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her head against Chaz’s chest. “Oh, no.”
    And he doesn’t even know the real reason she puked.

THIRTEEN
    “It’s okay.” Chaz chuckles. “They were going to find out anyway. Come on.” He takes Ruby’s hand and escorts her back to the big eat-in kitchen. The faces staring up at her range in expression from glee (Celeste and Tia) to amusement (Antoinette) to shock (most of the aunts and uncles) to embarrassment (that would be Lark) to what Ruby can only read as disgust or utter disappointment (Chunk).
    Amid the chatter of “Are you okay?” and “When are you due?” and “Saltines worked for me,” one comment stands out, the farting uncle’s words sloshing in wine. “S’a disgrace, what it is. A kid of mine gets knocked up, I’ll do some knocking around.”
    Ruby motions to Lark and heads for the front door before the shushing and hand slapping is over. As they reach the gate across the small courtyard, Chaz grabs her arm.
    “Ruby, wait.”
    “You go back inside,” Antoinette says to Chaz when she steps in beside him. “Deal with them.” As Chaz retreats, she pulls Lark and Ruby to the bench swing that Ruby made for Celeste and Chunk’s anniversary. “They’ll come around.”
    Through the screen door, gruff voices collide with one another.
    Show her some respect. Chaz.
    Respect? The farting uncle.
    Like she respected the sanctity of marriage? Chunk.
    Like she’s the first—like I’m the first in this family. Chaz again.
    The swing glides back and forth as Antoinette pushes her feet against the ground. “He was my protector, you know, when we were in school. Worse than my dad when it came to checking out the guys. Gave one a black eye.”
    Ruby tries to imagine growing up with a brother who would punch a guy out for you, a brother or sister at all. She is too raw for any of this.
    When Chaz returns, he motions to Lark and Ruby. “Come on, let’s blow this taco stand.”
    “Do you really want to say blow ?” Lark chirps.

FOURTEEN
    Lark has morphed into one of those creepy ancestral paintings. From the sofa, her questioning eyes follow Ruby around the room. Ruby paces, opening drawers, sifting through Mrs. Levy’s gadgets—garlic presses, apple corers, slicers, dicers, ricers, and a few items Ruby has yet to identify. While Lark watches.
    Ruby had been shocked to learn that Mrs. Levy left the house and all its furnishings to her. The old woman was a difficult client to put it mildly, never happy with her hair, her nails. Ruby had just shown her the respect and kindness that had been ingrained in her, making house calls during those last weeks of withering. But Mrs. Levy had no family, and she had been very clear in her desire for Ruby to have the house.
    This house has been a nest for her and Lark, safe, secure, since they moved in several years ago. Ruby usually relishes her Mondays off, puttering, cooking, spending time with Lark. Today, though, the house feels more like a cage.
    “Why don’t you take Clyde for a walk?”
    On the sofa, Lark scratches behind the dog’s ears. “That’s okay.”
    “Molly dropped off some new paints and canvases.”
    “Maybe later.”
    Perhaps Ruby will make soup. Making soup is her winter therapy, arranging all those bright vegetables in tidy rows on the cutting board, dumping them into a stockpot aswirl with simmering spices. The soup won’t make Ruby feel better; if only this were some physical ache or a simple summer cold that would cure itself with a week of chicken broth. But at least her hands would stay busy. Idle hands, Ruby hears Nana’s gravelly voice say. Almost a decade gone, and the old sage still speaks to Ruby, maybe now more than back when she was alive. And always in those half phrases, letting Ruby’s own mind complete the maxim.
    “Can I—may I—have some gum?” Lark asks.
    “Sure.” Ruby fills the metal watering can, walks out to the back porch to quench an urn of geraniums. Clyde slinks around her, lifts a leg on a