“I just got back from the lake a little bit ago. I made pasta primavera and I’ve got way too much. Would y’all like to come share it with me?”

Angie was thinking about how best to inoculate herself against the trouble ahead, whether she should say, John is on his way over here and I’ll send him on to you for supper, or Did you know John was back, I saw him on the train talking to your sisters, or Why don’t you bring that pasta over here? Any of those statements might have put a stop to the gathering storm, but before she could open her mouth, Rivera took the phone out of her hand.

“Caroline. I haven’t eaten. I’ll be there in ten.” Then she hung up, and in a single, graceful motion she turned and hugged Angie.

“You did too eat. You’ve been cooking all day.”

“When have I ever turned down a free meal?” Rivera picked up the car keys from the table. “Besides, I’ll be in the way here. Talk to John. Get it done, get it over with, once and for all. One way or the other.”

Angie drew back, alarmed. “What in the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Angie.”

The screen door slammed behind Rivera, and Angie went to see if there was any more wine.

The rain had started to come down hard again when John Grant parked Kai’s Mini in front of Ivy House. It was a warm rain and the air was sweet with it, and he had no idea, suddenly, why he had come here or what he wanted to accomplish. A half hour ago it had seemed the logical thing to do: he would apologize for being rude, settle whatever question Angie had about Miss Zula, and then calmly, rationally, he would make it clear to her that the past was past, and he was content to leave it that way. Surely once he opened his mouth the right words would materialize.

Then Angie was standing in the open door under the eaves, her arms wrapped around herself. She leaned against the door frame, her shape outlined by the light behind her.

John drew in a deep breath, unfolded himself from a car that seemed, from the inside at least, no bigger than a bread box, and sprinted across the street and the lawn, up the walkway, the paving stones slick underfoot. He stopped on the lowest porch step and forced himself to move forward slowly, deliberately.

She was looking at him with an expression he could hardly read: severe, unblinking, but curious, too. Certainly not angry or unhappy. At that moment it struck him, quite unexpectedly, that Angie was rarely unhappy; she could be angry better than anybody he knew, but nobody could accuse her of being morose, or even moody.

She said, “Come in out of the rain, John.”