Rose went on. “I’ll be goddamned if you ain’t shaking like a leaf. How ’bout I turn up the fire while you take a seat?” She nodded toward the counter, but when I started to sit on the stool behind it she shouted, “Don’t you dare, mad-moi-zelle. You can put yourself up on the counter. Chair’s for ol’ Rose.”

Her back was still turned, but she’s the kind of old person who just knows. She has total control of her place, like she and her shop are some kind of team and they talk in a silent, secret language. The red of the heater glowed brighter and started to blow in a louder drone as Rose turned and walked over to me, smoothly so I barely noticed her limp. Then she stopped, her shoulders square with mine, sizing me up. I don’t think I gave anything away, but I was sure that whatever she said next would make me cry like the world had come to an end.

“Bet you play a shit hand of poker. Seems to me a kid like you needs to know how to play poker.” And just like that she pulled a deck out of her apron pocket and gave me a lesson. A short one, twenty minutes maybe, but she was totally focused, like this was the most important thing she could be doing. And I listened as hard as I could and it was wonderful, not having to think or wonder or worry. Then the bell above the door jingled and Nick walked through. Rose gathered up the cards in a single-handed sweep.

“I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t you bundle up and scoot on home, get some dinner ready before Violet gets back.”

I buttoned my coat, took my bag, and headed for the door.

“Ahem,” Rose growled from behind the counter. Nick was staring, as usual. “What d’ya say?”

“Thanks, Rose.”

I was almost finished cooking when Lolly came home. It wasn’t going to be a masterpiece. She didn’t have any real spices—just a jar of some kind of low-calorie, low-sodium flakes—but it was going to be all right.

From the window above the sink I saw Lolly rounding the path to the back door. She had short gray hair, always neat, like a former first lady. The door opened, closed, and then opened again, banging against the wall of the utility room. She sprinted into the kitchen a moment later, fanning her hands and flinging open the windows. I stepped out of the way when she rushed for the stove to turn on the exhaust fan.

“What’s burning?”