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thought maybe we could go down that shortcut your grandfather built for his patients, so they could walk to the village. Your father said you’d show me.”
    “That’s impossible! That shortcut is completely grown over, it’s dangerous!”
    What had my father been thinking? In its heyday the steep path down through the woods to the bottom of the road had dispensed with a mile’s worth of Sunset Drive’s hairpin curves. My grandfather had had the stepping-stones brought in from a quarry at his own expense; the residents on lower loops of the road, who would also profit from the shortcut, had granted him rights-of-way for his project. But that was almost thirty years ago, when my sixteen-year-old father and Willow Fanning had used it for their getaway. Surely he was not still remembering the path as it was then . Many of the stones were now upended or missing and the pine railings rotted out. Where had I been when my father was dispensing his obsolete information to Flora?
    After we got the Alabama foodstuffs put away (Flora was thrilled to discover some empty cocktail olive jars in the pantry, just the right size for “Juliet’s famous herbs”), we climbed the stairs and went down the hall to her room at the front of the house. I had lost all enthusiasm for my tour. It occurred to me now thatit would be wiser to keep our family stories separate from Flora’s. I lolled in the doorway of the Willow Fanning room and let Flora prattle on as she hung up her few garments and deposited the rest of her things in the freshly papered drawers that Mrs. Jones, who cleaned on Tuesdays, had prepared. Next to her underwear, Flora slid in some hand-sewn satin envelopes.
    “What’s in there, handkerchiefs?” I asked.
    “Sanitary napkins. You know what those are, don’t you?”
    “Good grief, yes,” I said, offended. “My grandmother told me about all that stuff years ago.”
    Presently I saw Nonie’s pile of letters go in the top drawer and determined to have a secret look at them as soon as an opportunity arose.
    “Are those all the clothes you brought for the whole summer?”
    “Oh, no, honey, Juliet is mailing me the rest. We decided it was more important for you to have the right meals for the weekend.”
    When the phone rang in the hallway, I was sure it was my father calling from Oak Ridge to see how we were getting on. Adopting Nonie’s ironic deadpan, I would be able to tell him about all the food in the luggage without Flora knowing we were making fun of her. But it was Lorena Huff.
    “Helen! Guess what Rachel just found under your bed in her room. Your new blue Keds!”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    “Not at all, sweetie. Don’t you know when you leave something behind, it means you want to come back? I’ll bring them over. Do you need them today?”
    “Not really.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m helping Flora get settled in.”
    A pause. “Everything’s going okay, then?”
    “Yes, ma’am, we’re doing just fine.”
    “In that case”—a shade more formal—“I’ll drop them off tomorrow.”
    “We might not be home. Tomorrow’s church.”
    “Well, look, Helen.” Now there was a chilliness, a touch of hurt. “I’ll drop them by when I’m over that way next. No need for anyone to be home . I’ll just leave them inside the screen door, okay?”
    “Okay.” Then, realizing I had forgotten to say the proper things when she and Rachel had brought us home, I burbled out my thanks for the week at their house. “Everything was just wonderful, Mrs. Huff. Thank you for having me.”
    “You’re welcome, Helen.” She sounded tired. “If you need us, you know where we are.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Please give my best to your father next time you talk to him.”
    “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

V.
    When I returned to Flora, she had changed out of her traveling outfit into some wrinkled pedal pushers and a sleeveless blouse that showed where her tan stopped just above the elbows. “You know what, Helen?” she