I go back in the house, pass Mother at the kitchen table drinking warm milk.

“Was that Stuart I saw out there?”

I go in the dining room. I stand back from the windows, where I know Stuart can’t see me. I watch until he drives away. And then I just keep watching.

THAT NIGHT, as usual, I go to Aibileen’s. I tell her about the deadline of only ten days, and she looks like she might cry. Then I hand her Louvenia’s chapter to read, the one I’ve written at lightning speed. Minny is at the kitchen table with us, drinking a Coke, looking out the window. I hadn’t known she’d be here tonight and wish she’d leave us to work.

Aibileen puts it down, nods.“I think this chapter is right good. Read just as well as the slow-wrote ones.”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair, thinking of what else needs to be done.“We need to decide on the title,” I say and rub my temples. “I’ve been working on a few. I think we should call itColored Domestics and the Southern Families for Which They Work.”

“Say what?” Minny says, looking at me for the first time.

“That’s the best way to describe it, don’t you think?” I say.

“If you got a corn cob up you butt.”

“This isn’t fiction, Minny. It’s sociology. It has to sound exact.”

“But that don’t mean it have to sound boring,” Minny says.

“Aibileen,” I sigh, hoping we can resolve this tonight. “What do you think?”

Aibileen shrugs and I can see already, she’s putting on her peace-making smile. It seems she has to smooth things over every time Minny and I are in the same room. “That’s a good title. A course you gone get tired a typing all that on top a ever page,” she says. I’d told her this is how it has to be done.

“Well, we could shorten it a little . . .” I say and pull out my pencil.

Aibileen scratches her nose, says,“What you think about just calling it . . .Help?”

“Help,” Minny repeats, like she’s never heard of the word.

“Help,” I say.

Aibileen shrugs, looks down shyly, like she’s a little embarrassed. “I ain’t trying to take over your idea, I just . . . I like to keep things simple, you know?”

“I guessHelp sound alright to me,” Minny says and crosses her arms.

“I like . . .Help,” I say, because I really do. I add, “I think we’ll still have to put the description underneath, so the category’s clear, but I think that’s a good title.”

“Good is right,” Minny says. “Cause if this thing gets printed, Lord knows we gone need some.”

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, with eight days left, I come downstairs, dizzy and blinking from staring at pica type all day. I was almost glad when I heard Stuart’s car pull up the drive. I rub my eyes. Maybe I’ll sit with him awhile, clear my head, then go back and work through the night.

Stuart climbs out of his mud-splattered truck. He’s still in his Sunday tie and I try to ignore how handsome he looks. I stretch my arms. It’s ridiculously warm out, considering Christmas is in two and a half weeks. Mother’s sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, swathed in blankets.

“Hello, Missus Phelan. How are you feeling today?” Stuart asks.

Mother gives him a regal nod.“Fair. Thank you for asking.” I’m surprised by the coolness in her voice. She turns back to her newsletter and I can’t help but smile. Mother knows he’s been stopping by but she hasn’t mentioned it but once. I have to wonder when it will come.

“Hey,” he says to me quietly and we sit on the bottom porch step. Silently, we watch our old cat Sherman sneak around a tree, his tail swaying, going after some creature we can’t see.

Stuart puts his hand on my shoulder.“I can’t stay today. I’m heading to Dallas right now for an oil meeting and I’ll be gone three days,” he says. “I just came by to tell you.”

“Alright.” I shrug, like it makes no difference.

“Alright then,” he says and gets back in his truck.

When he has disappeared, Mother clears her throat. I don’t turn around and look at her in the rocking chair. I don’t want her to see the disappointment in my face that he’s gone.

“Go ahead, Mother,” I finally mutter. “Say what you want to say.”

“Don’t you let him cheapen you.”