“So,” I said, “is the dog visiting?”

“Oh, no, this is my Terry Johnson. Terry Johnson, say hello to Muiriel. Got him back from the vet this morning. He was having his teeth cleaned the day you came, and then they found a weird lump they decided to remove, which turned out to be benign, but they kept him till they knew for sure—now here he is. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with it all, in case things went south. You never can tell with older dogs….I can’t make out if he misses having a bunch of kids around or if he’s enjoying the peace and quiet.”

I looked down at him. “Hello, Terry Johnson.”

Francine scratched his ears. “Joellen says you’re not allergic.”

“Not at all. Is he…named for someone? A person?”

“Nope. Let’s eat!”

My heart slowed a little, and I smiled toward the berries in the sink. I liked that Francine said what she meant and no need to elaborate or apologize. Matter-of-fact. Maybe she would understand my wanting to work. About Salishwood, why the trees and kids made me feel better, and why I wanted the job so badly. I put the berries in a bowl and we sat down.

The table was crowded. Fruit and actual clotted cream and scones, and the sandwiches. I took a little of each.

“I’ve had these dishes in storage for years. Figured it was safe to bring them out: you don’t strike me as a plate thrower. Now, remember,” she said, spooning lemon curd beside my scone. “It’s only you and me. Eat as much as you want and still we’ll have leftovers. And then later we can eat those.”

I missed a dinner table crammed with a bunch of other kids to disappear into…but eating as much as I wanted? And then leftovers?

Intriguing. I took a second scone before I even started the first.

“Well done with the strawberries,” she said. “Aren’t they gorgeous? They’re from the Sakamoto family’s farm, and they’ve got pumpkins at Halloween, unless you’re too old to carve a jack-o’-lantern?” She reached over to the sink and handed me a piece of cold bacon from a covered dish. “Dog’s not vegetarian. He’ll love you.”

“I like Halloween,” I said, feeling lighter every minute.

I put the bacon on my palm and Terry Johnson looked me in the eyes, swallowed the bacon without chewing, and trotted through Francine’s open bedroom door to climb a set of dog stairs up to the bed and tuck his nose beneath his tail.

“Curls up like a cinnamon roll,” Francine said. “Okay. Pour some milk in your cup, then the tea. That’s how they do it in England. Also Oprah told me.”

Paper tea bag tags hung on strings from the teapot lid. Red Rose.

I stared, a little hypnotized.