Chapter 11: Sunday Dinner

Marjorie Breckinridge's farm sat at the end of a gravel road outside Franklin, behind a white fence and a long row of cedars.

Joanna parked the car in the yard and did not turn off the engine.

"Breathe," I said.

"I am breathing."

"Your knee is bouncing."

"My knee is a separate issue."

I took her hand off the gearshift and held it.

"She called you honey on the voicemail," I said. "She's not going to bite me."

"You haven't met my mother."

"Is she a biter?"

"She's worse," Joanna said. "She's kind."

A woman came out onto the porch before we reached the steps.

She was small and silver-haired, in a blue apron over a good linen dress, with pearls at her ears.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel, looked at me, and her whole face lit up.

"Callie," she said. "Oh, honey. Come here."

She hugged me for a long time and smelled of vanilla and woodsmoke.

I'd expected a handshake, and I got a hug.

"Mrs. Breckinridge," I said into her shoulder.

"Marjorie. Mrs. Breckinridge is a woman who throws things."

She held me at arm's length.

"You're littler than on the radio," she said. "You look hungry. Joanna, you didn't feed her."

"I fed her, Mother."

"Not enough."

She took my hand and led me into the kitchen, and I looked back at Joanna, who spread her palms to say I told you.

The farmhouse kitchen was warm and smelled of roast chicken and cornbread.

A long wooden table had been set for four.

Marjorie put a glass of sweet tea in my hand before I could sit.

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