Chapter 23: Lasagna

Lydia stood in the middle of the stage until the applause ran out.

Nobody came near her. The caterers went on stacking glasses.

She walked down the steps in her green dress with her chin up and her phone buzzing in her fist.

At the bottom, she stopped in front of me.

Up close, she looked smaller than she ever had. A lock of her glossy hair had come loose.

"I did love you, you know," she said. "In my way."

"You used my grandmother's name for a ring from a cart."

"It was a good story."

"It was," I said. "I believed all of it."

She searched my face for a crack, and she didn't find one.

"Take your coat, Lyd," I said. "Go out the side door. The cameras are at the front."

She stared at me.

"Why would you help me?"

"I'm not helping you. I'm tired of watching you."

She took her coat from a chair and walked out by herself.

The side door shut behind her. It was the last time I saw her in person.

The next morning Patrice stood on my porch in a plain gray cardigan, with no pearls.

Dillon waited by the walk with his hands in his pockets. He did not come up the steps.

"I brought this," Patrice said, and held out a foil-covered dish. "It's the prayer circle's lasagna. They made me bring it."

"Thank you."

"The man from the loan company called me on Monday. He said the paper on my house was gone."

"Rafe bought it."

"I know. He didn't tell me, either."

Her eyes were wet.

"I took a check to his loft for what I could. It was nine hundred dollars. He wouldn't take it."

"He wouldn't."

"I wanted to say I'm sorry, Casey. Not for your lawn. For the bank."

Her voice shook.

"I sat in that lobby and watched you sign. I told myself you'd forgive me by the wedding."

I looked at her for a long moment.

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