Chapter 4

Perry carried my birthday cake in after the coffee had already been poured. Whit cleared a space for it with both hands, moving the sugar bowl and the stack of napkins I had folded that morning.

The cake sat high beneath a clear cover, white at the sides and purple across the top. My name curved between two piped roses. Perry kept one hand locked around the metal stand as Whit lifted the cover.

"Look at that," he said. "You didn't have to do a thing."

Junie leaned close enough for her hair to brush the frosting. "Aunt Perry did the roses twice. The first ones weren't even."

Perry fastened her hand around the stand again. Across the table, a guest closed her eyes over the first taste from Perry's testing spoon. Perry's shoulders lifted, and she stood straighter beside my chair.

Whit put the knife in my hand. The handle was warm from the dishwater, and a bead of water remained beside my thumb.

"Come on," he said. "Cut the cake."

I pressed the blade through the first rose. Perry slid a plate beneath the slice before it tipped, and Junie passed it down the table.

Junie pushed a clean plate toward me. I cut myself a narrow piece. The crumb was soft, the lemon sharp enough to reach through the buttercream, and the filling held cleanly between the layers.

"It's good," I said.

Perry's fingers closed around the stand once more. Someone asked for a corner with extra frosting, and she turned the cake toward me without looking away from the knife.

"That one's for Whit. He likes the roses."

"Give me half," Whit said. "I'm watching myself."

"Since when?" Junie asked.

He laughed, and the plates went around. I cut through the second rose, then the first half of my name. Purple icing dragged behind the blade and marked my knuckle.

The requests came quickly: a smaller piece, no filling, one wrapped for a husband at home. I nodded to each person and wiped the blade clean.

I made the next slice thinner and laid it on a clean plate. Then another, and another, matching each request while Whit carried them away two at a time.

"Save the last rose for Junie," Perry said.

I cut around it. By the twelfth plate, the letters of Ines had been divided among twelve forks and twelve laps. Only purple smears crossed the cardboard where my name had been.

"You got a piece, didn't you?" Whit asked.

"I did."

I rinsed the knife, dried it, and returned it to the drawer. Perry snapped the cover over what remained, and Whit began gathering coats from the bed.

Mrs. Dolan caught my arm by the coats and said her husband's service was Thursday and there would be about sixty people, and she did not know who else to ask now that I had stopped. I said I would try.