Chapter 22: Casseroles

Clarissa's POV

The doorbell rang at nine on Saturday morning, and Cal went to answer it in his socks.

I heard a woman's voice say, "Oh, Cal, I made too much."

I came down the loft stairs with my hair in a towel.

The pastor's wife stood on the porch holding a casserole dish with both hands.

She did not look at me.

She looked at the dish.

"It's the green bean one," she said. "I'm sorry about the plate."

"What plate?" I said.

"At the fry. I moved it to the end of the table."

"You did."

"It was a terrible thing to do, and I've thought about it every night."

"Thank you for the green beans," I said.

She handed it to Cal and left with her handbag clutched against her chest.

Before the door was closed, a second car came up the drive.

This one was a pickup, and the man who climbed out of it was the neighbor with the fern.

He held a pie.

"I took that picture of your kitchen window," he said to the porch boards. "The long-lens one. I'd like to say I don't know what came over me."

"What came over you?" Cal said.

"Deborah sent me a message. She said it was a neighborhood watch matter."

"There's no neighborhood watch."

"I know that now."

He put the pie in Cal's free hand, and he was gone in under a minute.

By ten, there were seven dishes on the counter.

There was a lasagna, a ham, a tin of brownies with a note that said "SORRY" in marker, and a coleslaw in a glass bowl.

The woman from the ticket table had brought the coleslaw.

"Two for twenty-four," she said miserably at the door. "I'll never forgive myself."

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