Tamra nodded. Her eyes were wet.
“I’ll remember,” she said.
She came every Tuesday after that. She wrote down everything. She learned that the scalloped potatoes need a full extra hour if you double the batch. She learned that you set the coffee going before you do anything else, because grieving people always want coffee first. She learned that Eunice takes hers black, and Marge can’t have onions, and old Mr. Pfeiffer in the fourth pew can’t have salt but always asks for the ham anyway, and you give him a small piece and don’t say a word about it.
She learned all of it.
And she never once tried to run it.
The sign-up sheet still hangs on the pantry door.
But it says something different now.
It’s written in Marge’s handwriting instead of a computer font. And it’s not a list of caterers or times.
