The bravest sentence an Ives had spoken in years.
“Sundays,” I said. “Bring nothing.”
He nodded like I had handed him something valuable and breakable.
Because I had.
We reached the interstate before the church potluck casseroles were uncovered.
Nobody followed us.
Nobody had to.
That part was finished.
Six weeks later, on a warm Saturday in November, June sat on my Asheville porch.
Danny had driven her seven hours and she spent most of the trip informing him that his taste in radio was criminal.
Her sewing box rested
