Both of them crying a little.
Neither one of them minding that the other saw it.
I’ll tell you plainly that I cried too. Over by the coffee urns. The same two urns Eunice’s husband bolted that shelf for, thirty years ago.
Marge found me there.
She didn’t say anything. She just squeezed my arm once and went back to cutting the lemon bars into smaller pieces.
Because seventy people is more than sixty. And there’s always a way to stretch what you have, if you care enough to try.
After the last mourner had gone, after the tables were wiped down and the roasters scrubbed and stacked, Tamra stayed behind.
She sat down on an overturned five-gallon bucket by the pantry.
The funeral shelf was open in front of her. Somebody, probably Louise, without saying a word to anybody, had already started restocking the green beans we’d used.
