"Ex," Claire said. "Firmly. Permanently. Weatherproofed."
"Good." Mae tasted the gravy, frowned with the concentration of a jeweler, added a pinch of something pale from Walter's tin, tasted again, and nodded once to a ghost. "Jack's father used to say love is like this stuff. If it's perfect, somebody cheated and left out the living. If it's honest, it'll taste like the people who made it—burnt edges and all. Walter burned edges. I loved the man anyway. Still do. That's the inconvenience of real attachment."
Claire's eyes stung. She wiped them with the back of her wrist, careful of what remained of yesterday's liner. "I insulted it. In front of you. On Thanksgiving."
"You insulted it honestly," Mae said. She set the ladle down and finally looked at Claire, round glasses catching the kitchen's early light. "That's how I knew you weren't made of plastic. Plastic girls swallow and smile and marry calendars. You made a face like a person with a tongue, and then you stayed to scrub pans and lose at rummy and learn biscuits. Walter would've liked you. He liked people who told the truth and then helped with the dishes. Those are the only two skills that matter in a kitchen or a marriage, if you want my unasked opinion."