Haley nodded, wiped her eyes, and straightened up. “He says he loves his two dearly, but they’re grown and that’s that.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.

Haley nodded and sighed. “I want Philip and I want a baby. I just don’t think I can choose, Mama.”

I had no easy answers for her.

As soon as she left, saying she was going to go shopping for an outfit, that maybe that would make her feel better, I dialed Sister’s number and got the answering machine. “About the adventure,” I said, “get busy with your thinking. Haley might want to join us.”

“Men!” my friend Frances Zata said at lunch later that day. We were eating at The Oak Cupboard, which is a lovely restaurant if you don’t mind foliage getting in your food. Plants are everywhere in The Oak Cupboard, hanging from the ceilings and windows, cascading from planters between booths. Mary Alice has quit eating there since an encounter with a hanging basket of asparagus fern left her with a knot on her head. She says there’s too much oxygen in the place for her; it makes her dizzy. As for me, I’m neutral. But Frances loves it. She says it’s like eating in a rain forest. Cozy. I’ve never thought of rain forests as being cozy, but, like I say, I’m neutral. And the food is about as close as Birmingham gets to exotic cuisine. That’s because Mrs. Peck, who has owned The Oak Cupboard as long as anyone can remember, considers the diner’s plate her canvas. She’s even had this philosophy printed on the front of the menu. What it means, I’ve decided, is that she believes she can get away with serving almost anything if the colors are pretty. Most of the time, it works. Especially when she gives the dish a French name and charges a fortune for it.

“God’s truth,” I said, agreeing with Frances’s indictment of the whole male sex. I eyed a forkful of something red and orange with green polka dots on it. “This,” I said to Frances, “looks a lot like what was in a jar of orange-cranberry relish I threw out yesterday that had been in the refrigerator since Christmas before last.”

“It’s some kind of carrot souffle,” she said. “It’s good.”

“What are the green and red things?”

“Mint and some cherries cut up, or maybe cranberries. It could even be some of that red stuff they put in fruitcakes.”

“That red pineapple stuff?”

“Just try it.”

I stuck the fork in my mouth. The souffle was delicious.

“I told you,” Frances said when she saw my pleased expression.

“Beats the school cafeteria to hell and back,” I agreed.