Of course, I couldn’t say anything so silly to her. I told Rita I was there to get to know her better. It took me longer to come calling than I’d planned, what with the Massies moving in and, after that, me having to put up tomatoes and to dry peaches. Bottled tomatoes I like, but dried peaches are a waste of good time, since there’s nothing that tastes worse than dried peach pie, unless it’s a rail fence. Grover likes them, however, but then, Grover likes anything. “That’s nice of you, dearie,” Mrs. Ritter said. “You girls go sit out where it’s cool.” Mrs. Ritter smelled like the blackberry jam that was cooking on the stove. Rita smelled like a hired hand. Her bangs were plastered to her forehead, and sweat rings stained her dress under her arms. There were blackberry stains on her apron, which was really one of Mrs. Ritter’s and was big enough to go around Rita three or four times. Agnes T. Ritter started to take off her apron, too, but Mrs. Ritter spoke up. “Agnes, would you help me with these dishes while we wait for the berries to cook?”
