“And what about Mama’s trust?”

“Mama’s trust is a tangle of paperwork,” he said.

“One more reason to be done with all of this.” He slid out of the booth and was at the register before I could ask him anything else.

Martha was standing on the front porch when I got back to Birwood Lane, holding a Corningware dish wrapped in a folded towel against her chest like an infant.

She carried it into the parlor and set it on the coffee table, and the smell rose out of it, peaches and butter and nutmeg, the dish still warm through the towel.