“Guys.” Bea looked back and forth between them. “Don’t.”

Okay, maybe that had been a low blow. But Jeremy was the one who’d decided to turn this into a competition.

Mitch stood. “I’ll be right back.”

“Dad.” Bea gave him a meaningful look. “Stop.”

No way. Not a chance. “It’s for a good cause, B.B. Those cancer centers aren’t cheap.”

He scrambled down the steps before she could reply. Some nerve that kid had, trying to outbid him. As if he could without anything moderately resembling gainful employment.

The set ended with Moose Creek losing 26 to 24 as Mitch entered the lobby. A handful of people milled about the tables, perusing the goods. There were sugar cookies decorated like volleyballs, piles of Rice Krispies Treats, and plates of fudge. Brownies of every shape, size, and flavor imaginable—ooh, were those mint?

Mitch shook his head. Only the cake mattered now.

He laughed to himself as he read Jeremy’s bid. Only five dollars more than his? He’d put an end to this right now.

He wrote a number one hundred dollars more. “That ought to do it.”

A short woman appeared at his elbow. “What’d you say?”

“Oh.” He felt his face flush as he glanced over at Marge. “Hi. Nothing.”

She had a knack for showing up at the worst possible times. He uncharitably thought of her as Meddlesome Marge in his more juvenile moments.

“That looks delicious.” She leaned over the bid sheet, her ample bosom brushing the paper. Not that he was looking at her—uh—chest, but it practically knocked the sheet off the table.

She caught a glimpse of his bid, and her eyes widened. “I had no idea you loved cake so much.”

“It’s for Bea.”

“Ah.” Marge smiled. “It must be nice having her back.”

Guilt stabbed him. Marge’s kids were spread out all over the country and hardly ever came to visit. He’d heard they blamed her for her and Bill’s unamiable split. But after living next to them for years, Mitch knew if there was any blame to be shoveled out, it should land squarely as a pile of dung on Bill’s boots.

“The house is so quiet when there’s no one around,” Marge continued. “Even when I take three shifts a week at the hospital, I still feel like I’ve got nothing to do. You know how it is.”

Oh, he knew all right. The oppressive silence of an empty house. The imagined wisp of his wife’s voice as he walked into a room. The dull and persistent ache of loss. Of missing her smell and her laugh and her everything.

His throat tightened. He’d never considered how similar Marge’s loss was to his. He tried to swallow his grief and coughed.

Marge nodded knowingly and patted his hand. “You got any big plans for your birthday?”