She was able to have some time to talk with her father on the porch, just the two of them. “You’re more yourself than you’ve been in a long time,” he said.

“I am?” she asked.

“It seems like,” he said. “You ever hear from any of those folks? Ted and his tribe?”

“No,” she said. “Ted has moved on, and the kids were very happy to see me go.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Peyton. Ever since I pulled you squalling from your mama’s body, I’ve known you to work hard and honest and do your best no matter how rough the job.”

She laughed at him. “Thank you, Papa, but you didn’t deliver me.”

“Might as well have. You surely made your presence felt around here. I could hear you in the barn!”

“Now, Mama says that little Mike was the loudest and most trouble. That’s how I remember it.”

“Oh, Mike. He thought he was something special from the first breath he took. The Pope himself sent your mother a letter to say there were finally enough Lacoumettes in the world.”

“The Pope? Well, I always wondered why you and Mama didn’t try to squeak out a few more....”

“She swears it was the Pope who wrote. She was getting a little cranky,” he said. “What’s your life like now, my little bird?” Her father was always careful not to call the kids little lambs, as their days were definitely numbered.

“It’s good,” she said automatically.

“In what ways is it good?” he wanted to know.

The images that came to mind that described her current happiness were so unusual, she wasn’t sure she could explain. A Great Dane who followed a newborn, begging for a chance to sniff her. A teenage football star who took the time to teach a bunch of foster kids to paddleboard. A four-year-old who said, “It’s okay. I’m right here.” A conversation on the beach over a fire that stretched out till the wee hours, strong arms around her the whole time. A little clinic where folks stopped by to talk as often as they sought medical help. A little diner where the food was passable, the gossip rich and the camaraderie binding.

“It’s a nice little place,” she said to her father. “The people are very friendly.”

“You saying that fancy car didn’t make you happy?” he asked, raising one salt-and-pepper brow.

“It drives like a dream,” she said, laughter in her voice.

“You mean it doesn’t drive itself? Does it make a lot of little cars?”

She laughed at him. Paco Lacoumette would never spend good money on something as frivolous as a fancy car. “It hasn’t made any little cars yet,” she said.

“Keep an eye open,” he advised. “For what that piece of tin costs, she’s gonna whelp soon, make you a proud mama.”

He was a riot. She’d never tell him she regretted spending so much on a car and that she wasn’t even sure why she had. She kissed Paco’s weathered old farmer’s cheek. “I have to speak to Mama, see if I can help in the kitchen.”

There was already plenty of help in the kitchen. Her sister-in-law Lori, Adele and her mama were hard at work in a hot, sweaty kitchen. But Mama was in her element—she loved having a houseful. There would only be nine for dinner—a small group. So Peyton didn’t feel too guilty asking a favor.

“Mama, my new Thunder Point friends don’t have much experience with Basque cuisine. If you have extra from tonight that you can spare or any freezer dishes you can part with, I’d love to take some back with me. One of my friends is a deli chef, and she’s especially curious.”

“Is that so?” Mama asked, not looking at her.

“Only if it’s convenient. I could borrow a cooler or thermal carrier and take it home with me tomorrow. Fresh. Just if there’s enough.”

Her mother turned and looked at her. “There is always enough food, Peyton. Not enough of other things sometimes, but of food there is never a shortage. I can spare some for your friends to taste.”

“No oxtail or tongue, Mama,” she said. “They’re beginners.” Then she smiled somewhat timidly. Her mother’s home was the only place she was ever visited by timidity.

Her mother crouched to pull a roasting pan from the shelf beneath the work island in her big kitchen and handed it to Peyton. She pulled a knife from the rack and said, “Fine. Kill a chicken.”

“Oh, Mama, can’t George?”

“I think George is busy in the barn, and I understood you to say you wanted something Basque for you friends—not too ethnic or exotic.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I’ve always hated killing chickens! And I think you’re taking advantage of me.”

“Always, my little Babette,” Mama said. And then she smiled.

In the end Peyton packed up a couple of large take-home boxes that would do a restaurant proud. Mama pulled out all the stops—she was clearly showing off. Lamb-and-spinach-stuffed mushroom tapas, lomo and sautéed shrimp, tomato-and-garlic soup, creamy red potatoes, red beans and chorizo, mussels and rice, chicken basquaise, lamb shanks in stew, bread and two bottles of Rioja. “You are so brilliant, Mama,” Peyton said.

“And where did you think you got all your big brains? From that old farmer?” She threw back her head and laughed.

“You and Papa are in love every day,” Peyton said.

“And on the days we’re not, he behaves better.”

That comment almost sent Peyton back to the hayloft.

When Peyton stopped for gas on her way back to Thunder Point on Sunday she called Carrie and Scott and asked if she could drop off a little Basque treat on her way home, and of course, both of them were thrilled. She went to Carrie’s house first. Lou McCain let her in and led Peyton into some kind of gathering in the kitchen. Rawley Goode stood at the stove, Ray Anne sat at the table with Carrie, who had her leg elevated on a kitchen chair. Peyton put her offering on the table and asked, “What have I interrupted?”

“Just a hen party, Peyton. Do you know Rawley?” Carrie asked.

He turned from the stove and looked at her rather critically. “We seen each other around. And in case you’re wonderin’, I ain’t no hen.”

All of the women laughed, and Peyton noticed they were having wine, cheese and crackers.

“Hi, Rawley. What are you working on?” Peyton asked.

“Rawley’s been helping me with the cooking since I wrecked my knee,” Carrie answered for him. “The girls and I try to get together for a glass of wine every week if we can.”

“And your knee?” Peyton asked.

“Much better. It gets a little sore and swollen when I’m standing a lot, but I’m watching it and taking it real easy, thanks to Rawley.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lou said. “Didn’t you get a little help from your other friends? We’ve all been making wraps and sandwiches, grocery shopping, offered to take the August wedding job since we’re experienced servers. We’ve done it at some of the most notorious parties in Thunder Point. We need supervision, of course, but we’ve been helping!”

Rawley turned from the stove where he was casually stirring some kind of sauce and said, “I think the lady was talking about the natural talent.”