She wasn't liking it that I was back. "Well, it isn't really." She looked at Jodi again. She knew that this wasn't the same woman who was with me before. Jodi was still in the dark glasses and ball cap, with her hair pulled back and a shapeless cotton top and big dangly earrings and no makeup. She didn't look the way she did on television.

I went to the counter, trying to act as if this was the most mundane visit in the world. "Mrs. Boudreaux, could we speak with you in private?"

She glanced at Jodi again, and this time the look was curious. "Why?"

"Because we want to discuss something personal, and it's better if we don't do it here." I kept my voice low, so that only Edith could hear.

She shot another glance at Jodi, and now she looked nervous. "My husband spoke quite clearly for us the last time. I don't have anything to say and I'd rather you leave."

Jodi took off the sunglasses. Her eyes hadn't left Edith since we entered, and now Edith was staring back at her.

Edith said, "You look familiar."

Jodi opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She came closer and stood next to me, so close that her shoulder was touching my arm. She didn't look full-steam-ahead now. Now, she looked the way you would look after you leaped off the board, and realized the pool was empty. She said, "My name is Jodi Taylor."

Edith seemed confused, then nodded and gave a little smile. "You're on television. We see you all the time."

Jodi moved toward Edith Boudreaux. "Mrs. Boudreaux, I believe that you and I are related. State records indicate that I was born to your mother, Pamela Johnson, thirty-six years ago. But I don't believe that. I believe that you gave birth to me. Is that true?"

The color drained from Edith Boudreaux's face, and her lips parted and she said, "Oh my God."

The two women in their sixties turned toward us, one of them holding a rust-colored dress that had to be four sizes too small. "Edie, do you think this works for me?"

Edith didn't hear them. She took a half-step back and then stepped forward again, gripping the Formica counter to steady herself. I smiled at the two women. "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Boudreaux is busy, now."

The woman with the rust dress made a face and said, "I don't think anyone asked you"

Edith blinked six or eight times, then said, "Jill, will you help Maureen, please?" You could barely hear her.

The blond clerk went over to the two women, but Maureen wasn't happy about it.

Jodi said, "There are some questions about myself that I'm hoping you will answer." She said it without emotion or intimacy, as if she had no more stake in the answers than a census taker.

Edith reached out as if to touch Jodi, but Jodi took a half-step back, her hands at her side. I said, "Why don't we go for a walk?"

Edith told the clerk that she had to go out for a while, and the three of us walked across to the square, me telling Edith what we knew and how we knew it. I thought she was going to deny it, but she didn't. I thought she might evade us, or start screaming for her husband, or make a big deal about how dare we invade her life like this, but she didn't do any of that. It was as if she had been waiting thirty-six years for Jodi to walk through the door, and now Jodi had and Edith couldn't stop looking at her. They walked on either side of me, keeping me between them, Jodi with her hands in her pockets, staring straight ahead, Edith anxious and staring at Jodi, as if Jodi might suddenly disappear and Edith wanted to have her committed to memory. When I finished, Edith said, "I can't believe how much she looks like me. She looks more like me than the children I raised." She said it to me, as if Jodi was a dream, and not really there.

I said, "If the state papers Rebenack had were legitimate, then Jodi is the child that Pamela Johnson handed to the state welfare authorities. There aren't any papers that indicate that the child was born to you. Nor are there documents that establish fatherhood."

She shook her head. "No. No, there wouldn't be."

Jodi said, "Then you don't deny that you're my birth mother?"

Edith seemed surprised. "No. No, of course not. Why would I?"

"You denied it thirty-six years ago."

"Oh."

I said, "Well, now that we're all together, maybe I should wait in the yogurt shop and let you two talk."

They both said, "No!" and Jodi grabbed my hand. She said, "I want you to stay. This won't take long."

We walked past a couple of wrought iron benches to a little gazebo in the square. An older man in coveralls and a red engineer's cap was on one of the benches, head back, mouth open, eyes closed. Sleeping. He had a tiny dog on a leash with him, the leash tied to the bench. The dog sat in the shade beneath the man and whined when we passed. The little dog was black and shaggy and its hair was matted. I thought it must be hot, with all the hair. We walked up the steps onto the gazebo and stood there in the shade. It was still hot, there in the shade.

Jodi stood well away from Edith, still holding my hand. She said, "So."

Edith uncrossed her arms, then recrossed them. She started to say something, then stopped. The little dog crept out from under the bench and tried to follow us up onto the gazebo, but reached the end of its leash and cried. Both Edith and Jodi looked at it.

I said, "Don't everybody talk at once."

Jodi frowned. "That's not funny."

"Nope. I guess not."

We stood there some more. The gazebo was sort of nestled in a stand of three mature magnolia trees, and the air was heavy with their scent. The big bumblebees zigged in and around the gazebo like police helicopters on patrol.

Edith said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I always thought you might come back to me. I would think of you, sometimes, and try to imagine what this moment would be like, and now here we are."

Jodi frowned, and her face pulled into a tight, uncomfortable knot. "Mrs. Boudreaux, I think I should make something clear."

"All right."

"I haven't come here to find my mother. I have a mother. She's the woman who raised me."

Edith glanced at the little dog again. "Of course."

"Just so we understand."

Edith nodded. "Oh, yes." She pooched out her lips, and then she added, "I hope the people who got you were good to you."

"They were. Very."

Edith nodded again.

Jodi said, "Was Leon Williams my father?" She said it abruptly, the same way she had gotten out of the car when she decided to go into Edith's store, like she had to do it that way or it wouldn't get done.

Edith's eyes flagged. Knew it was coming and here it was. "Yes. Leon was your father."

Jodi drew a slow breath, her mouth still the tight knot. "All right," she said. "All right."

Edith uncrossed her arms and cupped her right hand in her left at her breast. She looked at me, and then she looked back at Jodi. "That is what you wanted to know, isn't it?"

Jodi nodded.

Edith again took a single step toward Jodi, and Jodi lifted her free hand, stopping her. She still held onto me. "Please don't."

"Does it bother you that your father was a black man?"

Jodi's face tightened even more. "It seems to bother a great many people."

"It always has," Edith said. "I was just a girl, and Leon wasn't much older. We were children, and we were friends, and it became more than that." Her eyes grew wet and she blinked several times. "I hope you don't hate me for all of this."

Jodi stared at the little dog, and then she leaned against the gazebo rail. Even in the shade it was hot, and a single line of perspiration ran down the side of her face in front of her left ear. She didn't say anything for a while, maybe trying to put it in a kind of order. A couple of flies buzzed around the old man's race and he swatted at them without opening his eyes. She said, "Of course, I don't hate you. Don't be silly."