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put on a dress and some lipstick, as she had done that night, you can see why she was always popular with men. She keeps her blond hair shoulder length, she’s never colored it, and now silver streaks surround her face, somehow making her pale blue eyes even bluer. She does have some fine lines around the eyes—she’s spent so much time in the sun over the years—but she doesn’t have the saggy skin or jowls that some of her friends now do. So, she looked quite pretty that night, and because she was a little tipsy, she was in a playful mood.
    â€œHey, Ev! Lottie! What a beautiful night, huh?” She tossed her purse onto the kitchen table and squatted to receive our Labrador, Riley, who came bounding into the kitchen. Riley is really Joan’s dog. My dog—Whit’s old dog, Scruggs—had died two winters earlier. Scruggs was a great dog. Riley’s a moron.
    â€œWho’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy, Riley? Who’s Mommy’s favorite boy?”
    â€œHi, Joan,” said Everett. “Mind if I help myself to a little of this pie? HEY, Riley, OFF!”
    My mother had gotten Riley too worked up, as she often did. He had knocked her back into a sitting position and was gnawing on her wrist. The minute Everett gave the command, Riley let go and sat down, his tail wagging apologetically.
    â€œNo, not at all,” Joan said, jumping to her feet. “I was hoping somebody would eat it so it wouldn’t go to waste.”
    â€œEv,” I said. “Do not eat that pie.” I tried to grab the pie plate from him, but he’s tall, and he grinned mischievously as he lifted it above my reach.
    â€œI’m hungry,” he said.
    â€œI made that pie two weeks ago, maybe longer. It needs to be thrown away. Joanie left it out on the counter overnight last week, twice.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, it’s perfectly good,” said Joan.
    â€œYou’ll get sick. You’ll get food poisoning,” I said, but it was no use. They laughed at me, and Joan handed Everett a fork. Neither of them believes in food poisoning. Joan thinks salmonella is a “myth.” She tells us that it’s a myth every Thanksgiving when she shovels hot stuffing into the turkey the night before she cooks it, then touches all the vegetables without washing her hands. Everett will eat anything, and Joan has a terror of throwing away uneaten food. They have, actually, sort of disproven current food-storage safety protocols. They’ve always gobbled up anything that’s not attracting too many flies, and neither of them is ever sick.
    Joan looked at Everett and then looked at me. She saw my wet hair and his. She saw what was going on. Like I said, she didn’t love the noncommittal thing we had.
    â€œWhat have you two been up to tonight?” she asked casually. She grabbed a fork and sat down next to Everett. He moved the pie pan over so she could reach it, and they both ate the foul old pie with gusto. “Looks like you’ve been in the lake,” Joan said, her mouth full.
    Yes, she’d had a little wine.
    â€œWe had a visitor,” I said, leaning back against the counter.
    â€œOh yeah! Joan—damn, this is good pie—guess who just left?” Everett said.
    â€œYou know, it’s those strawberries from the farm stand that make it so yummy, Everett. It’s worth it to make the extra trip. I always buy fresh when I can; it makes such a difference,” Joan said. Because it was her trip to the farm stand, not my baking, that explained the pie’s deliciousness.
    â€œLaurel,” I said.
    Joanie froze.
    â€œLaurel Atwood was here,” I said.
    â€œNO!” said Joanie. “Laurel and Spin were here? I wish I’d known they were coming.”
    â€œIt was just Laurel,” Everett said. “She was driving around. I guess Spin’s working. She just stopped by to introduce