“Some of them. The dandelion quiche and the lavender bread were hers.”

“You never let me see them when I was little.”

Claire turned from the counter and wiped her hands on her apron. “Listen, this is for a job in Hickory tomorrow. I’ve called two teenage girls who sometimes help me in the summer, but if you need some money, you can help me with it instead.”

Sydney looked at her strangely. “You want me to help you.”

“Normally, I can do this alone. But for bigger jobs I have to call people. Are you still going to be here tomorrow?”

“Of course I am,” Sydney said. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“While you’re here, I could use your help.”

“I guess it’s pretty obvious I need the money.”

Claire smiled slightly and Sydney liked that, the small connection it formed.

Encouraged, she said congenially, “So, tell me about that Tyler guy.”

Claire lowered her eyes and turned around. “What about him?”

“Has he come by today?”

“He doesn’t come by every day. Yesterday was the first time. He was bringing some apples that fell on his side of the fence.”

“Did you bury them?”

“We always bury the apples that fall off the tree,” Claire said, and Bay looked at Claire curiously. Sydney felt a sense of dread, wanting to hold off Bay knowing things for as long as possible. Sydney had traded any chance of Bay being considered normal for her safety. How exactly did you tell a child, even a child like Bay, that?

“So, Tyler,” Sydney said before Bay could start asking questions. “Is he single?”

“I don’t know.” Claire took the cookie sheet with the pansies on it and put it in a barely warm oven.

“Are you interested in him?”

“No,” Claire answered vehemently, like a middle-school girl.

“He belongs here,” Bay said.

Claire turned to her.

“It’s this thing she does,” Sydney said. “She has very firm opinions on where things belong.”

“So that explains it. I asked her to get me a fork and she went right to the drawer. When I asked her how she knew it was there, she said because that’s where it belonged.” Claire looked at Bay thoughtfully.

“No,” Sydney said. “It’s not that. Don’t force that on her.”

“I wasn’t,” Claire said, and she seemed hurt. “And no one forced it on you. In fact, you ran as far away as you could from it and no one stopped you.”

“The whole town forced it on me! I tried to be normal and no one would let me.” The pots hanging on the rack above the kitchen island began to sway anxiously, like an old woman wringing her hands. Sydney watched them swing for a moment, then she took a deep breath. She forgot how sensitive the house could be, how floorboards vibrated when people got mad, how windows opened when everyone laughed at once. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue. What can I do to help?”