"So?"

"What?"

"What's the story behind the lemon in the fridge?"

Zack grins. "He didn't tell you?"

"My aunt was going to, but she hasn't yet." I'm sure she will, at some wonderfully inappropriate time, like when she told me about finding Giovanni.

"Well." Zack stuffs the empty paper containers of sugar into his coffee cup. "It signifies contentment."

When Zack stops there, I cry, "That's all? Regena Lorraine told me that. There's supposed to be some story that goes with it."

"There is." He stands, walks toward a metal trash can by a row of chairs, and tosses in the items from his hand. He reaches for my empty coffee cup, takes it, and throws it away. When he sits again, he rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and gives me a long look. "You really don't know the story?"

"No." I never got to go on a hike with my grandpa, either. Seems I missed out on a lot. I did get the letter left for me. I think about the meaningful words my grandfather printed on the paper, the page I have read many times and yet shared with no one, not even Regena Lorraine. Some words are more intimate when they are kept secret.

"So I'm going to tell you about your own grandfather?"

"That's right." I smile. "Hurry, before the suspense kills me."

His eyes show flecks of green, and something inside me wants to stare into them. I don't stare; I look at my hands, wait.

"When Ernest was little, the family didn't have much money. The kids wore hand-me-down clothes and ate oatmeal for every meal. The winters were bitter in Erie. Sometimes there wasn't any coal to light the fire in the house. All their shoes had holes they patched by shoving plastic into them. He really did walk a mile to school every day. His parents were poor and sick a lot." When Zack stops, I look up at him. "You want me to continue?" he asks.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You really have never heard this? Any of it?"

I think of telling him that my mother is not one for hard-luck stories. She probably convinced Dad over the years that keeping a happy profile is the way to live, without focusing on a sad past. So that's most likely why my father never shared this story with me. "I want you to continue. I haven't ever heard this before."

Zack looks tenderly at me, a look identical to one I saw him give his brother in the hospital room. He moistens his lips and says, "One day a woman from their church brought them a basket of fruit. The basket had apples, oranges, grapes, and lemons. Ernest took one of the lemons, smelled it, and carried it to school in his pocket. It was durable and didn't spoil quickly like the other fruits. He kept that lemon for weeks. He asked God to heal his sick parents and make it so that he could be smart enough to finish high school and go on to college and med school. He wanted a chance to change the world. He wanted to give his parents a better life in their old age. He prayed to God a lot after that." Zack pauses, and I realize this is the first time I've heard him say so much at one time.

"What else?" I ask.

"He bought lemons by the crate. Everywhere he went he always bought lemons. Truman said he wanted a chicken in every pot. Ernest wanted a lemon in every refrigerator."

"That's amazing."

"Ernest said that for him a lemon signified three things: prosperity, contentment, and memories. Even after becoming a doctor, he never forgot those who had less than he did. He loved to gift people with fruit baskets. In fact, every Christmas, that's what each of the kids at The Center received from him. His method of operation." Zack smiles at me.

I wish I could hug my grandfather right now. I want to call my father and tell him that I've heard the story of his dad and that I love his dad so much. Mom needs to hear this story. Why didn't she like my grandfather? How could anyone not adore a man who loved lemons and gave them away?

We head back to Jonas's room, where a nurse has just taken his vitals. "He's fine," she whispers to us as Jonas falls asleep once more.

"Jonas is always fine," says Zack.

Just like his brother, I think.

As the owl cries in the treetops, a solo of evening peace, I open my journal and write about my concern for Jonas's health. After two paragraphs, I close the book. Something isn't complete, though, and I know that there is no way I can go to sleep unless I write a little more. Opening to a clean page, I write Zack. Zack. I'm not sure what else to put on the page. So I pretend I'm in sixth grade and draw little hearts around his name. Then bits and pieces of conversations we have had come to me like little appetizers on a silver platter. No one will ever read this, so just write from the heart, I tell myself. Hurry, write so you can go to sleep. I'm not sure what else to put on the page. So I pretend I'm in sixth grade and draw little hearts around his name. Then bits and pieces of conversations we have had come to me like little appetizers on a silver platter. No one will ever read this, so just write from the heart, I tell myself. Hurry, write so you can go to sleep.

He is cute, but there is more to him than that. He has depth.He cares about those who are less fortunate with a passion and love that is so rewarding just to watch. Where do I fit in? I am unfortunate, that's for sure. Perhaps he just feels sorry for me. But that's not how he operates. He holds empathy, but he doesn't feel sorry for any of us. He accepts us where we are and seems to see the potential we hold to become better people. When he told me that I am a strong person, I felt I needed that reminder. I spent too much time thinking of how much Lucas ruined my future. But when Zack takes the time to tell me something I need to hear, I see that he looks beyond what individuals try to convey. He tells me to open up and not be afraid.

I am afraid.

I am terribly frightened to feel something besides pain.

thirty-two.

At the end of a warm August, school starts again. The kids now spend only part of the afternoon at The Center, getting dropped off by the school bus a little after three. When they enter the building I am usually there. I find it easier to already be standing in the kitchen, equipped to start my class. I guess it gives me more control. Another thing I've learned is to ask the kids to tell me what they'd like to make. If they suggest it, chances are they'll be more eager to actually prepare the dish. Charlotte raises her hand today and says she'd like to make a pie.

"What kind?" I ask.

"Peach."

"That's my favorite!" I gush. "We can make that next week."

"I hate peaches," says Joy. She sticks her tongue out for emphasis. It's blue from the flavored lollipop she ate on the bus ride over.

"Joy," I breathe, "you have a lovely name. It's one of the fruits of the Spirit."

"Duh," says Bubba. "We see the sign every day."

I look at Joy, her round, soft face so often contorted by morbidity. "Be joyful, Joy." Then I smile. My motivating side inwardly cheers.

I think I see Darren lift his head and give a grin, but I could be wrong.

Thanks to Zack's suggestion, I have told the children that they need to take turns cleaning up the kitchen after class. A few moaned that they didn't want their fingers to get "pruney" from the dishwater. Bubba said he was allergic to doing dishes. I stood with my shoulders back and said, "Doing dishes makes you more handsome and more beautiful." I don't know why I chose to say this; it just came out.

Bobby ran his fingers down his wide torso. "I'm already so handsome," he announced to the class. "But if I do the dishes, I'll be a regular ladies' man."

While Charlotte and Lisa are in the kitchen washing out cake pans, Miriam invites me into her office. She has a carafe of coffee and some half-and-half on her desk and asks if I'd like a cup of coffee. Then she closes the door to the room.

Nervously, I pour a little of the beverage into a mug, add three drops of half-and-half, and then sit on a leather chair next to her desk.

She sits on her swivel chair and tells me she can't talk long because of a board meeting in twenty minutes.

I hope this is not about the receipts for my class's ingredients. She probably thinks I spend too much on them and is going to remind me that The Center is a nonprofit organization. I sip the coffee, wish it were Starbucks, and wait.

Her blue eyes flash. Clasping her hands together, she says, "The kids want you to go camping with them."

What?

"The other day we were talking about chaperones for the camping trip in October, and they said they want you."

"Camping?" My voice doesn't sound like it belongs to me. Is this what she brought me in here for?

She opens a drawer and stuffs a few loose papers into it. "First weekend in October. Smoky Mountain National Park."

The kids said they wanted me? I clear my throat. "How long do they camp?"

"Two nights, Friday and Saturday. We have permission slips for guardians to sign. We document the medications the kids with prescriptions need, bring a first-aid kit, cell phones, and that takes care of it."

She says a few others things, but I don't hear them because my mind is so heavily wrapped around this request. The kids want me me to go camping. "Who else is coming?" to go camping. "Who else is coming?"

"Rhonda. Have you met her? She's Bubba's caseworker."

Oh yes, I've seen her around The Center many times, and we conversed a little at the bake sale. She's shorter than I am, blond hair, plenty of cleavage, no noticeable scars. She talks to Zack all the time. Bubba clearly loves her. I'm not sure if Zack does or not.

Miriam opens a binder, takes a page from it, and closes it. "Oh, and Robert. He went last year and enjoyed it."

I can't fathom that Robert enjoys camping with the kids. He's married and has two kids of his own. Why would he want to spend time away from his family with these wayward children?

When Miriam answers her ringing desk phone, I gaze out her office window at a cluster of lopsided pinecones and ponder the situation. The kids want to go camping in the Smoky Mountains National Park. They've asked Miriam if I will join them. I don't have to, do I? Grandpa Ernest didn't put in his will that I have to go on the camping event, did he? I went camping once with Sally's parents and brother. I remember waking up to wetness. It had rained, the ground was mushy, and my sleeping bag was soggy.

Miriam ends the phone conversation and continues to riffle through her desk, looking for something. I look at her green tennis shoes and decide she wears them for comfort, and in case she has to run fast away from some angry parent like Darren's mother.

I hear Zack telling the kids good-bye outside of the office as the parents and guardians pick up each child. I overhear Darren saying, "I hope I don't have to see my mom this weekend," to which Zack replies, "Don't worry. She's not supposed to come to your grandma's unless she calls me first." Then I hear Rhonda's soprano voice, talking to Zack, giggling. I hear their footsteps as they walk down the hall away from Miriam's office.

When all is quiet, Miriam says, "Oh, Zack usually comes, too. We try to have two men and two women. More, if we can get them."

Zack goes camping with the kids. Of course. No surprise there.

"Think about it," Miriam says as she crams a folder into her briefcase. "Oh." She notices the pitcher of half-and-half on the edge of her desk. "Would you take this cream back to the fridge for me?" She hands me the pitcher.

"I'll take the coffeepot, too," I say. "And wash it out."

"That would be nice. Thank you." Quickly, she stands and lifts her briefcase. "I hope this board meeting is a good one. I hope all the financing comes through for The Center."

I tell her that I hope that is the case, too.

As she leaves, she says, "Thanks, Deena. And please do consider the camping trip." Then she's gone, her tennis shoes making squishy sounds along the narrow hallway.

I am thinking about tents and saturated sleeping bags as I enter the kitchen with the pitcher and coffeepot in my hands. When I swing open the door with my shoulder, I see Zack. He's standing in the arms of Rhonda. Her arms are snuggly placed around his neck. Their faces are inches from each other.

"Excuse me," is all I can say. Balancing the coffeepot and pitcher in one hand, I open the fridge with the other.

The two pull away from each other and awkwardly look at me in silence. I shove the pitcher and the coffeepot onto a shelf in the fridge and exit as quickly as I entered.

As fast as I can, I walk to the bathroom so that I can be alone. No, no, no, No, no, no, my mind says over and over. I stand in front of the mirror and see my sad eyes, eyes that had looked so hopeful after the day I spent in the hospital with Zack. Of course he cares about someone else, I almost say aloud. Of course. my mind says over and over. I stand in front of the mirror and see my sad eyes, eyes that had looked so hopeful after the day I spent in the hospital with Zack. Of course he cares about someone else, I almost say aloud. Of course.

All those smiles at me, I took them the wrong way. All those conversations about me opening up my heart and sharing myself with the kids and with him. Those were just bullet points to pep talks he probably gives everyone. He only cares about the kids... and Rhonda.

I am faced with the reality that I am not special to anyone.

Not Lucas.

Not Zack.

thirty-three.

Ibake a cinnamon breakfast cake just because I know this buttery delicacy will help brush away my fears. At least while I'm eating it. I can't guarantee that it will erase all my insecurities. It's not that big of a cake. I use the nine-inch pan from my good-bye party at the restaurant, and as I grease the inside, my mind wanders to the restaurant. I wonder what dishes are being prepared for tonight's specialty. What I wouldn't give for a plate of braised duck in orange sauce with a side of pasta drenched in tomato and roasted garlic.

I turn Vivaldi on high. If I were in my apartment in Atlanta, surrounding tenants would be banging on the walls, begging me to turn down the volume. Here, in the mountains, on my own little steep winding road, one advantage is that I will bother no one with my music. Except perhaps the owl.

While the coffee cake fills the cabin with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar, I brew some French roast coffee. Yolanda used to say that I knew how to make the apartment muy magnifico muy magnifico with my cooking, music, and coffee. I pick up my journal, sit on the lone bar stool by the counter, and write. with my cooking, music, and coffee. I pick up my journal, sit on the lone bar stool by the counter, and write.

Grandpa Ernest's cabin. August 30th. 6:10 p.m.

It's okay, really. I let my heart out of its cage for a short time against my better judgment. I got stung, but hey, I'm still living. I'm making coffee cake and coffee, and the kids want me to go on a camping trip. So I've lost whatever it was I thought I had with Zack. So I'm not where I hoped I was in his sky. But Darren smiled at me today when I asked if he'd put the orange-raspberry glaze on the cake we made in class. Then he took the glaze and evenly dribbled it over the top of the cake, just like I'd demonstrated. Bubba told me I am a good teacher and Joy said I look like Grandpa, not old or anything, but kind. Charlotte (she is like a gorgeous doll, but very scared, I wish she'd talk more) suggested we make a peach pie-my favorite! Bobby told the class that, with all the food they have learned to make, we should open a restaurant, and we could become more popular than the Fryemont Inn.I see prayers being answered.It's all okay. Really. Zack can be a friend. If he's happy with Rhonda, then I just have to be happy for him. Who knows, maybe one day someone will come along for me. I probably still need time to heal, anyway. My legs and arms don't hurt as much anymore, so my Extra Strength Tylenol bottle is still half full.

When I eat the coffee cake, I enjoy each comforting morsel. I can taste the butter, the cream, the vanilla, and the brown sugar-all are parts of an orchestra in my mouth.

Then I decide to make some peanut soup because I have a feeling I'll be able to pick out all the flavors tonight.

After all that food, I'll need to walk a few laps around the cabin.