Mrs. Fryt was the president of the Women’s Club, and, to start the meeting, she led the ladies in a rousing contralto with the singing of “Lend a Hand,” a song she had composed based on the group’s motto. Not knowing the words, Dolly contented herself with listening, steeling herself to be introduced. There must have been twenty ladies there, and most looked to be at least twice her age.

Only two years out of high school, and I’m already middle-aged, Dolly thought. She had actually discovered a gray hair this morning, which she had quickly attributed to an argument she’d had with Byron the previous evening.

Swiss steak, steamed carrots, and mashed potatoes with gravy had been the menu for the evening—followed by an apple pie made with a Pillsbury pie-crust mix and served with a slice of cheese. Byron hadn’t seemed to notice, wolfing down his food without a word. His pie gone, he leaned back in his chair, knotting his hands behind his head. “Well, think I’ll go out to the garage, Doll,” he said.

She stood to pick up his dessert plate and bring it to the sink. “What did you think of supper, Byron?” she asked. She had spent a good twenty minutes tenderizing the meat; little specks of beef had littered the counter, the walls, even the floor, when she was done. Another twenty minutes had been devoted to peeling and chopping the apples for the pie.

“It was good,” he said. “I always like what you make, you know that.”

“Well, it would be nice if you said so,” she said, sinking his plate into the dishwater. She had been enticed to buy the pie-crust mix by an ad she’d seen in Good Housekeeping, which promised in bold letters “‘You wonderful, wonderful woman’—that’s what he’ll say when he tastes your APPLE PIE and CHEESE.” It wasn’t that she really believed the ad in a literal sense, but whenever she saw slogans like that, she just couldn’t seem to stop herself from hoping that this would be the thing that would make Byron realize that everything she did was because she loved him and needed to know that he loved her, too.

“What’s that, Doll?”

“You never notice how hard I’m trying,” she said, hating the fact that she was close to tears. Tomorrow, she thought blackly, he’d probably go tell his business partner, Roy Ostrem, that Dolly had gone hysterical.

“I do,” he protested. “I’d just like to get out to the garage. I’ve got to get my lures organized—I’m going fishing with Roy on Sunday, and my tackle box is a mess.”

Dolly held the plate down in the dishwater like she was trying to drown it. “You don’t see enough of him the other six days of the week?”