And now Saylor was peering around his shoulder, and there I was, holding a stupid cake, which suddenly seemed less like a peace offering and more like a really bad idea.

“I was bringing this by to say sorry for yesterday. To both of you,” I added as Saylor moved forward. “You know, for the . . . the car driving and the recklessness, and the—the grabbing . . .”

With my free hand I started making this clutching gesture. I was talking about grabbing David’s shirt, but it looked like I was milking a cow.

Or worse.

My face red, I thrust the cake at David, who nearly stumbled backward. “Anyway, it’s hummingbird cake, and I know that’s your favorite, Miss Saylor, so . . . enjoy!” Ugh. It wasn’t like me to be this . . . awkward. And then, to make matters worse, I tripped a little in my hurry to get back down the steps and out of there as quickly as I could.

But I’d barely gotten to the driveway before Saylor called, “Harper!”

I turned around. “Yes, ma’am?”

Saylor waved her hand at me, diamonds catching the streetlights. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

My palms were sweaty and I did my best to discreetly wipe them on my skirt. “No, ma’am.”

“Well, neither have we. I made chicken and dumplings. Why don’t you come on in and eat with us. Then we can try out this lovely looking cake.”

In all the years I’d known the Starks—and that was basically all my life—I’d never actually been inside their house. The temptation to see inside . . . well, I couldn’t resist.

“That would be nice, thank you,” I said, walking back up the steps. As I did, I noticed a set of wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. They were silver and shiny, and there was something weird about the shape of them. Musical notes?

Before I could look any closer, Saylor had an arm around my shoulders, guiding me into the house. It smelled a lot like my Aunt Jewel’s house—that comforting combination of scented candles, coffee, and something cooking. But that was where the similarities ended. While Aunt Jewel’s house was neat and full of light and space, the Stark house was so full I found myself negotiating around couches and ottomans. Every room was full of furniture, vases, picture frames, weird little porcelain statues of farm animals. It was like she’d raided every garage sale between here and Mobile.

Thankfully, Saylor’s dining room was the one room that wasn’t overstuffed, and I took a deep breath as Saylor gestured to one of the chairs around a long wooden table. “Sit down, honey,” she told me. To David, she said, “Give me a hand.”