He braced himself for Bea to start crying again. Instead, Bea’s pinched face relaxed. “Good.”

Phew. He let out his breath and eyed the cake on the counter. He’d rather die than tell Bea, but he, for one, was glad Marge had made it.

As everyone finished eating, Bea stood to collect the dirty plates. Jeremy jumped up to help. Mitch had to give the kid one thing at least. He was helpful.

Even though Marge had some sort of clip holding back her hair today, it still spiraled and jutted out in all directions like octopus tentacles. She patted it down to no avail and turned to his mom and dad. “I bet it’s beautiful out at your place this time of year.”

June nodded. “It’s always beautiful.”

“Of course.” Marge smiled. She was ever smiling. “You’ve lived there your whole life, right, June? It was your parents’ ranch?”

“Yes.” June’s wrinkled hands rested on the table. “I was born in that house. So was Mitch. ’Course, it looked a lot different then. Rand put a lot of work into fixing it up when we got married.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be like living in the same place for that long,” Jeremy said. “My family moved every couple of years when I was growing up.”

“That’s the trouble with people these days,” June said. “Never staying put. I’ve never lived anywhere but the valley, and I never will.”

“Except when you went to your aunt’s in Chicago,” Jeremy said.

June’s head jerked up. “What?”

Mitch gave Jeremy a sidelong look. Boy, oh boy. His mother didn’t like talking about her past. She always said, “Today’s more important than yesterday.” How did Jeremy even know about that trip?

Jeremy continued, all wide-eyed and earnest. “Grandpa Rand said you lived with your aunt in Chicago before you got married.”

June moved her hands onto her lap. “Oh yes. Well. That was temporary.”

“How long were you there?” Jeremy asked.

The kid was skating on thin ice. Mitch watched his mother to see what she would do.

June fidgeted. “I . . .”

His father came to the rescue. “About four months or so. Right, dear?”

She sank lower in her chair as if the exchange had stolen all her strength. “Yes. That’s right.”

Marge rose from the table. “How about some cake?”

Mitch was glad for the distraction. He worried whether a conversation about the past might confuse his mother. Could her recollection of the past even be trusted anymore?

There was a loud knock, then the door opened, and Frank called out, “We made it.”

“Just in time,” Mitch called back. “We’re about to have cake.”

Frank and Dorothy bustled into the kitchen and greeted everyone, not batting so much as an eyelash at the sight of Marge standing in Mitch’s kitchen. They’d seen it all, those two.