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about moving in and so forth.”
    Ella hesitated and glanced toward the kitchen. Margaret was softly humming a hymn, which usually soothed Solly. Comforting him would also help alleviate Margaret’s guilt, so Ella decided she could spare another few minutes.
    “I’ll see you out.” She led the way to the front door, but when she got there, she discovered that only Dr. Kincaid had followed her. Behind them the hallway was empty. Presumably Mr. Rainwater had ducked into the parlor, waiting there to discuss the details of his occupancy.
    “Can I have a word, Mrs. Barron?” the doctor asked. Only moments ago, he had seemed in such a hurry to leave that she looked at him curiously as he pushed open the screened door and ushered her out onto the porch.
    The overhang formed by the second story of the house had trapped the heat as well as the heady fragrance of gardenia. The shrub, laden with creamy white blossoms, grew in a pot she kept at the end of the porch.
    Two summers ago she’d had a boarder who complained of the fragrance being cloying and giving him headaches. Ella attributed his headaches less to the aromatic blossoms and more to the corn liquor he sipped from a silver flask when he thought no one was looking. When she reminded him that she didn’t allow spirits in the house, he’d been affronted.
    “Are you referring to my cough remedy, Mrs. Barron?”
    Short of calling him a liar, she couldn’t challenge him further, but he also never again complained about the gardenias. She’d been relieved when he’d moved out and the more genial Mr. Hastings had moved in.
    Again the doctor dabbed his bald head with his handkerchief. “I wanted to speak to you in private.”
    “About Solly?”
    “Well, that, yes.”
    They’d had this discussion many times before. Bracing for an argument, she clasped her hands at her waist. “I refuse to place him in an institution, Dr. Kincaid.”
    “I haven’t suggested—”
    “I also refuse to keep him medicated.”
    “So you’ve told me. Many times.”
    “Then please stop trying to persuade me otherwise.”
    “What happened just now—”
    “Could have happened to any child,” she said. “Remember when the Hinnegar boy turned that kerosene lamp over on himself last winter?”
    “That boy is two years old, Mrs. Barron. Solly is ten.”
    “His birthday is still months away.”
    “Close enough.” Softening his tone, the doctor continued. “I’m well aware of the perils inherent to childhood. Based on what I’ve seen during my years of general practice, it’s amazing to me that any of us reaches adulthood.”
    He paused, took a breath, then looked at her kindly. “But your boy is particularly susceptible to mishaps. Even at his age, Solly can’t understand the dangers associated with something like pulling a pan of hot starch off the stove. And then when there is an accident, his reaction is a violent outburst. As it was today.”
    “He was burned, he was screaming in pain. Anyone would scream.”
    “By my speaking to you plainly, please don’t think I’m being insensitive or unnecessarily cruel. It’s your situation that’s cruel. The fact is, without medication to suppress your son’s… impulses, he could harm himself and others, especially when he’s in the throes of one of his fits.”
    “I keep careful watch over him to prevent that.”
    “I don’t question how dutiful—”
    “It’s not my duty, it’s my privilege. Only the running of this house prevents me from devoting every waking moment to Solly. This morning was an exception, not the rule. I was unexpectedly called away.”
    That was a subtle reminder that he was responsible for her distraction, but the doctor ignored the rebuke.
    “You bring me to the next point, Mrs. Barron. This constant vigilance is also detrimental to your health. How long can you keep it up?”
    “For as long as Solly needs supervision.”
    “Which in all likelihood will be for the rest of his life. What happens