“It’s just bad,” he said. “I’m sorry, Holly. It just doesn’t feel right to me for you to cook for us all the time. You’ve got to at least let me pay you, okay?”

“Wow,” I said. For once in my chatty life I was at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to say.”

All at once my fantasy of being Tyler and Hunter’s stepmother seemed to lose its footing and fall off a cliff. And I was deeply mortified.

“But you do know how much we appreciate everything you do for us, don’t you?” he said, his tone softening somewhat.

“Sure,” I said.

“Why don’t I give you an allowance of sorts and you spend it. When you run out, I’ll give you some more. How does that sound? But only if you’re cooking anyway. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Okay, I guess,” I said and still didn’t feel any better. There would be no putting the bubble back together again. “Anyway, here’s a chicken and broccoli casserole and some biscuits. Just warm it up in your microwave. I can take my Pyrex dish back another time.”

“Thanks so much!” he said. His normal chipper mood was back. “Can’t you join us?”

“I ate. But thanks.” I turned to go.

“You haven’t told me,” he said. “How’s your new job?”

“Chicken was on sale,” I said, apropos of nothing except a weak attempt to salvage my pride. “My job is ridiculous, endless entertainment. We’ve got like six people who rotate between the deli and the bakery. Today one of the younger guys in the bakery went to decorate a birthday cake and the instructions said, ‘Just say something nice for Joan.’ So he put that on the cake.”

“Literally?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Yes. Literally. The cake read ‘Just say something nice for Joan.’ I’m pretty sure he was stoned. I mean, who wouldn’t love this job? It’s so creative, it’s like the next best thing to restoring the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

I said this over my shoulder as I was leaving and inside of a minute I was back on my porch, taking another UPS package inside, leaving Archie to scratch his head, surely wondering what the world was coming to.

I dropped off the package in Momma’s room.

“Thanks,” she said.

I nearly fainted.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“I’m trying to be nice,” she said.

Nice? What’s next? Would she take up knitting and make me a sweater? Who are we kidding here?