Chapter 1

My husband's sister took the wedding cake I had spent three days making and put her hands around its silver stand.

"Ines, sit down," Perry said. "I've got it."

Her fingers closed over the bottom ring before mine had left it. White sugar roses trembled along the lowest tier. Behind us, sixty chairs faced the flowered arch, and the first guests were due in twenty minutes.

"You have it?" I asked.

"Both hands. See?"

I saw. I also saw the pale thumbprint she had pressed into the frosting at the back.

For forty-one years, every birthday in our family had ended with something from my oven. I had baked through Junie's fever, through Whit's bad back, through one August when the kitchen fan quit and butter softened faster than I could beat it. This cake had taken nine mixing bowls, fourteen eggs, and the only bowl large enough for the final batch.

That bowl had a chip under the rim. My thumb found it without looking.

"The top leans," I said.

Perry bent until her cheek nearly touched the middle tier. Her new apron was spotless. Mine held three smears of buttercream and a crescent of flour at the waist.

"It's straight."

"From your side."

She shifted the stand half an inch. A sugar leaf brushed her wrist, and she pulled back fast enough to make the tablecloth jump.

"Then tell me where."

I reached past her and turned the stand until the hidden support faced the wall. My knuckles were swollen from piping. When I let go, two fingers stayed curled as if the metal ring were still inside them.

Perry put her hands back exactly where mine had been.

"There," she said. "Now sit."

Junie came through the side door carrying folded napkins against her chest. She glanced at my hands, then at Perry's clean ones on the stand.

"Mom, please. Let somebody else do one thing."

The words landed softly. That made them easier for everyone nearby to accept.

A cousin paused with a tray of glasses. Two women by the gift table looked over, smiled at Perry, and went back to tying ribbon around a box.

"I can carry it," I said.

Whit appeared beside me and touched the back of my wrist. He had watched those hands shake over the last row of roses after midnight. His thumb moved once across the sore joint.

"You've done enough, honey."

Perry lifted her chin and tightened her grip. Someone near the doorway called that the bride had arrived, and the room broke into quick footsteps and bright voices.

I could have kept one hand on the stand. Instead, I wiped my palms on my apron and pulled out the nearest chair.

The seat was cold through my dress. From there, I watched Perry carry the three tiers into the center of the room while guests moved aside for her.

She set it down without a wobble. When one woman closed her eyes over the first taste of frosting, Perry stood straighter.

Whit took the knife, slid it toward her, and smiled across the table.

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