Chapter 1

"Mom, this Saturday, Jeffrey Dickerson wants to come by and meet you and Dad."

On the other end of the line, her daughter Louisa Fox's voice carried a careful, testing edge.

Frieda Fox was wiping down the TV stand with a rag when she heard it, and her hand went still.

"Meet me? Empty-handed?" she asked bluntly, no warmth or anger in it either way.

"Oh, come on, Mom! We're building a relationship, not closing a deal! Him showing up is what matters, more than anything else!" Louisa's voice shot up an octave.

Frieda tossed the rag aside, leaned back against the couch, and let out a cold breath.

"A relationship? Can a relationship put food on the table? Can it keep you from a lifetime of getting the short end? I'm telling you, Louisa. The first time a man walks through the door, what he brings tells you exactly how he feels about the marriage."

"You're just a snob! You just look down on him!"

"I'm not looking down on him. I'm looking down on how little he cares about you," Frieda said, her voice going cold too. "I'll say it once and I mean it. Saturday, I'll be waiting. I want to see for myself just how much he values my precious daughter."

And she hung up with a sharp click.

The living room went silent all at once, nothing left but the tick, tick of the clock on the wall, as if it were counting down to a trial.

Saturday afternoon, the doorbell rang.

Frieda opened the door to a tall, thin young man, skin a little tanned, but with a clean, open smile. Beside him stood her daughter, Louisa, her whole face tight with nerves.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm Jeffrey." The boy's voice was stiff with restraint, and in his hand he carried a plain yellow cardboard box.

Frieda's eyes stayed on that box for two full seconds. Not big. Didn't look heavy either.

She stepped aside. "Come in."

The meal came and went, bland as dishwater.

Frieda's husband, Jack Fox, was an easygoing soul, and he kept piling food onto Jeffrey's plate, asking about his job and his family.

Frieda barely spoke. When she did, it was only the practical things. "How much do you make a month?" "When do you plan to buy a place in Baytown?"

Jeffrey answered honestly. He worked in tech at a private company, middling pay, his family was out in the country, both parents farmers, and buying a place wasn't something he could count on anytime soon.

With every answer, the temperature in Frieda's chest dropped a degree.

After dinner, Louisa went to wash the dishes, and Jeffrey sat awkwardly on the couch, nudging the box forward.

"Ma'am, these are oranges we grow ourselves back home. No pesticides, and they're really sweet. First time coming over, just a little something to show I care."

Frieda looked at the box. Not even a decent label on it, just plain corrugated cardboard.

The last scrap of courtesy she had left was wearing thin fast.

"You shouldn't have," she said flatly.

After she saw Jeffrey out, Louisa caught the look on her mother's face and rushed to explain.

"Mom, Jeffrey's really a good person, really steady. His parents picked these oranges off the tree themselves just for him to bring, hauled them all the way from home. They were heavy."

Frieda glanced at the box dumped in the corner and said sourly, "Steady puts a roof over your head, does it? You could carry them, so why couldn't he lug over two boxes of gold? A box of sad oranges, and he had the nerve to walk in with that. I've never been so embarrassed in my life."

"How can you talk like that? It's how he shows he cares!"

"Cares? That kind of caring comes cheap." The more Frieda said, the angrier she got. "I didn't raise you all these years just so some man could pass you off with a box of oranges. I'm not agreeing to this."

The two of them had a screaming fight, and Louisa ran back to her room in tears.

The next day was Monday, and Frieda had work. On her way out, she looked at the box of oranges in the corner, and the longer she looked, the more it grated on her. Who in this house liked sour stuff like that? Left there, they'd just rot.

Then she thought of Mr. Lambert at work. Lately he kept mentioning that the old man at home had no appetite, couldn't get anything down.

Gift-giving was an art. Too expensive drew eyes and looked forced.

These oranges were cheap, sure, but passed off as a local specialty grown by relatives back home, they'd hold up fine. Put waste to use and earn a little goodwill besides.

That settled it. Frieda didn't hesitate any longer, hoisted up the not-too-heavy box, carried it down, wedged it onto the back seat of her little scooter, and rode off to work.

At work, while the office was still thin in the early morning, she carried the box straight into Mr. Lambert's office.

"Director Lambert, these are oranges some relatives back home grow themselves. All natural, no chemicals, and they taste good. Brought you a few to try, might help your old man's appetite."

Mr. Lambert was in his fifties, usually not one to crack a smile, but at that he gave a rare little laugh.

"Well now, Frieda, that's too kind of you. As it happens, my father's been going on lately about wanting something sweet and sour. All right, I won't stand on ceremony with you."

Frieda exchanged a couple of pleasantries and backed out, a stone lifting off her chest. She'd finally passed that hot potato along. Out of sight, out of mind.

She went back to her own office and gave the whole thing no further thought. As far as she was concerned, she'd simply gotten rid of something that had been bothering her.