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Roundtree jumped up from his seat on Uncle Ernest’s front steps and hurried to open the door of my car.
    I returned his hug, as glad to see him as he was me. “I’d almost forgotten we called her that,” I said, referring to our nickname for Deedee, who frequently “spoke with forked tongue.” “I’d love to escape, but first let me speak to Uncle Ernest and your parents. Have you been here long?”
    “Mom and Dad got here in time for lunch, poor chumps. You’d think they’d know by now! I drove from Chattanooga; been here less than an hour,” he said.
    I glanced at my cousin as we started inside together. Still youthfully handsome at thirty, he had been engaged three times, but somehow always managed to wiggle out before the invitations were mailed. His mother, my aunt Leona, seemed to think it was because he never got over Beverly.
    Beverly Briscoe and I had been best friends growing up, and she was sixteen when she started dating Grady, then in his sophomore year at Appalachian State. The relationship lasted until Bev went off to college and decided she wanted to see other people. I remembered when she broke the news to Grady during Christmas break. He was so despondent, it just about ruined the holidays for the rest of us, and as far as I know, my cousin didn’t date anyone for over a year after that.
    Then, this past winter, the two had renewed their interest in each other when Beverly, currently working on her doctorate at a university in Pennsylvania, telephoned Grady out of the blue. She planned to come back to North Carolina after completing the requirements for her degree, she said, and just wanted to touch base. After that, the two kept in touch almost daily by e-mail and telephone, and everyone thought they might resume their romance until Beverly was suddenly killed in an accident in February. The roads had been slick from a recent rain, and Beverly’s brakes were said to have failed as she tried to maneuver a treacherous curve near her home.
    Beverly had seemed more sure of herself when I’d seen her at a party the Christmas before while we were both home for the holidays. We’d chatted briefly, but people were milling around a crowded room, drifting from group to group, and she had left before we had a chance to say more than a few words. I wished now that we’d spent more time together.
    “I’m so sorry about Beverly,” I said, touching his arm. “I wanted to come for the funeral, but Josie had the flu and Ned was out of town. “I wish—well, I wish things could’ve worked out differently.”
    My cousin squeezed my hand but didn’t answer.
    “So, where is old Ned?” Grady said finally. “Hiding out on the golf course?”
    “Big conference in California,” I told him. Enough for now; he’d find out soon enough. “Said to tell you hi.” A lie. Although he never admitted it, I knew my husband resented Grady Roundtree, the closeness of our relationship. He needn’t have, but I didn’t tell him that.
    A huge porch lined with rocking chairs stretched across the front of the house, and my uncle’s old collie, Amos, slept on the flagstones in front of the door so that we had to step over him to get inside. Ivy clung to the six stone columns, cooling the porch, as well as the interior of the house, so that it felt almost chilly even on a hot July day. The living room was large and shabby with threadbare rugs, overstuffed furniture with fat, shiny arms and hardwood floors I’m told were once beautiful. It smelled of old ashes from the huge stone fireplace. Uncle Ernest, who sat in his favorite brown club chair by the empty grate, smelled of Old Spice and bourbon. He reached for my hand, and his smile turned to a frown. “Kathryn. You look thin. Are you taking care of yourself?”
    I kissed his cheek, taut and tan as an army tent. “Had to get ready for the swimsuit season,” I said, speaking louder than usual, and he nodded, although I don’t think he heard me. My uncle’s hair