Helen brought the plate over and set it on the table. "My mother's recipe," she said. "I made them yesterday and again this morning. The first batch was fine, but I wanted —"
She stopped. She pressed her lips together and sat down.
Diane took one and bit it. Lemon, faintly. Almonds in pieces. The crumb was tender. They were good.
"They're good," Diane said.
"Mm."
The kitchen smelled of the oven still cooling. Somewhere in the house the refrigerator started its cycle.
"Yesterday's were good too," Helen said. "I made enough for the neighborhood."
"I'll take some back for Tom."
"Take all of them. I don't know why I made more."
Diane took another. She did not say because you wanted them to be different this time. She had read enough of her own diary from the year Mark died to know that the wanting and being able to say what for were two separate jobs, and the second one sometimes couldn't be done while the first was still going. She'd written I want fifty times in a row once, with nothing after it, and it had felt like the most honest thing she'd written all month.
"I'll wrap them up," she said, and stood.
Helen did not move. She was looking at her own hands on the table — palms down, fingers spread a little, as though she had just set down something heavy.