A knock at the door tore Mitch’s attention from the table. He wasn’t expecting anyone else, but he hopped up and headed down the hall. His mind was still trying to process the sight of his mother feeding ice cream to a cat when he pulled open the door.

Oh no.

“Well, hello there.” His neighbor’s eyes were wide, as if he were the one who’d shown up unexpectedly at her door. “I saw the car out front and figured Bea must’ve made it in. I brought over a casserole.”

Marge was forever bringing over a casserole. Ever since Caroline passed away, Marge had shown up at least once a week with a casserole. Then Mitch had to wait for Marge’s car to be gone so he could return the dish when she wasn’t home. He employed the same strategy when he rolled her trash can back in and mowed her lawn. Avoiding her took a lot of work.

“That’s nice of you, but—”

“Marge! How good to see you.” His mother came bustling up, wiping her hands on the apron she kept in Mitch’s kitchen. “Come in, come in. How’d you like that pie I sent down?”

Marge beamed as she plunked a square glass pan into Mitch’s hands and closed the door behind her. “Thank you, June. Now, what’s this about a pie?”

Mitch gulped and glanced at the dish. “I’ll go put this in the—”

“Do you mean to tell me you never gave Marge her pie?” His mother jammed her fists into her waist and glared at him.

“It was a busy week, Mom.” He inched away. “By the time I had the chance . . .”

He gave Marge what he hoped was an apologetic look. She shrugged and pinched her buxom hips. “Don’t you worry about it. I don’t need my own pie, anyway.”

His mom somehow wedged her way behind him and Marge and herded them down the hall like cattle in the chute. “I’ll just have to make you another one.” They entered the kitchen, where she pressed Marge into a chair. “In the meantime, I’ll fix you a plate.”

Instead of protesting, as Mitch would’ve preferred, Marge set a napkin on her lap and folded her hands on the table. “That would be lovely.”

She settled in as if she came over every day. “Hi there, Bea. It’s so good to see you.”

Bea looked between him, Marge, and the dish in his hands with an inscrutable expression. “Good to see you, too, Marge. This is my husband, Jeremy. Jeremy, Marge.”

Jeremy seemed unfazed as he stood to reach across the table and shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Bea raised an arm in the direction of Marge’s house. “Marge lives next door.”

Marge’s long, dangly earrings jangled as she nodded. “I saw your car and wanted to say hello.”