“Nope. Just having meaningless sex with my boss.”

Aunt Phee snorted with laughter, surprising us both. “Well, you’re honest, at least.”

“I was honest with you,” Eric said. “I opened myself to you, yeah? And you never said a word about this . . . this . . .”

“Jo came home to help Mom,” Meg said.

“I hope your mother appreciates it. This whole hospital nonsense has been very difficult for your father.” The Yorkie yapped as Phee climbed the stairs. Weasley jumped down with a disgruntled thump and slunk under the porch swing. Too bad there wasn’t room under there for both of us. “Where is Ashton? He should be home by now.”

“He’s having dinner with Momma,” Meg said. “At the rehab center.”

Aunt Phee’s coral lips pursed. “But I brought dessert.”

I rolled my eyes. Who put on lipstick and drove across town at nine o’clock at night to deliver dessert to a grown-ass nephew?

Oh.

Somebody lonely, that’s who. Aunt Phee had been widowed as long as I could remember. No living parents. No kids. All she had was a bad-tempered little dog. And our father.

“Is that your hummingbird cake?” I asked. “It looks awesome.” Not that I could see much through the plastic shield.

Aunt Phee clutched the cake saver tighter. “It’s for your father.”

Right. Another offering on the altar of the Reverend Ashton March.

“Do you want to come in?” Meg asked politely. “I can make coffee.”

“It’s too late. Drinking coffee after three o’clock in the afternoon interferes with your sleep.” She gave a pointed look at the bottle of wine. “So does drinking alcohol.”

Meg and I exchanged glances.

“It is late,” Meg agreed. I scratched the Yorkie behind the ears. “Jo’s had a long day. Maybe we should all say good night.”

“You certainly should,” Aunt Phee said. “Before that husband of yours gets tired of waiting for you.”

“John understands I had to work today,” Meg said, sticking up for herself in her quiet way.

“Well, of course he’d say that. Bless his heart. His mother never stayed home with him, did she?”

Polly nipped the fleshy part of my thumb. I pulled back my hand, sticking the bite in my mouth. “Jeez. Somebody’s feeling cranky.”

“Polly is sensitive,” Aunt Phee snapped. “And you’re a fine one to talk, missy. I don’t see anybody waiting at home for you.”

Meg sputtered. I choked.

Aunt Phee nodded once in apparent satisfaction. She thrust the cake saver at me. “You tell your father to come see me,” she said, and marched back to her car.

Gravel rattled beneath her wheels as she pulled out of the driveway. Meg bit her lip.

I caught her eye. “It’s like being related to Almira Gulch.”

Meg smiled. “Riding away on her broomstick?”

“Bicycle.”

“Whatever.”

I cackled. “I’ll get you, my pretty. And your little dog, too.”

“You made your bed,” Meg said in her best Wicked Witch voice. “You ought to go lie in it.” She wagged a finger at me. “Preferably with your husband.”