For some reason the words hit me entirely the wrong way, and all I can picture is Macon and me truly going at it. Against a wall, all hot and sweaty. And hard. So very, very hard . . . I reach for my lemonade and spill some in my haste.

The tops of his cheeks become slightly ruddy. “Er . . . no, not exactly. Delilah tells me she’s named after an aunt who drowned in a pie.”

I make a face at him, and he returns it while my mother is distracted by taking a sip of tea.

“Ah, yes, Great-Aunt Delilah, smothered by strawberry rhubarb.”

“I didn’t know rhubarb was involved,” Macon exclaims as if the addition of it makes all the difference.

“Cuts the sweetness of the strawberry with a little tart,” JoJo explains.

Completely straight faced, Macon nods. “I like a little tart with my sweets.”

I struggle not to roll my eyes.

“Personally,” Mama goes on, “I can’t stand to eat strawberry rhubarb pie anymore. Reminds me of death,” she confides in a lowered voice.

With a groan, I rest my head in my hands.

“I much prefer a nice buttermilk pie or coconut cream,” she tells Macon.

“Chocolate chiffon is my favorite,” JoJo puts in.

Macon keeps his eyes firmly off me as his mouth twitches. “I’m partial to warm peach.”

“Oh, for the love of pie,” I exclaim. “Would you please tell us why I was so named, Mama?”

She gives me a chiding look. “Your patience leaves much to be desired, Delilah.”

Macon clearly struggles not to laugh. “I’m always saying that, but she thinks I’m picking on her.”

“If your leg wasn’t broken, I’d kick it,” I say sweetly before giving my mother a pleading look. “Go on, Mama.”

“It was your father who picked the name. He did so love his aunt.” She takes a bite of her lobster roll, then dabs her lips with a napkin. “I wanted to call you Fern.”

“Fern?” I rear back. “Do you know the amount of verbal abuse I would have gotten at school over Fern?”

Macon clears his throat, then presses a fist to his mouth like he’s trying to force it to behave before speaking. “It would have been a lot.”

“Mostly by you,” I add with some asperity.

His grin is quick and unrepentant. “Probably.”

“I told her not to do it.” JoJo helps herself to another squash blossom. “I said, ‘Andie, your girl will hate you for this. You want her to at least make it to her teen years before she tries to kill you.’”

“What’s wrong with Fern?” my mother asks, spreading her hands in exasperation. “It’s from my favorite book, Charlotte’s Web.”

I can’t . . .

Macon’s broad shoulders are shaking, his face red behind the fist he still has covering his mouth.

I lean toward my mother. “Then why didn’t you name me Charlotte?”