My mother and the lighthouse keeper wrote to each other in the black book Julia had given her to plan menus. That was my mother’s way. Give her a gift and she’d grab hold with two hands and take it as she pleased. Their plans had nothing to do with recipes. They wrote about what their lives would be like if they could be together, and they made fun of Julia, calling her a cow and a dolt, amused that she had no idea of what was happening right under her nose. The book was kept hidden in the barn.
