“She lived near one of Grandpa’s factories there. That’s how they met, when Dad went with Grandpa on one of his trips.”

“How romantic.”

“Yeah, I guess. My dad says he fell in love with her at first sight. Then, when he became a missionary, he got them to send him there so he could marry her.”

“I see.” The story was fascinating, but it was in the shorthand of an 11-year-old boy. I wanted the long version.

“Anyway, I’ve been there a few times. It’s a long plane ride, but really fun. My other grandparents live there.”

“Cool.”

Carlos stood and walked to the door.

“Guess I better go inside,” he said. “You think you’ll be okay?”

I stood, smoothing my skirt in front of me.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

The place was packed, the crowd spilling into every available space. I gave Marion a hug and apologized for my delay, then positioned myself near the front of the receiving line, listening as everyone who came through spoke about the wonderful Wendell Smythe and what an amazing man he had been, not to mention their shock at learning his death had been a murder. I began to appreciate the extent of his popularity when the mayor of Philadelphia came through, addressing Marion by her first name, talking with her as though they were old friends.

After a while I grew tired of the crush of the crowd, and I made my way back out to the guest book in the front hall. There were pages and pages of signatures, most of which would mean nothing to me. Next to the book was a laminated copy of Wendell’s obituary, and I picked it up and read it with interest.

Apparently, though Wendell had made his fortune in clothing, he was going to be remembered mostly for his contributions in human rights. I was surprised to see that besides Feed the Need, he was on the board of several other charitable organizations and in fact had sponsored the passage of quite a few humanitarian laws in Honduras, where his largest clothing factory was located.

He was also described as a generous supporter of his church as well as a few museums and the arts. “An avid collector of antique clothing,” the article said, “Smythe has bequeathed the remainder of his private collection to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The museum already houses quite a number of pieces previously donated by Mr. Smythe and his wife.”

According to the article, he was survived by his wife, one sister, and his children and grandchild. Two brothers had preceded him in death.

“He was quite a man, wasn’t he?” I heard over my shoulder. I turned to find Gwen standing behind me. She was immaculately attired, the pearls on her ears now replaced with a pair of square-cut emeralds.