The entrance to Springville is much like the entrance into Steele, the same railroad track, the main street of business, the old houses. Springville is much closer to Birmingham, though, and has become one of its principal bedroom communities. Just beyond the main street, developments with names like McDonald’s Farms have sprung up for the young professionals who want the small-town life and don’t mind the commute to Birmingham.

I glanced at my watch. I was a few minutes early and thought I would sit at one of the tables in the sun and wait for Betsy. But as I parked, I saw her get out of her car and go into the bakery. Her bright red hair was pulled back into a single plait that reached almost to her waist, and for a second I saw that same hair tumbling over a church pew. Damn.

The bakery was attractive, decorated in blue and white with starched lace curtains and a blue ceramic Dutch shoe holding three almost real-looking white tulips on each of the six tables. Only three of the tables had people sitting at them. Takeout seemed to be the bakery’s big business. There was a line at the cash register, each person holding a sack that proclaimed OLDE HOLLAND BAKERY. The smells were wonderful.

Betsy was already sitting in a chair just inside the doorway, one of two chairs placed there for the obvious purpose of waiting. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.

“Thank you,” she said, as if she were relieved that I had shown up.

“You’re welcome.” That wasn’t the right answer, but it sufficed.

Betsy stood up, no taller than my own five feet, I noticed. But she was more beautiful than I had realized the day before. In spite of her eyes being slightly puffy, their clear hazel was startling. She had the very fair skin that some redheads are blessed with, and a few freckles across her nose.

“We have to order at the counter,” she said, pointing to a chalkboard on the wall with the day’s menu on it. “They’ve got lentil soup today. They make the best in the world.”

“Sounds good.”

We each ordered a bowl of soup and decided we would split a club sandwich. While we were waiting for our food, we sat at a table by the window. The sun was still shining across the table, but a glance at the sky showed the progression of the dark wall of clouds.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. It was noisy in the bakery and I was about to suggest that we go sit at one of the tables outside. As long as the sun was shining, we would be comfortable.

But before I could make the suggestion, Betsy leaned forward and said, “I want to tell you about my sister.”