She closed her mouth and waited for my next idea, which was sure to bring us back around to my being tapped for the honor.

“I don’t know what to suggest. That’s a tough one,” I said. I lobbed the ball back to her side of the court. “Was there anything else?”

Grudgingly, she held up a baking tin. “I wanted to return Henry’s pan. He brought us fresh cinnamon rolls this morning.”

“I can give it to him if you like.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll be happy to take care of it.”

I approached the fence and took the pan. It was one of those flimsy disposable tins, still sticky from the glaze he used to top his cinnamon buns. The sides of the pan were bent, and I suspected he’d toss it in the trash, but that was his to decide. My Aunt Gin, overbearing though she was, taught me that in returning a dish, it was polite to have it properly washed and packed with a homemade delicacy as a thank-you. This was a cultural nicety unknown to Edna.

I gave a little wave and headed for the studio, eager to avoid further conversation. She sank from sight, her head bobbing into view again as she crossed the grass to her back steps. She looked pouty from the back.

While I waited for Henry, I put the tin in the sink, filled it with hot, soapy water, and left it to soak. I tidied the studio, making a point of scrubbing the downstairs bathroom. I took Ruth’s damp bath towel, tossed it in the dryer with a small sheet of fabric softener, and ran a quick cycle so it would emerge dry and smelling sweet. If she changed her mind and decided to stay another night, at least she’d feel welcome. I put away the bowls, spoons, and coffee cups we’d used that morning and then washed out the baking tin, which was thoroughly deformed by my efforts to get it clean.

When I heard Henry’s car pull in, I went out to the garage and helped him carry in his grocery bags. By then, the plumber was standing by with a list in hand and an expectant look on his face.

“You want me to take Edna’s groceries over so the two of you can talk?”

“I’d appreciate it,” he said as he passed me a loaded plastic bag. “I packed her items separately along with her receipt.”

“Be right back.”

I scurried around to the front of the studio and passed through the squeaky gate. I took a short left and traversed the Shallenbargers’ walk to the front door. Their lawn wasn’t large, but the grass seemed to be in good shape. I couldn’t remember seeing their sprinklers on, so they must have been watering when the sun went down as we’d all been advised. I rang the bell, and while I waited, I made an idle check of the grocery receipt—$25.66—before I returned it to the bag.