Lara sat up and watched the little spectrums of blue and red and yellow light exploding from the cut-crystal pitcher of lemonade Olivia was carrying toward her. The ice made gentle plinking sounds as her mother walked like a doe, unfolding her lovely, somewhat wasted legs with each step. She wore shredded pink ballet shoes and an old pair of misshapen red shorts—she was beautiful, despite the outfit—and set the radiant pitcher on the feeble table, beside the cake, gently letting go of the silver handle.

“This cake looks so luscious,” she said to the girl. “I can’t believe you made it.”

“I haven’t sold one piece.”

“Hull said he would love some.”

“When he pays me, I’ll cut him a slice,” the girl said solemnly, lying back down and staring up at the sky. Olivia wondered how her child had learned to drive such a hard bargain when she herself had never managed to ask for one single thing extra in her life.