She wraps her ringed fingers around the mug. "Darren has a beautiful voice. He can sing 'O Holy Night' and make you cry."

"That kid sings?" I don't doubt he can make me cry. He already did that today.

"Wait till the pageant at church. His voice is magnificent." She sips her tea, adds two teaspoons of sugar from the bowl I've placed in the center of the table, and stirs.

"Really?"

"Surprise you?"

"Yes."

She reaches across the table and touches my arm. " 'In youth we learn. In age we understand.' " As I try to decipher what she means, she adds, "Austrian writer Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach." She says the name like this writer is her friend, like she drops in at her house often for sassafras tea and pound cake.

I think of showing my aunt the letter I found from Grandpa and asking her about the raccoon bowl. Perhaps she could even solve the mystery of why he wrote a letter and never mailed it to me.

Rubbing a band of silver etched with swirls of yellow gold and tiny diamonds, she smiles. Looking up from the ring, she says, "Many rings from men, but there is nothing like a sentimental gift."

I wonder if this is another quote from someone important, but she accredits the words to no one. "My mother died when I was still young. Well, younger than my sixty years now. I was only thirty-five." Her eyes turn dark, suddenly, like a cloud that covers a summer sun. "Your dad was only thirty-two."

"So your mother gave you that ring?"

"Oh, no! I found it among her jewelry when she died. Ernest said any necklaces or rings she had could be mine." Her face breaks into a smile that almost glitters like the ring's diamonds. "As long as none of my siblings found out and grew jealous. People can fight viciously over the family gemstones."

I wonder what my sister Andrea and I will fight over when our mom dies. Mom has one sapphire ring, but I've never liked it because it looks like it came out of a gumball machine. Once I asked if the stone was real and she just said, "Deena, Deena."

Solemnly, Regena Lorraine adds, "A lot of forgiving needs to happen in church after a funeral, I think."

Forgiving. The word makes me feel queasy. I grit my teeth and hope that Lucas's face will disappear from my memory. The word makes me feel queasy. I grit my teeth and hope that Lucas's face will disappear from my memory.

"Oh, speaking of church," she says, pushing her chair back from the table, "I'll pick you up this Sunday. Ten-twenty."

Giovanni, who is lying on the rug by the sliding door, lets out a woof, and I wonder if my aunt brings him to church, too.

If he sits in the passenger seat of her truck, does that mean I have to sit next to him? Does he use a seatbelt?

"Service I go to starts at eleven." My aunt wipes her lips with a tissue. "Not much of an early bird, so I'm still sleeping during the eight-thirty service."

I want to say that I haven't been to church in months, that even before the accident I was neglecting Sunday morning services. Lucas suggested we take drives instead. Then one day he didn't show up for our Sunday morning drive. When he finally returned my frantic calls that evening, he said he'd come down with the flu. I brought chicken soup to his apartment, but when I got there, only his roommate Allen was home, watching a football game on TV.

A wave of sadness starts to spread over me.

"Okay, Shug?" prompts my aunt.

I just nod.

She takes a few more noisy sips of tea and then announces, "Time to go." Abruptly, she stands.

"Going to play Clue?" I ask.

She pulls her tote bag over her shoulder and gives a little tug at her gray hair that is now hanging straight, except for the ends, which curve toward her chin. "Not tonight, Shug. Tonight is Scrabble at Jo-Jen's."

"Who is Jo-Jen?"

She laughs. "Josephine Jennifer. Friend of mine. She saved me once from a deep depression."

Is she serious? I can't imagine my aunt ever being depressed.

"But that's another story. I'll tell you later." She heads toward the door, her rubber-soled sandals flopping against the floor. Over the shoulder without the tote bag, she calls, "It's a good one."

Then she's gone, her dress billowing in the afternoon wind. Giovanni is slobbering and bounding after her.

No wonder people like their dogs so much. They are the most loyal and faithful of all beasts. No dog is going to cheat on you, or make you promises he doesn't intend to keep. Canines don't run off with other humans, even if those other humans happen to be better-looking; they stay loyal to their owners, regardless of how bad they look or smell.

fifteen.

Iam sipping Belgian coffee from the bear mug and thinking of the kids at The Center when Chef B calls the next morning. In his typical fashion he makes it sound as though he hasn't slept at all since my departure because he's had no idea if I even made it to North Carolina. "You not call me," he scolds. "I worry you end up in hospital in Gainesville."

Well, don't think I wasn't afraid of the same thing.

Chef B asks about the cabin and the state of the kitchen appliances.

"Gas stove," I say, because he, unlike Sally and Jeannie, will care about that.

He doesn't disappoint me. "Ah, gas is good, good. Better control of heat."

I smile at his approval of the stove.

"Are you writing in journal book?"

I tell him I have written in the book; I do not say that I haven't written in it every day as he instructed. He asks what I'm doing with my time. I tell him about my grandfather's plan for me to teach cooking lessons to children.

He clears his throat, and I anticipate that he will say, "How awful!" or "That is beneath your skill!" Instead he says, "Deena, that is perfect for you." With eagerness in his baritone voice he asks, "What did you teach them?"

I mutter that I started with a white sauce.

"White sauce?" His voice is raised, and I have to pull the cell phone away from my ear to save my hearing. "Teach them fun stuff," he tells me. Again I am aware that white sauce was a big mistake.

"Children want to make brownies. Sweets. Things they eat right away. How you say?" He pauses for a few seconds. "Instant gratification."

As I long for the kitchen at the restaurant, he tells a story about how Ashley Judd came to Palacio del Rey for dinner the other night. He wants to tell me what she ordered and who she was with, but all I want to know is if her skin is as flawless as it is on the cover of Cosmo Cosmo. Does she have wrinkles? Does she have scars on her arms?

He doesn't tell me because I don't ask.

I carry the ingredients to make brownies in my Whole Foods bag. My prayer is that all the children will be absent today.

The kids are all there when I arrive.

When I say that we will bake brownies and then eat them, there are a few cheers. Then they all wonder why I have brought sugar, cocoa, and flour.

"Don't you just add water to a brownie box?" Dougy asks innocently.

"You can," I say, "if you have a brownie box or brownie mix. But we are going to make brownies from scratch."

"We get to scratch?" Bubba looks confused.

"No, dummy!" belts out Bobby. "That means..." But he doesn't know how to explain what it means, so I tell them.

"When we cook from scratch it means we don't use any mix or box already prepared. We measure our own ingredients."

The class still looks confused until Lisa says, "It means we don't use instant."

"Oh. Oh, yeah," Bubba and Dougy say in unison.

Lisa beams like she is the teacher's pet; at this point, the pickings are slim for that honor, and she is the only one on my "almost good" list.

Darren sits with his notebook, not giving me any eye contact. I am sure he hates me. I should have asked Chef B how to make this kid like me. I think it will take more than brownies.

When the class is over and the kids run outside to play basketball, I head to the bathroom before washing the dishes. Making brownies was a good choice, but even so, the kids talked incessantly and fought over who was going to stir the batter next. I asked Darren to chop some walnuts and he refused. Dougy said Darren was afraid of knives. Darren yelled, "Shut up!" It was aimed at Dougy and not at me this time, but it still wasn't appropriate. I told Darren to be considerate of others, and he shot me an evil glare that made me think of his mother, Felicia. So much angry resemblance.

As I come out of the bathroom, I try to conjure courage and to walk with dignity. Courage is a tough thing to conjure.

If you don't believe you own it, you almost suffocate from feeling fake. Passing the bulletin board with the array of Bible verses, I pause. God? God? My cry is silent and yet I feel like every bone in my body is shouting for help. What does that quote say? My cry is silent and yet I feel like every bone in my body is shouting for help. What does that quote say? "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." And from Grandpa, I received, And from Grandpa, I received, "Put your whole hand in His." "Put your whole hand in His."

Yes, but how is that done? My own understanding is that this place is not for me, and I will never understand why my grandpa thought I should teach these children. Obviously, Ernest did not know me at all to place me here, or else he was just cruel, which can't be true. Everybody adored Grandpa. Except for my mother, but that's not my grandfather's fault. Even Mom's own mother told me once that "She was a stubborn child." Dad only sees her soft hair and features, and in college he was mesmerized by her shrewd business skills. She keeps her emotions to herself while keeping the farm in profits. Her good qualities are evident-I know I've gained from them over the years-yet sometimes I do wish she were not a prickly pear but more like a smooth Georgia peach.

When I turn from the bulletin board, Zack is walking toward me. His look holds genuine empathy. It prods me to say, "I'm not a teacher."

His face softens, and he gives me a small smile. "I'm not either."

"I don't even know if I like kids." Surely he will tell Miriam this tidbit and she'll oust me from The Center. I'll be kicked out forever, which, come to think of it, would not be a bad thing. Then I can work totally on establishing my cake-decorating business and eventually turning it into a catering company. No more kids to teach!

Zack says, "I used to think the same thing."

"You used to think you didn't like children?" What in the world? He is a kid magnet.

"They were so young and hopeful, and I didn't want to disappoint them."

Well, those are not my fears at all. I continue spilling out my emotions. "They're so... so..." What is wrong with me? I know what I mean.

Zack supplies, "Noisy? Undisciplined? Aggravating?"

Does he agree that they are? Or is he just saying this to appease me? I hate being appeased like I'm a... a child. "Yes, yes, yes," I say. I take a breath, and we both smile. His eyes are hazel with a tint of green around the edges.

"I know. But they will grow on you. It takes time."

"Why are you here?" I ask him. My voice is more demanding than I intended.

He looks a bit baffled and then slowly says, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"No, not that. Why are you here at The Center?"

"Oh." His faces relaxes. "I'm a social worker. I'm the caseworker for a bunch of these kids."

"You're a social worker with social services?"

"Yeah. But most of the time I spend here is volunteer. The Center is a really good program."

"Oh." What can I say? He chose chose a profession that deals with children. He even a profession that deals with children. He even volunteers volunteers to spend time with children. He could be anything he wanted to be, I think. He's confident and articulate and grows more handsome every time I see him. He could be posing for to spend time with children. He could be anything he wanted to be, I think. He's confident and articulate and grows more handsome every time I see him. He could be posing for Maxim Maxim. Instead he is here in the mountains of North Carolina working with a bunch of kids.

His smile is broad, and I note his dimples.

"You'll be okay," he says.

You'll be okay. How many times have I heard that line in the last three months? If I had a penny for every time a friend, coworker, parent, or doctor said that string of words to me, I'd be rich enough to bribe the lawyer on Main Street so he'd have to let me have the cabin sans teaching cooking to wild children with no manners. How many times have I heard that line in the last three months? If I had a penny for every time a friend, coworker, parent, or doctor said that string of words to me, I'd be rich enough to bribe the lawyer on Main Street so he'd have to let me have the cabin sans teaching cooking to wild children with no manners.

After a dinner of steamed broccoli and pasta seasoned with oregano, olive oil, and tomatoes, I take out the Bryson City phone book. I study the local businesses-potential places I can market my cake business. I plan to ask them if they will place my brochures in a strategic location with lots of customer traffic. That should generate some responses so I can start getting orders for custom-made cakes.

What if no one calls? What if no one even allows me to place my brochures in their shop or restaurant? The more I think about my new business, the more discouragement sets in.

Stop it. Don't think like that.

I call Sally, just to hear a familiar voice. After the phone rings five times I leave a message on her answering machine. I hope I sound perky and well-adjusted to my new mountain life. She's probably at a veterinary emergency, but I wish she were home. I just want to laugh with her about anything we think is funny today.

sixteen.