Marge pushed a mass of wild curls from her face, revealing long earrings made from turquoise stones. They caught Hunter’s eye, and he grabbed at them.

“No, no.” Marge gently moved his hand away. “No touch.”

“What did you need?” Bea asked. “I mean, what did you come over for? My dad’s not home.”

Marge blushed. “I know. I came to ask you about your plans for his birthday. I thought . . .”

She let the words hang there, pregnant with meaning. Bea stiffened. She thought what?

Bea forced her neck muscles to relax. Marge wasn’t her enemy. She was her neighbor. A neighbor who had just helped her through a crisis. That the crisis turned out to be largely imaginary didn’t negate the fact Bea was thankful Marge had shown up when she did.

“I hadn’t thought much about it.” Bea watched Hunter play. “I guess you could say I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“I’d like to help.”

Bea coughed. Her mom used to make a big deal out of Dad’s birthday. She would prepare his favorite dinner and invite Grandma and Grandpa and Pastor Frank and his family. The crowning detail, though, had always been the homemade German chocolate cake. Every bit of it from scratch. A little hole opened up in her stomach. Had anyone made Dad a cake the past two years? Grandma June must have, right? Bea had been too preoccupied with herself to think about it.

“I don’t know if he’s made any plans.”

Marge tickled Hunter’s tummy, and he laughed. “He hasn’t. He”—she seemed to be trying hard not to look at Bea—“told me.”

Had he now. What else had he told her? It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t made any plans. It was surprising that he’d mentioned that to Marge.

A small prick of panic poked at her chest. She didn’t know how she felt about her dad and Marge talking. And there was no way Grandma June would be making Dad a cake this year. It was up to Bea. She wasn’t much of a baker, but she knew where the recipe was, even though Mom had known it from memory and hadn’t taken it out of the box in years. Bea could figure it out. Jeremy would help.

What if she ruined it?

“He hasn’t mentioned anything to you?” Marge asked.

Bea wasn’t about to tell her that she and her dad weren’t talking much lately.

“It’s on a Sunday, right?” Bea calculated the days in her head. “We’ll probably do something after church.”

Marge’s voice turned airy, as if she was trying hard to sound nonchalant. “And is there anything I can do?”

Bea’s mind raced. Had Dad invited Marge? She acted like she was coming, but why would she be? Why would he want her there?