The phone was ringing when she came in by way of the back porch. The first sign that Rivera was in a difficult mood was the fact that the air was thick with cooking smells: peppers, onions, cilantro, wild oregano, garlic, cumin. Even more alarming: Rivera lay stretched out on the old couch, the ringing phone balanced on her stomach.

“Staring at it won’t make it stop,” Angie said.

“I didn’t know there were any of these old phones left,” Rivera said. “The ones you can’t unplug.”

At that moment the phone went silent.

Rivera said, “Reverend Win called.”

“Reverend Win?”

“Reverend Win Walker,” Rivera assured her. “Patty-Cake’s nephew, you remember. Called to invite you to the Jubilee.”

“Actually I was trying to forget. He called himself Reverend Win?”

“No. But I like the sound of it.”

Angie said, “There were two of them she earmarked for us, weren’t there? One was a cop and the other one was a preacher of some kind.”

“This one sounded like a preacher.”

Angie gave up. “Okay. So what did you tell him?”

“That we’d be working all day.”

“Bless you.” Angie sat down on the floor.

“That’s what he said. Just after he offered to carry around your camera equipment all the livelong day.”

“He did not.”

“A persistent guy, is Reverend Win.”

Angie pushed out a great sigh. “Okay, well. I’ll deal with that when I have to.”

“So talk to me,” Rivera said, stretching so that the phone wobbled. “How’d it go today?”

Angie picked up the glass of wine sitting on the floor next to the couch and drained it in two long gulps.

“That well, huh.” Rivera yawned. “So what’s the big deal? Miss Zula has a lifelong companion. With all the gossip that goes on in the publishing world, I can’t believe it’s much of a secret.”

“You think it wouldn’t be big news down at Mount Olive or the ladies’ auxiliary?” Angie said.

Rivera inclined her head. “Okay, yeah. I see your point.”

“Do you think the board of regents would have wanted a documentary about her life, if they had known?”

“Okay,” Rivera said pointedly. “I got it.”

Angie said, “I tried to talk to John about it.” And then, when Rivera shot her a look, she added: “He was on the train back from Savannah.”

“Why would you want to talk to John Grant about this?” Rivera said, truly mystified. “I’d have a hard time thinking of a man worse at reading women.”

There was little to argue about there, though Angie found herself irritated, whether at Rivera’s casually damning assessment of John Grant’s failings or at John himself, she wasn’t quite sure.