Chapter 2
By the time the last plate came back, I had already planned Junie's next cake. Lemon layers, blackberry filling, and no sugar leaves for anyone to knock loose.
I stood at the sink with my sleeves rolled up. Warm water loosened frosting from the knife, and my thumb worked along its dull edge.
Whit brought an empty tray and set it beside me. He watched the knife tremble against the white porcelain.
"Leave those, honey."
"I'm nearly done."
"I mean the cakes. Let Perry handle them now."
Water ran over my knuckles. I had iced his father's last birthday cake after staying awake all night with Junie, then carried it across town before breakfast.
"My hands still work."
"They shake."
He touched my elbow as if the two words had been a blanket. His face held the patient concern he used when I climbed a stool without calling him.
"Perry did fine today," he said.
Behind us, Perry stacked the clean dessert plates. Each one clicked into place with more care than the last.
"She carried it," I said.
"And everybody loved it."
My fingers tightened around the wet handle. Whit reached for the knife, but I laid it flat before he could take it from me.
My niece came in with a bundle of tablecloths. She looked toward the open side door, where sunlight cut a bright bar across the floor.
"Where's Uncle Whit? Why didn't he come help?"
He had slipped into the yard twenty minutes earlier. Through the window, I had seen him pacing beside the fence with his phone pressed to his ear.
"His back was bothering him this morning," I said.
Whit looked at me. I kept rinsing the knife, though every trace of frosting had gone.
"That's right," he said.
My niece nodded and carried the cloths away. The lie settled between us with the ease of an old dish returned to its shelf.
Whit rubbed his lower back for her benefit after she had already turned the corner. Then he kissed my temple.
"See? You notice everything."
I dried the knife and slid it into the wooden box. The slot had held the same blade through baptisms, graduations, and birthdays whose candles had bent into the frosting.
"Junie likes lemon," I said.
"Perry can learn."
Across the room, Perry stopped stacking. She did not look over, but her hand stayed on the top plate.
I untied my apron. One string had knotted itself tight, and Whit worked it loose with careful fingers.
"You should enjoy things now," he said.
He folded the apron and placed it on a chair. I picked it up again and tucked it under my arm.
At the front table, Perry counted the used plates twice. Then she wrote the hall charge on a narrow yellow slip and pushed it toward Whit.
He took out his pen. The tip hovered above the bottom line before he signed his name.
"Charge it to me."
Whit folded the yellow slip once and slipped it into his shirt pocket.