Hannah thought about it. “Well, sometimes you do go on and on about food and diabetes and how you feel when you eat this or that, but we’re friends, and we live together. And no, I don’t recall you telling other people, not when I’m around, anyway.”

“Just tell me when I do it too much, okay?” Grace slowed the car. They had turned off Main Street onto a quiet, well-maintained, tree-lined street of bungalows and cottages dating from the fifties and sixties. “What was that house number?”

Hannah turned a page of her notepad. “Number fifty-nine, there on the left. It’s that brown bungalow with the white posts on the porch and those gorgeous flower beds in front. That woman has a green thumb. She’s on the porch. Looks like Mary Lyle’s waiting for us.”

A tall, slightly stooped woman, her white hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, waved at them as they pulled into the driveway and beckoned them onto the porch. She wore a long-sleeved blue blouse with white polka dots, a dark blue skirt, and sturdy lace-up shoes.

“Y’all come on in. So good to see you.” Mary smiled and looked from Hannah to Grace. “Brenda tells me you’re gonna have knee surgery, like I had a year ago. Now, which one of you is gonna have surgery?”

“I am.” Hannah introduced herself and Grace. “Both knees need fixing, the doctor says, and I don’t know whether to do them at the same time or not.”

Mary Lyle held the front door open, and they entered the living room. At first glance the room appeared small with its two sofas and a love seat, several armchairs, a beautiful old breakfront filled with lovely china and crystal, and many small tables, from which the faces of family members in gold and silver frames smiled up at them.

“I hope you’ll take tea or coffee with me. I made us a crumb cake. The recipe’s been in my family for four generations, and everyone just loves it.” She smiled. “I’ve heard so much about you ladies from Brenda. How you ladies just up and moved down here from the North and not knowing anyone. I doubt I’d have the nerve to do anything like that. I was born and raised in Weaverville. My daughter lives over your way. She married a Mars Hill boy, you know, and my granddaughter, Clara Louise, goes to Brenda’s school.” She studied Grace’s face. “I think I’ve seen you there one time when I went to a school play Clara Louise was in.”

They were seated now, Mary in an armchair, Grace and Hannah on the sofa facing the redbrick fireplace. Grace said, “That could be. I volunteer at the school, and I’ve been to several school plays.”