I found Mom in the kitchen, poring over a number of torn envelopes—power company, cable, mortgage—with her laptop humming, and her checkbook ready. Her frown was chiseled on, and I didn’t immediately flee the room. Desperate times . . .

“Mom . . .”

“You are not getting my car keys. Boy, bye.”

My recently retired Schwinn ten-speed sat canted between stacked boxes and old luggage in the garage. The tires were still plump and tight, something I might’ve considered good news if I wasn’t riding a freaking bike to my dinner with Kiera freaking Westing.

The frigid breeze bit into my face and hands as I coasted through the Green Creek streets. It was a short ride, a couple of miles, but I did it fast so I could chain my bike to a lamppost a full block from the restaurant with time to spare.

Priority number one: a good dinner and alone time. If I nailed that, I could survive my carless weekend relatively unscathed.

Mama Marian’s, with its African-themed red, black, and green walls, was a new restaurant in an old bank building from when Green Creek was founded in the 1800s. It still looked like a bank, vault and all. The big round porthole door was painted black, and permanently wedged open at the kitchen’s entrance. A little weird, but since the only restaurant I’d spent time in lately was Monte FISHto’s, I was fine with the decor. The earthy scent of seasoned greens, a whiff of sugar and cinnamon from fresh-baked sweet potato pies, the pop and sizzle of battered chicken hitting hot grease. My stomach contracted with anticipation, and I fired off a text to Kiera.

Me: I’m at the spot. You nearby?

Kiera: Close. Be there in like two minutes

Awesome.

“How many, sweetie?” The hostess shuffled menus and prewrapped cutlery behind her podium.

“Three.”

“Let me know when they’re here.”

Right on time, Deacon Westing’s car slipped into a spot at the curb, Kiera and Jameer piling out. On the fly, I made a decision. I exited Mama Marian’s, walked right past Kiera and Jameer, squatted at the open passenger window of the car, and said, “Hope you’re having a blessed night tonight, Deacon.”

He was behind the wheel in a plaid shirt and khakis, the citrus notes of his cologne wafting toward me. “Same to you, Del. I’m happy to hear you all taking your pledge so seriously.”

“I treat the Bible like an instruction book, sir. It’s like Psalm 119:9 says, ‘How can a young person stay on the path to purity? By living according to your word.’”

Deacon Westing smacked his thigh. “Well, ain’t that the truth!” Suddenly, he was digging in his pocket, freeing a thick leather billfold. “Kiera has money, but here,” he slipped a twenty to me, “in case you kids want to get some dessert. Gotta indulge sometime.”

I played bashful while pressing the bill into my hip pocket. “That’s true, sir. That’s true.”

When I backed away, he yelled past me to Kiera, “Sweetie, let me know if you think you’re going to be late. Okay?”