Her face lights up. I’ve matched her tone perfectly. I let her lead me back to the living room.

The food is surprisingly good, the conversation light. I find myself with more hot-dish recipes than I could prepare in a month and a backlog of stories to tell Deck. Clan Brody nearly mangling his hand trying to fix a snowblower. Scaredy-mouse Mildred traveling to Saint Cloud and getting lost in the mall parking lot. Deck’s own mother trying a new beautician and emerging from the beauty parlor to discover her bouffant was the color of apricots when the sun hit it.

At some point, Saint Dorothy, who’s seated next to me at the table, begins stroking my hair again. I find I don’t mind. The conversation is smooth, no sharp edges, and the murmur of it makes me drowsy, these women cooing and warbling like soft-chested birds, pulling me into their nest, soothing me.

It’s as if they’ve drugged me.

The realization makes me start. “Paulie Aandeg is back in town,” I blurt.

By their exchanged glances, I can tell I’ve committed another faux pas, splashing lurid real life onto their smooth white canvas.

Dorothy stops stroking my hair. “We know, dear.”

Now that I’ve blundered in, I stubbornly want to see this horse over the line. “Do any of you remember when he disappeared?”

“We all do,” Catherine says icily. “It almost destroyed Lilydale.”

She’s staring at Dorothy as she says it. Why?

“Mrs. Lily,” I ask Dorothy, using her formal name because her face is so near mine, and I want to create distance. “Did you know Paulie or his mom?”

She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “We all knew Virginia Aandeg. She was an unfortunate woman.”

“But no mother deserves to lose her child,” Mildred says, glancing around for approval. “We’re so glad he’s back.”

“If it really is him,” Rue says mildly. She’s been quiet most of the night.

“Did Amory tell you something?” Catherine asks.

Rue’s birdie shoulders lift slightly. “It’s just good to be cautious.”

The four of them seem to take Rue’s words at face value, and Catherine changes the subject, returning to the cotton candy conversation from earlier. Church charity events they’re planning, the new Simplicity MuuMuu caftan pattern 7088, a fabric trip to Saint Cloud, how Johann Lily wouldn’t be fond of the too-short dress styles, a titter of laughter.

I want to be back inside the circle. “Johann Lily?” I ask.

They ignore me for a moment, burbling on to a discussion of last Sunday’s church service and the choir’s new song that was a hair too racy.

“Johann Lily?” I repeat. “Is he a relative of yours, Dorothy?”

It’s Mildred who responds, after rolling her glance off the suddenly stone-faced women seated around the table. “Johann and Minna founded the town. They immigrated here from Germany in the mid-1800s. I can never remember the year.”

“They also founded the Fathers and Mothers.” Catherine is fixed on me, expression as keen as a razor, as she says this. She expects a response, but I can’t for the life of me guess what it would be.

“They must have had a lot of children,” I quip, “to have named the organization that.”

The women at the table exchange another tight expression. And as if I’ve upset God, a bowling ball of thunder rumbles across the sky. I tug my cardigan closer. A storm tonight was unexpected.

“You know the Fathers and Mothers insignia?” Mildred asks. The desperation to avoid conflict rolls off her, rancid and salty smelling. She’s trying to get me to back off, but I’m not sure from what. I can’t find my footing with these women.

The thunder cracks again, followed by a yellow jolt of lightning.

In that electrified space, I hold up a V with one hand, like a peace sign, three middle fingers upside down with the other for the M. Mildred leans over and tucks my ring finger into the palm of my hand, so now it’s two Vs, one up and one down. She moves the up V over the top of the down V. My hands now perfectly re-create the emblem I spotted at the Washburne Avenue building.

There’s something graphic about making this symbol, the pink flesh of my fingers straining apart. I pull my hands back, reclaiming them. “I understand the M for Mothers,” I say. “But the V?”

Rain is thrashing the sky now, pounding on the roof and windows, drumming up the smell of earth and ozone. The lights flicker.

“Vater,” Catherine says, the word so natural coming out of her strong, angled face. “German for father. Mutter is mother. The V always goes on top.”

“Because Father knows best,” all the women murmur in unison, like a catechism. Dorothy is caressing a necklace. I realize it’s the white enameled locket she was wearing the first time I met her. It’s in the shape of a lily. Surely it contains a photograph of Stanley?

I lick my lips, suddenly aware I’m gripping the edge of my chair.

The next roar of thunder is so loud, so unexpected, it startles me to my feet, a yelp escaping my mouth. The hot dish that was so comforting sloshes in my stomach. For a moment, I fear I’m going to vomit on the table, in the middle of the dirty plates, right on the plastic flowers. I gulp air, and the nausea recedes.

“I’ll clean up,” I say, reaching shaking hands toward plates.

“I’ll help!” Mildred offers, and the other women follow suit. They bundle up silverware and cups and tureens so efficiently that suddenly it’s only Catherine and me around the dining room table. I feel her hot eyes on me, but I don’t meet them.

The thunder and rain argue with each other outside.

I stack some plates and am carrying them to the kitchen when I notice Catherine’s ceramic collectibles for the first time, really see them in a blinding flash of lightning. They’re scattered around the house, but here in the dining room, they have a dedicated hutch.

They’re all blackface caricatures.

Mammy and Pappy saltshakers, skin the darkest black, aprons the whitest white. Ashtrays that are only pitch-black heads, mouths open to swallow the detritus. A blond-haired, black-skinned baby eating a slice of watermelon twice his size, his face so gape-mouthed that he appears more fish than human. An Amos and Andy plate.

A mix of fascination and disgust threatens to eject the hot dish yet again.

“I’ve been collecting them for years. Everyone knows what to get me for my birthday,” Catherine says from immediately behind me. It’s all I can do to swallow a squeal of fear.

She steps around so we are face-to-face. I try to arrange my expression into something neutral, but judging by her flinty eyes, I am unsuccessful.

“Are you feeling all right?” She puts her hand on my arm, her palm so hot it burns through my cardigan.

“The pregnancy,” I say, hoping to distract her. “It takes its toll.”

“I remember those days.”

After a final glance over her shoulder, I tear my attention away from the wall that feels more like trophies than collectibles, turning my back to it, swearing never to return to this house even if it’s on fire. I set the plates back on the table and pretend to gather more silverware, my back again to Catherine. “You have children?”

“One. A boy. Quill.”