P.S. Eat the soup from the bowl with the raccoon.

I read the letter aloud two times. In between I sniff the paper, note the curve of his letter T, and then study the envelope. I wonder why he never mailed it. There is no date on the letter, no postage. How did he know I would come to live here? Did he write it long ago or just before his stroke? He died instantly, they said. One minute he was enjoying a ride on a sailboat on the coast of the Greek island of Kos, and the next, he toppled over into the ocean. But here is this letter to me, hidden in a cookbook, of all things.

I finger the cookbook, open it, and note the inscription: To Grandpa Ernest, with love from Deena. To Grandpa Ernest, with love from Deena.

When did I send this book to him? Did I mail it? I try to recall, but I'm blanking out on any memory of giving this cookbook to my grandfather.

I read the letter again, pausing after each paragraph, wondering what he hoped to convey to me. Why did he feel the need to write these words to me? I know that in his will, he left instructions to give me this cabin. I'm still not sure why I am the one he bequeathed it to; he has seven other grandchildren. One lives in Los Angeles and has been on TV commercials for toilet cleaners and stain removers. He looks honest as he tells viewers that there is no other product that can do the job like Insta-Clean and Foam-Away. Why did Grandpa choose me over him?

To add to my confusion, now there's this letter that talks about God and peanut soup. If Grandpa wrote it after my accident, perhaps he was trying to encourage me. But how did Grandpa know how I was feeling? "Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world." As I read the words this time, I feel the backs of my eyes stinging. Giving in to tears again will surely leave me useless the rest of the day. And I have unpacking to do, and a heart to mend. As I read the words this time, I feel the backs of my eyes stinging. Giving in to tears again will surely leave me useless the rest of the day. And I have unpacking to do, and a heart to mend.

When the doorbell rings, I hope it's Grandpa Ernest so I can ask him the questions that have formed tangles in my mind.

I open the door to find a man standing on the stoop by the chopped firewood. His back is to me, and it looks like he is testing the railing of the stoop by kicking the wood with his leather boot.

eight.

The man is wearing dark jeans, a checkered shirt the color of roasted duck, and a bright yellow bandana around his head. In his hand is a large wrench. He turns to greet me with a boyish smile. "Well, hello."

He is not my grandpa back from the dead. Tentatively, I say, "Hello." I'm in the mountains-home to boiled peanuts and apple cider. Surely everything is congenial and kind here. This man isn't on "America's Most Wanted." I've left Atlanta behind.

With arms crossed around his trim waist, he says, "You must be Deirdre."

"No. No, I'm not."

He raises an eyebrow and I say, "Maybe you have the wrong house."

In a methodical tone, as if from memory, he tells me, "Pass the red barn, Memorial Methodist Church, first right."

Is he giving the location of this cabin? I'm surprised he didn't mention "And turn down the gravel path that is too narrow to be called a road-the one with no guardrails and no room for any large vehicle." I thought I was heading over the cliff yesterday.

His eyes are brown and deep-set, and his hair is auburn streaked with wisps of gray. He has the widest mouth I've ever seen. When he smiles, I see what appear to be hundreds of teeth stretching for yards. "You're Ernest's granddaughter," he says. "His granddaughter."

That part he has right. "Yes."

"Yes siree. Regena Lorraine told me about you." He shuffles his shoes, looks at them, and then peers again at me.

"Oh?" I imagine my aunt sitting down with this man and spilling out my recent past, fretting over my romance-gone-bad as she encourages him to drink a cup of sassafras tea.

If she's told him all about me, why did she forget to tell me about him?

With a grin, he says, "Told me you're from Atlanta. Yes, yes, siree." His tone has a halting quality about it, almost as though he is reading his words from a script he isn't fully comfortable with.

"I'm Deena."

His large, calloused, warm hand grips mine. "I'm Jonas.

I'm here to fix the pipes."

"Is something wrong with the pipes?" I have visions of water leaking while I sleep and waking to find my bed being carried by torrents out of the cabin, over the cliffs, down to Fontana Lake.

He winks. Few people can pull off a wink without looking corny. He is one of the few. "You can never be too sure. Never too sure." With that, he enters the cabin, his heavy work boots crushing the hardwood. He seems harmless and a little different.

He sees I've been unpacking. I watch his eyes rove among the boxes sitting on the sofa, the countertops, the dining room floor.

"Don't let me bother you, Deirdre. You go right on doing what you need to do." He swings his wrench a little too swiftly for my comfort. "Yes siree. I'll be checking."

This time when he smiles, I think part of his mouth has stretched clear to Tennessee.

nine.

Miriam runs The Center at the Nantahala Presbyterian Church in Bryson City. I suppose her title would be Director. She's part Cherokee and part Swiss, she tells me. Her eyes are the kind of blue that makes me think of an autumn sky, and her skin is creamy brown. Her hair is shiny, like the coat of a seal. Immediately, I am surprised to see that although she is dressed in Ann Taylor's newest spring line-a scoop-neck aqua satin blouse and black skirt-on her feet are grass-green tennis shoes.

She tells me that my grandfather was a big supporter of The Center and of her desire to establish a 501(c)(3) organization to keep kids off the streets after school and during the summer months. I am learning new things about my grandpa every day. It's like Christmas, opening all of these surprising revelations. I used to think all he cared about was food and travel.

We stand in Miriam's office, a tiny compartment to the left of the hallway in an annexed section of the church. I wonder why a director doesn't wear heels. She tells me how the younger kids in the preschool program at the church enjoyed having my grandfather read books to them. "Dr. Seuss was never the same for me after your grandfather read Oh, the Places You'll Go Oh, the Places You'll Go. We all miss him here." Her smile is warm; her eyes sparkle.

I am glad to know my grandpa was thought of so fondly, but I'm not sure I can recall Oh, the Places You'll Go Oh, the Places You'll Go. I make a mental note to brush up on my Dr. Seuss and then have a fleeting thought that maybe Grandpa gave my sister and me Green Eggs and Ham Green Eggs and Ham one Christmas. As children of pig farmers, we were used to getting books, cards, and comments about pigs, ham, bacon, tenderloin, and pork chops. one Christmas. As children of pig farmers, we were used to getting books, cards, and comments about pigs, ham, bacon, tenderloin, and pork chops.

When I was small, my grandparents still lived in Pennsylvania, where Dad was born. Dad moved to Georgia in his twenties after attending business school. I recall him telling me that as a child, kinfolk would comment that Edna, his mother, must have forgotten which town she was in when she had her sixth child, which was my dad. Ernest and Edna hadn't lived in Lancaster since 1930, so why did they name my dad Lancaster? Dad was born in 1945 in the brick house where they lived in Altoona. He has always been grateful his mother didn't name him Altoona. "Lancaster is a fine name," he has told me over the years. "Lancaster has a solid ring to it." Such a nice ring, in fact, that my middle name is Lancaster. Growing up in the South, I longed for a more debutante-quality name like Deena Ann, Deena Joy, Deena Marie, or even Deena Sue. But no, my dad had to provide me with a solid name solid name.

The Center's kitchen smells like a mixture of day-old popcorn and lemon-scented cleaner. The gas stove is clearly industrial, though not as large as the one at Palacio del Rey. A stab of pain jabs at my heart as I wonder what everyone at the restaurant is doing today. Do they miss me? Is the new baker as good as I was? Does she take the time to pipe perfect roses for the tops of the vanilla creme cakes? Does Anthony ask her to taste his sauces to see if they are seasoned just right?

Miriam's voice breaks into my thoughts. "Would you like to buy the ingredients you'll need and give us the receipts and we'll refund you? That might be easier than one of us here shopping. We might not buy the right items."

We stand by the kitchen's pantry. The pantry door is ajar, so I can see stacks of white china plates and coffee cups. I consider the options and decide I'll purchase the ingredients for the classes, because that way I can be assured I'll be cooking with the correct products. The Center can reimburse me-if I can manage to keep track of the receipts.

Miriam asks if I can start teaching tomorrow afternoon and teach a class every weekday afternoon right after the kids get off the school bus. I start to say that I don't really care because I'm obligated to do this as part of my grandfather's instructions, but then I decide that would make it seem as if I don't really want to teach. Actually, I would rather bungee jump off the Blue Ridge Parkway than teach, but I can't let Miriam discover that. She hands me a form to fill out and asks, "You want your paycheck directly deposited or mailed to you?"

My bank is in Altanta, but I think they have a Bank of America office here, too. I make a mental note to check on that. They do have many of the other modern conveniences like Burger King, McDonalds, grocery stores, and gas stations. I tell her that direct deposit will be fine and stuff the forms into my purse.

She demonstrates how to use the dishwasher, the sink, and the disposal. I nod and thank her for showing me. I'm tempted to say that I have worked in kitchens for a long time now, that I am a graduate of a fine culinary school, but I really don't think boasting in church is acceptable.

"The sink does drip," she tells me as three droplets sail from the faucet. "Our plumber should be by to fix it one of these days."

I wonder if I should recommend Jonas to her. He knows how to tighten every pipe with his swinging wrench. When he left yesterday, he told me, "All your pipes are working good" and I had to smile.

We pause by the window over the sink to watch a group of kids play basketball on a paved court. A tall man with curly blond hair that bounces as he goes for the rebound is with them. I watch him quickly reach for a pass and stretch his arms to toss the orange ball through the hoop. A short boy wearing red sneakers tries to block the pass but doesn't succeed. Basketball and I haven't had much experience together. I played in high school only when the gym teacher required us to do so fall semester of my freshman year. Since then, I haven't picked up a basketball, and like creative writing, I don't miss it.

Miriam smiles. "He's a cutie," she says.

I assume she means the man, although the young boy with the red shoes is cute, too. He turns so that his face is visible, and I notice his large, brown eyes under straight, black hair.

The curly-haired guy's face breaks into a smile as the boy pulls the ball from behind him and dribbles it down the paved court. The man's smile doesn't go to Tennessee like Jonas's, but it looks confident, secure, self-assured-if all those things can be displayed in a smile, and seeing his, I'm certain that they can. He has all the characteristics I no longer possess. He and I may be at the same church, but we are not on the same planet.

Suddenly, into the kitchen comes a woman with hair the color of a pumpkin, skin darker than Miriam's, and a glare that shouts of hatred. As her voice bellows across the counters, I cower behind Miriam. My fingers are knotted balls.

"Felicia, you are not to be here," Miriam says boldly. "I will call the cops."

"Zack told me I can see my boy."

"Only when you have an appointment."

"He's my son. I can see him whenever I please."

"That is not what the terms are." Miriam's eyes are cold; no sparkle from earlier remains.

"I'm not in jail anymore. I'm free. I can do whatever I want to now."

"You will land back in jail with that attitude."

"Where is Darren?"

"Felicia, you need to leave now."

"Make me!"

"I'm calling the cops." Miriam pulls a cell phone from her pocket and flips it open. She punches numbers.

But it is not a cop who steps into the kitchen right then. It is the tall basketball player, dripping with perspiration. "Felicia," he says with strength and calmness, "you know the rules."

"I want my boy. I just want to see my boy. Please, Zack." The woman's voice cracks with each word. I think she is on the verge of tears.

Zack glances at Miriam, who shrugs her shoulders. Turning to the distraught woman, he says, "Come with me," and gently ushers her out of the kitchen as Miriam follows with halting steps.

I stand alone next to the industrial stove. The sink drips twice, pauses, and then lets out four more droplets, all of which end up in a blurry mass.

ten.

Back at my grandfather's cabin, I make a dinner of fried potatoes and onions-one of the quick-and-easy recipes I've grown to love and will probably still be making when I'm ninety. As I smell the comforting aroma of onions sizzling in butter, I think to myself that I should have told her. While Miriam and I stood there at the church kitchen window watching Zack play basketball with the children, before Felicia's unexpected arrival, I should have said, "Well, guys aren't important to me now. Cute or otherwise."

But what if she had asked why not? Would I have been able to tell her about Lucas? I still don't want to talk about him.

I use one of my grandfather's stainless-steel spatulas to flip over a slice of potato. I study it to see how brown it's become. "Never tell people too much about yourself at first," my mother always told my sister, Andrea, and me growing up. "Leave room for them to ask about you. Besides, no one really cares." Another mixed message from my mother; those little pieces of wisdom have become part of the woven fabric of my childhood. Do this, but don't. Mom's advice on dating was, "Be coy around men, but don't play games."

If you're not supposed to talk about yourself and you are supposed to wait for people to ask about you, and yet people don't really care to hear about you, then how will you ever get a chance to share about yourself?

When Andrea and I hear something that doesn't make sense, we'll say, "Sounds like one of Mom's expressions."

Andrea and her way-too-handsome husband, Mark, are missionaries in Taiwan now, and she often feels she's getting mixed messages. "You should see some of the English translated by Chinese-totally confusing," "You should see some of the English translated by Chinese-totally confusing," she wrote in an e-mail message shortly after she and Mark arrived in Taipei. she wrote in an e-mail message shortly after she and Mark arrived in Taipei. "I think Mom's influence is strong even in Asia." "I think Mom's influence is strong even in Asia."

As I set a place for one at the wooden dining table, I decide that it is just as well that I didn't mention anything about Lucas to Miriam.

I wake and look at the digital clock on the bedside table. Two minutes after three. What woke me? Did I have pain in my legs, or my arms? What is that noise? I turn on my stomach and cover the back of my head with a pillow. This is a crazy thing to do because who can sleep with a pillow smothered over your head? The pillow feels heavy and stifles my neck. I can't breathe. I toss the pillow aside. The noise is still there. Sitting up, I realize that it must be the hooting of an owl. Once, we had an owl living in our oak tree by the barn. My mother wanted to call the county extension service to come and rid us of its disturbing cries. But Daddy said the owls were in Tifton long before humans were and that we had to just let it be.

I'm wide awake now. I've slept through the sirens that blare throughout Atlanta, but sleeping through nature's cries will take some getting used to. I wonder how Yolanda is doing. I miss the Peruvian delicacies she would share with me. My thoughts of arroz con pollo and leche asada are replaced with thoughts of my little apartment. My bedside table not only held an alarm clock but also a framed picture of Lucas. The thought of Lucas causes my skin to itch.

One thing I don't do well is lie awake at night. Getting out of bed and doing something helps me when I can't go back to sleep. After the accident, I woke at all hours, so I invested in a number of jigsaw puzzles. I sat at my kitchen table many nights while sirens blared around my neighborhood, working on finding the pieces to quiet forest scenes.

I leave my bed, pull on my bathrobe, climb down the loft stairs, and head outside onto the deck via the sliding glass door.

The night is chilly, but the fresh air feels good against my face and in my lungs. I stand with my hands on the deck railing and watch the stars glitter above me. They look so near; if I just reached out, I could gather a few hundred in my hand.

The owl continues his own concerto. Unlike the stars, he wants to remain unseen. I once wondered aloud what it would be like to listen to an orchestra play Vivaldi's La Stravaganza La Stravaganza in total darkness. No viewing of the musicians playing violins-just an audience sitting and listening to the notes in the blackness. Lucas asked me how the musicians would read their music if there was no light. I hadn't thought of that. I suppose it would be too much to ask them to memorize it all. Lucas said it was an intriguing idea, however, and gave me that smile of his that seemed to encompass total appreciation for me. in total darkness. No viewing of the musicians playing violins-just an audience sitting and listening to the notes in the blackness. Lucas asked me how the musicians would read their music if there was no light. I hadn't thought of that. I suppose it would be too much to ask them to memorize it all. Lucas said it was an intriguing idea, however, and gave me that smile of his that seemed to encompass total appreciation for me.

"Ha!" I cry into the air. There is strength in the sound of my own voice. "Ha!" I repeat and hear the echo in the forest around my cabin.

I now wonder if Lucas's smiles meant anything at all. When did he stop loving me? I once told Sally that perhaps he was trying to kill me that rainy night. She shook her head so hard her curls flung into her eyes. "Oh, Deena, no. No."

"He was angry at me. We'd been arguing. Maybe he did want to kill me," I said as Sally continued shaking her curls.

I don't know why on this beautiful mountain night I have to spoil everything by thinking about Lucas, but my mind will not stray from these thoughts. Leaving Lucas and Atlanta was supposed to make me forget.

Finding out your boyfriend is secretly seeing someone else, and has been for a long time, makes your stomach feel like a bully wearing spikes just kicked it. When you're a couple going to the movies on Friday night, when you've pledged your hearts to each other, and he asks someone else to dinner on Saturday, well, that burns.

It happened to me. And she's pretty. Very. There I was picking out wedding invitations-contemplating over goldembossed or silver-lined and imagining the elegantly wrapped gifts guests would send us-and Lucas was wrapping his lips around Ella Loloby.

The nurse had just given me one of my Toradol pills when Sally and Jeannie entered the room and told me this. They asked how I was, but I could tell that was not why they were glancing at each other, avoiding my eyes, and refusing to smile. They waited to tell me until after the nurse took my temperature, checked the bandage around my forehead, and left the room.

Sally bit her lower lip. I've noted her habit; it's always the right side of her bottom lip she sinks her pearly whites into. "Lucas is seeing Ella Lolly."

"Loboly," corrected Jeannie with certainty.