“He said we should have it right after the barbecue, once everyone’s tempers had cooled.”

I set my glass of sweet tea on the porch rail.

“Did he tell you not to let me help with the plates?”

Martha’s hands stopped on her apron.

“He said high-strung,” she said.

“I didn’t like the word.”

The cicadas started up in the oak trees.

Martha pushed a small plate of peach pie toward me.