"You're a natural."

"My brother will love this." He now has two dollops of frosting around the rim of the donut and one star. The top of the donut has no more room for work, so I place another donut on the counter. He adds two stars, both free from any error. He admires his work. "Not bad, huh?"

"You're a pro."

"Can I take this one to my brother?" He points to the second donut, gingerly picks it up, and then quickly makes his way out of the kitchen toward the hallway.

"Sure," I say following him.

"I'll come back another day," he tells me, the frosted donut in one hand, the keys to his truck in the other.

"I'll let you know when," I say, but think to myself that Jonas comes and goes as he pleases; he operates on his own timetable.

"Not tomorrow, because I have to do work at Mrs. Dixie's."

"Southern Treats?" I open the front door for him and the smell of burning wood waltzes from the outside air into my hallway. I should light a fire in the fireplace, I think. Although, the last time I tried, I forgot to open the flue and had to sleep with the windows open to let out the haze of smoke.

"Mrs. Dixie makes good pie."

"I took my brochures there," I tell him.

"Did she tell you she wanted them? Did she take fifty?"

How does he know? "She did. She told me to put fifty on the rack by the front door."

He smiles and his teeth glisten under my porch light. "I knew she is a good person. I told her she should take fifty."

When he leaves, I spend several minutes feeling that contentment and satisfaction that oozes over you when you know you've done something right. I hope Jonas feels it, too. I smile, thinking of how he looked pressing frosting onto the donut and how the simple task made his face radiant. Then my thoughts change gears. So much for thinking that I could break into this small mountain community on my own. Jonas must have asked Mrs. Dixie to display my brochures at her restaurant. That's why she took fifty of them. And the other stores, too. Obviously, Jonas is looking out for me.

He is a good person.

twenty-seven.

Althoughthere are probably a lot of monumental events happening all over the world on this Saturday, The Center's bake sale feels like the most important to me. The children are eager and excited. Bubba and Lisa race over to greet me when I enter the fellowship hall. Dougy and Rainy let me know about all the baked goods that have arrived so far. They want to know where my cake is. Darren cowers in the corner at a table laden with paper plates of cookies wrapped in cellophane. I smile at him and he produces a small nod. Charlotte is seated behind a table. Joy and Bobby haven't arrived yet.

My making a cake to be auctioned off was Zack's idea. I was reluctant, but the kids said that was a good idea, especially if some rich people came to the sale like they did last year.

"Where's your cake?" Bubba asks, sounding like he hopes I haven't forgotten it.

"It's in my Jeep." I pray it's all in one piece.

The children, Miriam, Zack, several church members, and I had placed advertisements about the sale in the Smoky Mountain Times Smoky Mountain Times, at shops, restaurants, the Swain County Chamber of Commerce, the Fryemont Inn, Harrah's Cherokee Casino and Hotel, and the library. I baked all week. I taught my classes, baked cookies and cakes with the kids, and then baked at home. My two favorite items are the cranberry bread and the banana muffins.

Last evening I baked the cake to be auctioned, and then when Jonas came over to help frost it, I made him a cup of coffee with sugar. He watched me mix shortening, confectioner's sugar, vanilla extract, and butter as he drank the coffee. Eager to help, he kept exclaiming how large the cake was. He asked if I had any donuts that needed frosting. "They are easy," he told me. He started to hum "Take It Easy."

Then he said, "My brother liked the donut I brought him. He said you were society's finest."

"What?" I lifted my head from the three-tiered cake to note Jonas's expression. Was he teasing me?

"Yep. My brother said, 'That woman who taught you how to frost a donut has got to be one of society's finest.' "

Jonas squeezed a few beaded dots where I told him to, admired the cake, and circled around the living room. I could see he had lost interest. I sent him home, telling him what a help he'd been. He grinned like the kids at The Center do when they know they deserve praise. I didn't finish the final touches on the cake until long after the owl had started his solo cries in his tree.

As he enters The Center, Zack greets me with a smile, large and warm. The whites of his eyes look especially clear, like he's had a good night's sleep. He's dressed in a pair of jeans and a forest-green shirt.

I smile, too. I hope it's a decent smile; my body is sore from lack of sleep.

Bubba walks with me to my Jeep to help carry the cake. Two cars pull into the driveway, and from one steps Bobby and from the other Joy jumps out. Both drivers wave at the children and me.

"Are we late?" asks Bobby.

"No," says Bubba. "Man, you should see all the food on the tables!"

"I hope nobody made anything gross this year." Joy runs a comb through her curls. "Does my hair look puffy? I didn't have time to wash it this morning. I hate it."

I unlock the trunk of my Jeep. The cake should be fine, I think. I didn't drive more than twenty miles per hour the whole way down here.

Bubba peers at the cream-colored cake, beaded with frosting and crowned with two candy roses. "Just beautiful," he says.

Joy thinks he is talking about her hair. "Thanks, Bubba," she says with a smile that makes her eyes glow.

"Thanks, Bubba." I lift the cake from the Jeep and, ever so slowly, with the guidance of the children, walk it into the building.

Before the doors open to the public at eight, Zack assigns a task to each child. He reminds the kids to be polite, to nicely encourage folks to buy, and then adds that each child should make sure to thank people for buying.

Miriam has been at The Center since seven, making coffee. Robert, who teaches drama and art in the afternoon to the kids, has covered each table in the fellowship hall with a white linen tablecloth and an arrangement of daisies and lilies. Rhonda, Bubba's social worker, also has come to help.

Charlotte accepts her post behind the table loaded with assorted cookies. As she sits in a folding chair, she asks if Miriam would like some oatmeal cookies. There are two packaged in cellophane with $1.00 $1.00 written on the sticky label. The children and I made these cookies last week in class. After they'd cooled and we'd sampled a few, we wrapped three dozen and then placed them in The Center's kitchen freezer. Yesterday, we took them out and decided on the price. Bubba thought they should cost seven dollars for two. He said they were "the bomb." written on the sticky label. The children and I made these cookies last week in class. After they'd cooled and we'd sampled a few, we wrapped three dozen and then placed them in The Center's kitchen freezer. Yesterday, we took them out and decided on the price. Bubba thought they should cost seven dollars for two. He said they were "the bomb."

Now Charlotte smiles shyly at Miriam.

"Yes," says the director. She hands Charlotte a one-dollar bill.

Charlotte takes the money, places it in a metal box on the table, and then gives the cookies to Miriam. "Thank you," she says with a small smile.

"You do that well," Zack compliments Charlotte.

Charlotte shakes her head, says she's no good.

Zack tells her only insecure people can't handle compliments, remember? He must have taught them this when I wasn't around because this is the first time I've heard that line. Insecure people can't handle compliments? I wonder which one of his psychology books holds that tidbit.

When the doors open for business, I think the whole town must be here. The fellowship hall is filled with crying babies, men, women, and adolescents. I see two men in police uniforms and three firefighters.

I look up from the money box where I've just placed ten dollars from a woman who purchased six cups of coffee and five plates of cookies. She told me to keep the change. There stands Marble Gray, wearing pink curlers underneath a violet scarf. She picks up one of my cake brochures, which have been placed at the table where my decorated cake proudly sits. She stuffs another brochure into her large black purse and then heads over to the food tables. She tries to get two chocolate chip cookies for the price of one. Then she picks up a sugar cookie, claiming that it's for Sinatra. I can tell Charlotte wants to tell her to pay for it, but I shake my head and mouth, "Let it go."

Marble meanders around the room, smiling at a few people, but no one seems interested in talking with her. Perhaps she's cheated them all out of something at one time or another.

Jonas enters the fellowship hall; I can hear his shoes even though he is surrounded by groups of people. He shuffles in his style over to the tables covered in the sweet-smelling baked goods. "Hi," he says to me, and then to Zack he bellows, "Hi, Buddy!" He waves his wrench.

"Hi, Jonas. Working today?" asks Zack, noting the wrench.

"No, not working. Eating."

Jonas picks up a chocolate pie that Robert's wife made for the sale. It is carefully wrapped in cellophane with the ingredients listed on a white label. Robert's wife is allergic to nuts and peanut butter and feels food items should always be marked. Apparently she had a bad reaction to a cake a few years ago and ended up at Swain County Medical Center. Of course, if you can't read too well, a label indicating that the pie has no nuts does you little good. Jonas says, "Looks yummy," and turns to me. "Where is your cake, Deirdre?"

"Deirdre?" Rainy snorts. "He calls you that?"

Zack points to the table along the edge of the opposite wall that holds my cake and the pile of brochures next to it.

Jonas says, "I helped with decorating that." To Zack he asks, "Do you know that putting frosting on top of a cake takes lots of being steady?"

Zack smiles. "I imagine it does."

Jonas winks at me. "You pipe it," he says.

"And you love pipes," Bobby says.

"Yes, I love pipes."

Zack grins, and Jonas turns back to me and says, "Ah, I haven't introduced Zack to you, Deirdre. This is my brother."

He places his arm around Zack's shoulders. "I want some chocolate pie," he tells Bubba, who is standing by the pies. "I have money today." He fishes out a worn ten-dollar bill from his jeans.

Zack and Jonas are brothers? No, they can't be. This is some sort of prank. Bubba and Dougy are probably behind it.

I look at the boys and see no smirks on their faces. While Zack talks with Jonas, I note the men's features, and when they both smile, I see it. Something about the laugh lines around their eyes is identical. Other than those lines, Jonas's mouth is wider, and Zack is not as muscular or broad in the shoulders. Yet, they are about the same height.

After I finish looking them over with all the discretion I can manage, I am hit like a tornado whips the side of a barn. All the things Jonas has told me about his brother fly at me. His brother was in love with a woman who died. He likes jazz; his favorite pie is lemon meringue. His brother is the best.

Immediately, I feel a blanket of embarrassment spread over me, tucking me in at every side. If they are brothers, and right now they appear to be close, then how much of what I've told Jonas has he shared with Zack?

I watch Jonas now; surely he wouldn't have told Zack everything? Yet the comment Zack made about knowing I was engaged... So Jonas did tell his brother. I feel like suddenly the cloud has been lifted and I am seeing with 20/20 vision.

It is hard to concentrate on chocolate cookies and coffee when you're trying to come to grips with the fact that two people you respect in very different ways share the same mother and father.

Marble Gray stops by my table and asks if Sinatra can have another cookie. She tells me that he just had surgery and almost died and oh, please, just one sugar cookie?

Rainy is about to tell her she needs to pay for the baked goods, I can feel it.

Quickly, I hand Marble an oatmeal cookie, and as she smiles and walks away, Rainy protests.

"Maybe she'll go home soon," I tell Rainy.

"She better," says the girl as she forces air from her mouth. "I'm tired of her cheating people."

twenty-eight.

Night has fallen, and the church is nearly empty. Miriam went home, congratulating me on an excellent bake sale. Jonas sailed off in his truck, waving goodbye to his brother and saying he'd be by Zack's later to check the pipes. My tiered cake was auctioned by Zack and made $80. Marble Gray wanted it, but the pink-curlered cheapskate was only willing to bid $11.50. Darren's grandma offered $32 and Charlotte's sister, Cindy, went up to $40. Aunt Regena Lorraine said she'd pay $50 and then someone yelled out $60 and before I could catch my breath, the bidding ended at $80. A couple about to celebrate their forty-fifth wedding anniversary carried it off in their silver sedan, looking almost as happy as the day they were married.

I'm in the kitchen washing out the coffeepots and thermoses we used for the coffee we sold. It was a good day, I think. The kids were on their best behavior and remembered to thank people for buying. Miriam counted the money and said we made $265.75. That'll be enough to pay for the campsite and buy firewood and food for all the meals. There is also other money that has come in because Bubba and Bobby mowed lawns and pulled weeds for a few church members last weekend.

Zack enters the kitchen and places a pitcher that held cream on the counter. Then he sees me at the sink. Sometimes it feels like I spend my life at the kitchen sink.

"You could get the kids to wash the dishes," he tells me.

I could, I think. But the question is, would they? Sometimes if you want a job done well and without complaints, the easiest way is to do it yourself.

Zack grins. "Things went smoothly today."

"I think the world of Jonas," I say. I smile as I think of how much he has added to my life. How he sings entire verses of Eagles songs to me, not just a line or two. His voice isn't bad. He sang the other day, " 'Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy,' " which made me think, was that song penned for me? He's always eager to try a new recipe I come up with, even the one that was more or less a failure the other night-squash biscotti.

Zack picks up a towel from the counter and a bowl from the drainer. "I'm sorry about Lucas."

I hate hearing that name from Zack's lips. Dismissing the subject, I say, "Oh, that's all over." Mom always said to act like nothing bothers you, that a real woman is an expert at covering her emotions with a slight lowering of her eyes. I focus on the dishwater, all the filmy suds.

"It hasn't been that much time." His words filter through the kitchen and grapple with my heart.

I want to say in a nonchalant tone, "Time? Who needs time?

I'm a picture of health and happiness right now." Instead, I mumble, "I'm sorry about Abby."

When I look up from the sink I see that his eyes hold pain-like two dark corridors that I will never be able to enter or bring any sunshine to. She must have been his moon and stars. Jonas said she was kind. The dead always seem larger than life; we forget their shortcomings, we honor their greatness.

"I had no idea it was you Jonas was talking about... at first." Zack places the bowl in the cupboard with dozens just like it. He's draped the towel over one shoulder, which makes me think of how my dad does the same thing when he dries dishes.

"What did he say about me?" How much does Zack know about me, my past?

Zack avoids my question; he's deep in thought. At last he says, "It was the cupcake Band-Aid. He came over for dinner with that Band-Aid on his forehead. You gave Charlotte a Band-Aid that looked just like that when she cut her finger. And then I knew all that he was telling me about this nice woman named Deirdre was really you."

I guess I have no secrets anymore. I bet Jonas has told his brother everything about me. I suppose the whole town will know all about me by morning. Marble Gray will be gossiping about me to the cashier at Ingle's.

After a pause, Zack says, "He was proud of that donut the two of you decorated."