“I do like to see a girl with an appetite,” said Miss Maddie. “Won’t you have one of these muffins Caroline made for us? She’s the best cook in Ogilvie, is our Caroline.”

“You are the sweetest thing,” Caroline said, blushing. “But far too kind.”

Angie found herself next to Miss Zula, who seemed content to watch and listen as Rivera and Miss Maddie and Caroline carried on a disjointed but energetic conversation about ham.

With her silver-blond hair and long pale neck, Caroline worked like crystal wine goblet among jelly-jar glasses, but she was clearly at home here and very much at ease. She moved around the kitchen as if she had spent many hours there—to refill the coffeepot, to fetch Miss Maddie her handkerchief—and kept up with her part of the conversation.

She was saying, “Mama’s planning on going up to the lake tomorrow.”

“Are you planning on going up, Caroline? Or are you too busy with wedding plans?” Miss Maddie was small and plump, with perfectly rounded cheeks, but she had a rich voice and a way of speaking that would be welcome in any National Public Radio broadcast booth, not in spite of, but precisely for, her accent.

There was a small silence while Caroline wiped her mouth with her napkin, which was odd, because as far as Angie could tell from her plate, she hadn’t eaten anything at all.

“Maybe for a little while,” she said. “If Mama needs me.”

Rivera, who considered the only real sacrifice she was making this summer her regular trips down the Jersey shore, wanted to know more about the lake, how far it was, who went there. Miss Maddie and Caroline let themselves be drawn into that discussion while Angie turned back to Miss Zula.

“How long have you known Miss Junie?” Angie asked.

The small, round face stilled in a way that meant nothing, yet, to Angie, but it did make her curious.

“Junie Maddox and I matriculated at Ogilvie together and graduated on the same day. We taught high school English, both of us, starting in the fall of 1952. Not at the same school, not in those days, but we often worked on our lesson plans together. And then she married Bob Lee Rose and gave up teaching.”

And that, Angie realized, was the smallest part of the story, and all Miss Zula was willing to tell just now. Along her spine she got a flutter of nerves, the sign that she had stumbled, unexpectedly, onto something important. She was just about to say that straight out when the door opened and Harriet came in.

“Well, now. Finally,” said Miss Zula. “Harriet Rose Darling, you are late again.”

“I lost track,” Harriet said, leaning over to kiss the old woman on the cheek.