Page 147 of Bitter’s Sweet

“That sounds suspiciously like something he’d say.”

Her mouth tightens because she knows I got her.

“Go eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That is the kind of lie Sheriff could hear from across the property.”

I pull off my gloves.

Lark is helping portion plates from the festival food booth that somebody dropped off for the school. Pulled pork, cornbread, fried potatoes.

Without thinking, I reach for a second plate.

Lark sees.

Of course she does.

“You know,” she says while I spoon potatoes onto it, “when a woman packs food for a man she is currently threatening to castrate, that’s either love or a criminal lack of pride.”

“It is not love.”

“Then my condolences to your pride.”

Junie looks over from the sink. “Pride don’t keep you warm at night.”

“It can if you set it on fire,” Lark says.

Petal studies me. “Honey, are you sure?”

“I am taking him food.” I hear how stupid that sounds, so I add, “And talking to him.”

Mercy looks up. “That second part concerns me more.”

“He owes me an apology.”

“He owes you several.”

“I want to know whether he understands why.”

Mercy studies my face for so long I start wishing I had kept my mouth shut.

Finally she says, “That’s different.”

“Different from what?”

“Forgiving him because you miss his bed.”

My face heats. “Mercy.”

“I’m old, not dead.”

Lark lifts a finger. “At this school, important distinction.”

I wrap foil over the plate harder than necessary.

Mercy comes closer. “What are you hoping he says?”