Chapter 4: The Casserole

At dawn there were twelve fuel cans stacked outside my gate, and no truck.

A note was tucked under the top one, in square block capitals.

RENT, FIRST MONTH.

Hattie read it over my shoulder and sniffed.

"Your new tenant can count," she said. "I don't trust him."

"Neither do I."

"Good. Keep it that way."

We carried the cans in.

I had a plan for that day, and it did not include company.

At ten o'clock a small white car came up the farm road and stopped at my gate.

Lacey climbed out with a covered dish in both hands.

She wore the pale green sweater I had given her for her birthday.

Her hair was in a loose braid, and her eyes were already red.

My throat closed.

I had spent a whole life learning to hate that face.

I had spent nineteen years before that loving it.

"Devon," she said. "Please don't send me away. I brought chicken and rice."

I stood at the gate and did not unlock it.

Hattie, behind me, set down the wrench she was holding.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"Lacey. My best friend."

"Ex-best friend," Lacey said, and her chin wobbled. "I know. I know what Brent did. I told him he was an idiot. He cried for two hours."

It was well done.

It was so well done that for a second I wanted to open the gate.

I let myself look at her, and I decided to use what I had.

Appraise lit up beside her cheek.

Carrying: casserole dish, phone, a brass key.

Intent: visiting.

A brass key.

I unlocked the gate.

"Come in," I said. "Hattie, will you put the kettle on?"

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