the table carrying two crumpled napkins. She watched me separate another slice, then glanced at Whit's clean cuffs.

"Why didn't Uncle Whit come help set up this morning? Those tables looked heavy."

Whit rubbed his lower back again. The gesture arrived a moment late.

"His back was bothering him this morning," I said. "I told him to take it easy."

My niece accepted that and hurried away. Through the open doors, I could see the patch of yard where Whit had paced before we left home. He had switched the phone from one ear to the other while I loaded the cake boards alone.

He glanced at me now. Relief softened his face, warm as thanks. I had given him the lie before he needed to ask for it.

We served all three tiers. When only smears of frosting remained, Perry stacked the stained plates and carried them toward the kitchen. I cleaned the knife, wrapped the blade in a towel, and placed it in my bag.

At the front desk, Perry pulled out her card before Whit reached his pocket. The receipt came back with a dark PAID stamp across the bottom.

"Put it on my tab," Whit said.

Perry folded the paid receipt once and slipped it into her cake box.