"You have to have business things," says Rainy as she pushes her sunglasses higher on her head. "If you're going to have a cake business and make your cakes, you need supplies."

"Ya gotta be professional," Bubba adds.

"And polite!" Bobby digs into his second slice of pie.

"Thank you." My throat fills. I would say more, but I can't risk it.

Funny, I must be the crying type, after all.

Aunt Regena Lorraine takes me to dinner at the Fryemont Inn. Her main reason for calling earlier today was to say she wanted to treat me to a birthday dinner. After I said I'd love that, she proceeded to read the list of seventy-seven things that make a woman beautiful. One of them was growing older with flair and grace, so I guess the list was sort of appropriate for this day.

I wear a black skirt and gray sweater-my two pieces of clothing that actually have designer names-and I even put on my gold bracelet and earrings. My aunt wears an orange dress with deep front pockets and shoes that match. I don't think I've ever seen orange shoes before. This must be part of her way to grow old with grace and flair.

We drive to the restaurant in her truck, and for this event Giovanni is not with us. "I'll bring him a doggie bag," Regena Lorriane tells me when I ask where her canine is this evening. "He'll like that," she says as she steers the bouncy truck down the road.

People talk about the Fryemont even in Atlanta. Some have spent the night in the inn, and others have only eaten in the dining room. When we arrive and my aunt parks, I realize that my excitement at the opportunity to be here is rising like yeasty dough.

Cindy, Charlotte's sister, is working, and we ask the hostess if we can be seated at one of her tables.

"My sister likes you so much. She talks about you all the time," Cindy tells me. And I recall the bake sale when Charlotte urged her sister to bid on my tiered cake. Cindy looks a little like her younger sister with her long hair but doesn't have that American Girl doll quality. Maybe one doll per family is all the quota allows.

We are seated at a small table to the right of the large stone fireplace. A fire has been lit, and its light shines across the glossy hardwood floors. Sally would love this place.

"Order whatever you want," Regena Lorraine says as we open menus.

I order rainbow trout, and, from the five ways it can be prepared, choose the crunchy almond topping. My aunt decides on the baked Virginia ham. She thinks Giovanni will like the leftovers. This is the first time I've been with someone who orders according to what her pet will like.

Before our food comes, as we sip from glasses of iced tea, I ask her, "Did you tell them it's my birthday?"

"Here? Oh, I should. They'll bring some dessert and sing to you. Good idea, Shug."

"No." I don't want anyone singing to me here. "I meant at The Center."

"Tell them what?"

"That it's my birthday."

"Oh yes, I did." She places her glass on the table and fingers her own eyeglasses. "They did ask me at the bake sale.

Bubba asked."

I smile, still warmed by the thoughtfulness of the children's gift to me. I placed the little box on top of the desk in my bedroom right when I returned home from teaching this afternoon. My own cake-order box. Chef B will have to hear about this.

"How has your day been?" asks my aunt, as I admire the crackling fire and note the restaurant's decor. The plum-and-white linens add a warm touch. I wonder if I could create this shade of plum to use for icing. A lemon cake with bold swirls of plum would make a great centerpiece for some festive occasion.

Gradually, I turn my attention to my aunt. "My day's been good," I say. This morning Jeannie called to wish me a happy birthday. Then Mom and Dad took turns talking to me. Mom wanted to make sure that UPS had done its job and delivered her gift to me.

"A jar of pickled pig's feet?" I said to Mom. "It arrived."

Before my aunt came to pick me up for dinner, Sally called. She told me that she and Jeannie were coming to visit me in two weeks.

As the logs glow in the fireplace beside our table, I feel cozy and relaxed. "It's nice to be here," I tell my aunt, and she admits that this is one of her favorite places.

I feel a tug at my heart and am about to recall my birthday last year and what Lucas gave me. The memory is there, waiting; I push it aside. Instead I say, "Guess what. I got another cake order for Friday, so I'll need to squeeze making it in before the camping trip."

"Are you excited?"

"I love getting orders."

"About camping?"

I wrinkle my nose.

"Shug." She laughs. "You are just like me. I'm not a camper, but Ernest was. He saw the beauty in every experience."

I imagine he did. Anyone who believes that a lemon holds deep significance and that the right disposition is what it's all about must have been able to handle everything. And I suppose his ability to enjoy life came from knowing whose hand held his.

After we finish our salads, Cindy brings us our entrees. My aunt immediately asks her for a small doggie bag. "This way I will put Giovanni's portion aside and won't be tempted to eat it."

Cindy just nods, and I smile.

"Shug," Regena Lorraine says as she cuts her slice of ham in half and secures one half in the Styrofoam box for her dog, "I am so glad it's your birthday."

The wait staff sings to me at dessert. Accompanied by Cindy, they bring a piece of chocolate cake with a single yellow lit candle. Cindy places it in front of me.

"You told them," I say to my aunt, a tone of scolding to my voice.

"No, I didn't."

"Charlotte told me," whispers Cindy. "She told me all about today."

"Make a wish," my aunt says.

The candle flickers as though it is winking at me.

I make the same wish I did earlier today at The Center. Perhaps wishing it two times in one day will better the chances of it coming true.

I sit in my bed with two pillows behind me and flip open my journal. I'm almost at the end of the book; there are only six crisp pages left. I can't believe it. As I read a few of the earlier entries, I wonder who would have ever thought I'd end up wanting to write in this book so often?

Smiling to myself, I list all of the children's names on a clean page, one line per child. Then I come up with a few descriptive words about each kid. Interesting that although the kids can be hellions, I have found something positive to put down for every one of them. This must be my grandfather's influence. For Charlotte I write angelic. angelic. Bubba has Bubba has friendly friendly written by his name. I even come up with something positive for Darren. By Darren's name, I write written by his name. I even come up with something positive for Darren. By Darren's name, I write never too noisy. never too noisy.

thirty-six.

We take my Jeep, Zack's silver Ford truck, and Robert's emerald Dodge minivan. Rhonda, Charlotte, and Lisa ride with me. The food and cooking gear, along with the large plastic first-aid kit, have been loaded into the back of the Jeep. The sleeping bags and tents are in the bed of Zack's truck.

We asked the church for donations of sleeping bags and tents. There were several announcements about the need in the Sunday bulletin. Apparently last year people were also asked to either lend or donate. The kids were told to bring their own pillows and flashlights. Darren's grandmother bought him a new mega-flashlight. He turned it on while we were packing up the vehicles at The Center and blinded us all.

Bubba wanted to bring his camping chair, a blue vinyl foldup one. Zack asked him what he was going to do when others wanted a chair. "Huh?" Bubba's mouth stayed open.

"How many kids are going on this trip, Bubba?" the social worker asked.

"I dunno. Seven, eight. Is this a trick question?"

Zack explained, "If there are eight kids and only one chair, what do you think is going to happen?"

"Aw, Zack... I mean Mr. Anderson." He smiled.

"Do you want to share your camping chair this weekend?"

"You mean let other kids sit in it? Like Dougy?"

"Yes."

Bubba's smile faded and the chair was left behind in the church. Shortly after that, we were ready to leave.

I've told myself that this trip will be about the kids, their having fun. I don't want to let whatever it is that Zack and Rhonda have or don't have going on take away from the children. Concentrate, concentrate, Concentrate, concentrate, my positive self repeats as I drive, following Zack's truck that leads our caravan to the Smoky Mountains. my positive self repeats as I drive, following Zack's truck that leads our caravan to the Smoky Mountains.

We are to camp at Smokemont, which has an elevation of 2,198 feet and is near the Cherokee reservation. Miriam reserved two side-by-side campsites where we'll pitch our four tents.

I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt the color of berries. All summer I've covered my arms, and now on this camping trip, I've decided it is time to expose my scars and just deal with whatever comments come my way. The afternoon air still holds warmth, so I don't feel chilly.

I drive cautiously, but soon realize that I'm more relaxed about being in a vehicle on these mountain roads than I've ever been. Perhaps having the excited girls in the back seat helps. Lisa has a packet of Skittles she shares with Charlotte. Rhonda says little but does find us a radio station with jazz music.

"Do you like jazz?" I ask her as we creep farther up the mountain through the park.

"I love it." She leans back in the passenger seat. Dreamily, she adds, "So does Zack."

I wonder if anyone has packed Tums. We curve around a scenic overlook; a few cars are parked, and tourists are admiring the hues of autumn colors under a shiny blue sky. The day is too nice to let jealousy get the best of you, I tell myself.

When we reach the campsite, the kids from Zack and Robert's vehicles are darting across the fallen leaves and laughing loudly. Where do they get all their energy?

"I'm going to jump in the Bradley River," yells Dougy.

I'd heard that the river runs through the camping area. Hopefully, it will be too cool for anyone to be tempted by its waters. I enjoy swimming but have never had to rescue anyone. I look at Zack, who is starting to set up a tent. He's the one in good shape. If Dougy makes a dive into the river, I'll let Zack help him out.

The boys want to assist Zack with the tents. He lets them help until Dougy uses a rope and pair of pliers to lasso Bubba. Then all of us feel it works better if we have two people setting up each tent, and the selected two are Zack and Robert. Rainy and Charlotte watch closely, and when the boys start to toss a Frisbee and become too occupied to protest, the girls help the men hammer the pins through the rings to keep the tents secure. Zack says he is impressed by Rainy's skill with a hammer.

I call the boys over to help the rest of us unload our food supplies. The food is piled in old cardboard boxes I used to move to Bryson City. Bubba ceremoniously flexes arm muscles he does not have, grins when I tell him I think he has actually put on some weight, and helps me carry the boxes needed for tonight to the picnic tables by the two campsites.

One box contains jars of condiments, cans of baked beans, potato chips, and fruit juice boxes. Hamburger and hot dog buns, chocolate bars, graham crackers, and marshmallows fill another. The third holds paper plates, cups, napkins, and plastic utensils. My Coleman cooler is stocked with ground beef, hot dogs, cheese, sausages, and two cartons of eggs. Some of this is breakfast food. Darren takes two pans of brownies out of the trunk of my Jeep as Joy places a bag of charcoal by the fire pit. Rhonda opens another cooler, one I borrowed from Miriam. From it, she takes out a bottle of Aquafina and unscrews the cap. She pauses to take a few sips and then takes a jug of drinking water from the back of Zack's truck. She sets it on one of the picnic tables.

"Maybe," she says, her eyes glancing across both of the tables, "we should let one of these tables be for storing food and the other the one we eat at."

"Storing food on a table!" yells Bubba, his little body lifting a box. "If you keep food outside, the bears will be sure to find us."

"Bears!" Joy looks like she just saw one. "I hate bears."

"You're right, Bubba." Zack threads the end of a rope through a grommet. "After we eat, we'll have to put all the leftovers back inside the cars."

Rhonda frowns. "I wasn't suggesting we leave food out all night," she snaps.

Zack keeps his attention on the rope.

Robert glances over at me.

Then Joy says, "Will y'all please pray that no bears attack us tonight?"

"Or snakes," says Lisa.

"I'll pray," Rainy tells her. "I'm good at praying."

Joy and Bubba help Robert with the burgers and hot dogs. Rainy and Charlotte stir the baked beans cooking on a grate by the fire as I supervise. Rhonda slices tomatoes and onions, because after Charlotte's episode with the kitchen knife, everyone's afraid of cutting themselves. They won't admit it to any of us, but we know. Rhonda opens two store-bought containers of coleslaw and places them on the table. Zack sets the table with the napkins, plates, and forks. Rhonda edges close to whisper a few things to Zack. I try to control my emotions. If I named them, they would be jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. You have to give that up, I tell myself as I watch Bobby, Lisa, and Darren place juice boxes at each place setting. You are not in the business of jealousy. You must protect your heart from everything. Haven't you learned that yet?

At last, Robert announces that the grilled food is done, and with a holler, Bobby rushes to his place at the table, lifting his fork for emphasis. "Bring it on!" he shouts. "I'm starving."

After Robert offers the blessing, we eat in silence, except for the children's noisy manners. I am tempted to smack my lips like Bubba, but I know that as an adult, I have to set a good example. Zack sits beside me, although there is a vacancy by Rhonda. Charlotte fills it after she returns from the restroom.

"This is good food," Bubba says, as bits of bread fly from his lips. "But do you know what would make it better?"

I think we are all expecting to hear some reference to McDonald's. I know I am.

"What, Bubba?" asks Zack.

"Crispy potatoes like we made in class. Ms. Livingston, those were sweet!"

I smile; a tiny quiver of happiness runs into my veins.

"I like cooking," says Rainy. "Of course, I am good at it." She smiles at Dougy, who groans and crams half a hotdog into his mouth.