“Oh, Sara,” said Lucy, sliding into a chair and leaning across the table to take her daughter’s hands, “give it up. Tell me what’s going on and then maybe we can fix it.”

“I don’t think so, Mom.” Sara jerked her hands away and jumped to her feet. “You’ll just write a news story about it. How’s that supposed to fix anything?”

“That’s not fair,” protested Lucy, but Sara was halfway up the stairs. Lucy heard her pound each step, cross the landing, and slam her bedroom door shut. “I only wrote about the meeting!” she yelled up the stairs.

Unable to shake the truth out of Sara, Lucy decided to see if Frankie had any idea what was going on. She certainly seemed to have an accepting approach to teen sexuality, maybe she had open lines of communication with Renee. But when Lucy emerged from the path between her house and Primrose Path she saw that Frankie’s driveway was empty. Of course, weekends were prime time for real estate agents.

Lucy hesitated for a moment, studying the cloudy sky that was heavy with rain, then decided she might as well try Willie. She was well aware that Willie hadn’t been all that friendly lately, but she wasn’t about to go home without trying to get some answers. Besides, she had a feeling that whatever was going on might be related to Willie’s attitude towards her. Maybe Sassie had told her that Sara was behaving in a way that she found upsetting, or that Willie didn’t approve of. She went across the street and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” yelled Willie so Lucy pulled open the door and went in, finding herself in a mudroom filled with riding boots and helmets and fishermen’s waders and kids’ sneakers and rain slickers. An old popcorn tin held a collection of walking sticks and umbrellas and a variety of leashes hung from a hook.

Entering the kitchen, she found Willie in front of the sink, rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “Oh, it’s you,” she said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” began Lucy, checking out the big farmer’s table, littered with newspapers and jam jars. “I don’t know where else to turn.”

“So I’m your last resort?” snapped Willie. She was glaring at Lucy but was distracted when the little potbellied pig ran into the kitchen, squealing, chased by the cat who was in turn being chased by eight-year-old Chip. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, turning on him.

“The cat ate my cereal,” declared Chip. “I was watching Power Rangers.”

“I suppose you left it on the floor?” Willie opened the door to let the animals out. “What do you expect?”

Lucy couldn’t help laughing.

“Yeah,” admitted Chip. “But she shouldn’t…”