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She paused in the cool shade of the porch, panting a little, basket at her feet, and listened through the screen door. Voices—Aunt Clelia and Rosemary, her lodger—carried from the kitchen.

“Where is that child?” demanded Aunt Clelia. “Never around when you want her and always underfoot when you don’t.”

“Bless her heart,” said Rosemary.

“Vivvy’s heart’s been blessed so much, she should be walking around beneath a halo.”

Rosemary said something about Vivian’s “poor mother” and blessed her heart too. Rosemary hated to let anyone’s heart go unblessed.

“Poor nothing,” said Clelia. “Don’t get me wrong—my sister has had her trials.

Husband couldn’t catch a nickel if you glued it to his palm.

Forever chasing after some scheme. The boys have always been a handful.

And she’s never gotten over losing the two between Walter and Elizabeth.

But she got Mama’s house because she’s the one with a family to raise.

Even though we all know it’s Elizabeth who’s raising Vivvy. ”

This wasn’t the first time Vivian had heard women whispering about her mother. Clara Shaw didn’t dote and she didn’t coddle. She rarely scolded. Or did the motherish things Vivian observed at her friends’ houses. She left Vivian’s mothering to her oldest daughter, Elizabeth.

“Bless her heart. That Elizabeth is just a girl herself,” said Rosemary. “No wonder Vivvy runs wild. You can’t tell where the dirt ends and the young’un begins.”

Vivian looked down at her bare feet, gray past the ankles and suddenly itchy. She rubbed the arch of one foot against her calf, unable to recall the last time Elizabeth had made her bathe.

Except for the part about her being dirty, she hadn’t learned anything new from eavesdropping on Rosemary and Aunt Clelia.

It didn’t bother her that they thought her father was a no-account.

He was mostly gone—a traveling salesman—toting a new case of samples whenever he blew back into Hahira.

It didn’t bother her that Clelia was upset about her mother getting Grammy’s house.

Clelia had a perfectly fine house of her own—smaller, but plenty of room for herself and Rosemary—that Old Man Suttle had left her.

He’d died shortly after their honeymoon.

Just went to bed one night and never woke up again.

Now there was a notion that bothered Vivian.

What bothered her even more was anyone thinking Elizabeth wasn’t doing a good job.

When Vivian felt scared about going to bed and not waking up again, it was Elizabeth who hugged her.

Their mother was busy turning the squash patch, trellising the beans, or pruning the peach trees.

When Vivian got hungry, their mother was busy digging sweet potatoes or weeding the corn, so it was Elizabeth who rustled up something to eat.

Whenever Vivian put herself in her mother’s path, between her and her pruning shears, between her and the strawberry bed, between her and anything at all, her mother shooed her away, saying, “Go ask your sister.” Vivian adored Elizabeth.

Aunt Clelia reared up on the other side of the screen door. “There you are! Why didn’t you knock? Bring those on in here.” Vivian hoisted the basket to her chest—her arms barely wrapped around it—and stumbled after her aunt into the kitchen.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” said Rosemary. Vivian had seen the disgusting things her mother’s tabby dragged in—when Rosemary’s back was turned, she stuck out her tongue at her. Aunt Clelia thwapped her on the top of her head.

Because Aunt Clelia had done it, Vivian had to look meek and sorrowful.

If anyone at school had done it, she would have thwapped them back, and better.

Her brothers had taught her how to throw a punch just last week.

She’d only tried it on their open palms so far, and on a bolster in the parlor.

She was itching for a chance to try it on a kid.

Vivian lingered in the kitchen, hopeful. Sometimes Aunt Clelia gave her a penny. It seemed that today would not be one of those times. “Go on. Scat. We don’t have time to entertain you. We’ve got to peel and pickle all of these.”

She slunk down the porch steps and towed the wagon back onto the hot sand of Oak Street.

Elizabeth was off with her girlfriends. Since she turned twelve, Elizabeth spent a lot of time giggling with her friends and rag curling her hair.

Vivian decided to go find her brothers and ask them how to oil the wagon wheels.

Phil Jr. and Walter helped fill the family cash jar by tinkering with bicycles, cars, and tractors for whatever anyone could afford to pay.

Not much, usually. Anytime she wanted, they let her lie down on the creeper and slide under the cars.

Just the other day, they had promised to show her how to use a socket wrench.

She skipped ahead, jerking the wagon along behind her, no longer thinking about a bath.

The smell of bacon woke Vivian when the sky had barely paled. Her mother was probably already out in the garden, yanking any weeds bold enough to sprout overnight, deadheading spent flowers, and cutting the best ones for Elizabeth’s wedding bouquet.

How good of Elizabeth to cook a real breakfast on the morning of her wedding.

The next time Vivian wanted bacon, she’d have to fry it herself.

But that was all right. She was eleven now.

Able to fend for herself. She dressed quickly, then peeked inside the chifforobe.

Her new dress, with its tatted Peter Pan collar and its gored skirt, pale blue like the morning sky, swayed on its hanger.

Her mother was a talented seamstress. She usually only deployed her talents for paying customers, but she’d sewn Vivian this dress for her sister’s wedding.

She’d sewn Elizabeth’s dress too. Peach satin, cut on the bias.

“Wear it while you can,” Clara had sniffed during a fitting, casting a grim glance at Elizabeth’s waist.

“Some women want babies,” said Aunt Clelia. “The majority, seems like.”

“Wanting and not having any choice in the matter are two different things,” retorted Clara. “Some of us would give our eyeteeth to still be able to wear a bias cut. Babies put an end to that.”

“I want lots of babies,” said Elizabeth, peering over her shoulder at her reflection. She vamped to see how the satin clung. “For the record, I’ve got plenty of time to wear dresses like this.”

“I should hope so,” said Clelia and Clara at the same time.

Vivian hoped to wear a bias-cut satin dress herself someday.

She’d never given a thought to whether she wanted babies.

She didn’t own a doll, found her friends’ dolls not just boring but inconvenient.

Why burden yourself with a toy you just carried around, a toy that didn’t do anything? Give her a bicycle any day.

The custardy smell of scrambled eggs reached her.

Time to head downstairs. In the parlor she drew up short.

The room was free of its usual clutter. The cushions plump and recently fluffed.

The floor free of grit. A lace doily graced the back of the wing chair.

She heard a glug glug glug from the kitchen.

The sharp tang of pine oil now vied with the smell of fried bacon.

It could mean only one thing: her father was expected.

Sure enough, before she set a foot in the kitchen, her mother waved her back with the mop. “Your plate’s on the back porch. Go around the outside.”

“Is Daddy coming home?”

“Of course. He’d never miss Elizabeth’s wedding.”

Vivian wasn’t so sure. Phillip Shaw had missed many special occasions.

Most of her birthdays, a fair number of Christmases.

But her mother always knew when he was coming—somehow he got word to her.

Vivian took in the line of pound cakes cooling on the counter, the peaches simmering on the stove, a chicken seasoned and trussed and ready for the oven.

Her mother must have been up all night. Not just to prepare for Elizabeth’s wedding, which would be held in the backyard at 3 p.m., but because Phillip Shaw was expected.

What Clara Shaw never did for others, wouldn’t even have done for wedding guests—beating the carpets, roasting a chicken, mopping the floors—she happily did for him.

Elizabeth was already on the back porch, crumbling bacon into her grits. “Daddy’s coming,” she said.

“I heard.” Vivian tucked into her breakfast. “Wonder for how long.” As long as he stayed, she’d get a breakfast like this every day. Her mother would be cheerful. She might even ask about Vivian’s days and care about her answers. Might hover and chide and kiss her cheek and smooth her hair.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Viv.”

Phillip Shaw, wearing a slick-elbowed suit and a barely pressed shirt, arrived just ahead of the preacher.

“Sweet Vee, the sweet pea! How’s my baby girl?

” The last time he’d come, Vivian had thrown herself into his arms and he’d spun her around.

Today, mindful of her new dress and the dignity of her eleven years, she held herself like a lady, and he kissed the top of her head.

“All grown up, I see. Heading down the aisle herself before we know it, eh, Clara?”

Clara smiled, purely agreeable now that her husband had returned.

Elizabeth descended the stairs in her peach satin as the preacher stepped in with Aunt Clelia. They all gawped. “Oh, my, my,” said Phillip at last. “Isn’t she a beauty, Clara?” He took Clara’s hand, and the hardness left her eyes. She looked almost as young and beautiful as Elizabeth.

Clelia undid the clasp of her pocketbook and drew out a string of pearls. She fastened them around Elizabeth’s swanlike neck. Vivian sucked in her breath. The pearls glowed against the peach satin, against her sister’s rosy skin. Elizabeth kissed Clelia. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”