Lizzy opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of cold water. “Have you talked to Mr. Johnson?” She poured water into her mother’s glass, and then into her own.

Her mother picked up the glass and wrinkled her nose. “No lemonade?”

“I’ve stopped buying lemons,” Lizzy said. “They’ve gotten expensive.” She added pointedly, “And I’ve been saving my money. I’m hoping to buy a car.”

“A car. I don’t know what you’d want a car for. That fine Mr. Alexander would be glad to let you drive his whenever you want.” Her mother put the glass down, hard. “Of course I’ve spoken to Mr. Johnson.”

“Well, have you tried to negotiate some kind of settlement?” Lizzy knew that George E. Pickett Johnson (a descendant of a Confederate War general) was considered a hard man, but surely he would listen to reason. There had to be a way to solve this.

“A settlement?” her mother asked indignantly. “I have begged him. I have pleaded with him. I have pointed out that he and his bank won’t look good at all if he snatches a God-fearin’ widow’s home away from her and puts her out on the street. But he won’t budge. He is a terrible man. Everybody says so.”

Lizzy turned away, not trusting herself to speak. She took the dish of potato salad out of the refrigerator and the meat loaf and green beans out of the gas oven, where they were keeping warm. The crust of her freshly baked peach pie, made from fruit she had picked from the tree in the backyard and canned right here in this kitchen, looked crisp and luscious, and there was almond-flavored whipped cream for the topping. But she had lost all appetite.

Still, she was not going to show her mother how hard she had been hit by news of the foreclosure. Smiling gamely, she put the food on the table and said, in as cheerful a voice as she could summon, “Let’s enjoy our Sunday dinner, Mama. I’m sure that things will look brighter after we’ve eaten.”

Her mother’s appetite didn’t seem diminished in any way by the awful prospect of her house being foreclosed in just a few weeks. She ate rapidly and with enthusiasm and helped herself to seconds. And when Lizzy poured coffee and served the peach pie (she had decided against going into the backyard), she asked for three large spoonfuls of almond whipped cream. The pie disappeared in no time.

Mrs. Lacy patted her lips with a folded napkin. “Well, now, Elizabeth, we need to discuss what we are goin’ to do. We’ve had our differences over the years, as I’ll be the first to admit. But I am sure that my only daughter—my only child—will not let her mother be put out on the street.” She put her elbows on the table and went on, not giving Lizzy time to respond. “You know, I hated the idea of your movin’ over here, but it looks like it’s turned out to be just a real good thing. You have fixed this place up so it’s neat as a pin and pretty as a dollhouse. I won’t have to go on the street at all. I can just move in here with you.”