On Sunday, we had breakfast on the terrace. There was melon and there were fresh berries and there was newly squeezed orange juice. My mother had made something eggy and delicious with blueberries and cinnamon, one of her breakfast specialities, and bacon. There was cake, and there was a fresh brioche. There was a variety of cheeses. The table was set with the breakfast china, with the pattern of yellow ribbons waving on it, and various serving dishes. My father had picked a handful of wildflowers that morning, and had put them in a blue jug, and they were at the middle of the table. Freddy had his camera, and he wanted to take pictures, since this typical Sunday would not be many more times repeated, but my mother refused to be photographed with the wig. “You’ll have enough of those pictures from the party,” she said, and settled the matter.

The weather had continued cinematic. “Look at all this,” said Freddy, gesturing at the sunlit food.

“We do live beautifully,” I said into the air.

My mother laughed. “Have you boys just noticed?” she asked.

“No, but—” I paused.

“Come on, Mom,” said Freddy.

“It’s not so hard,” my mother said in her soft voice. “Living beautifully is not so hard. So many people—” she began. She looked across the table for a minute. “We’d live more beautifully if someone replaced that chipped sugar bowl,” she finished. “Does anyone want another slice of brioche?”

• • •

In the afternoon, she did the crossword puzzle with a blue felt-tip pen. “Do you know what I did?” she suddenly volunteered.

We all turned around.

“A couple of months ago I went out to lunch, and I put on that diamond pin of Grandma’s. Do you know the one I mean? With her monogram done in little stones?”

My father looked confused. “You know,” Freddy said to him. “It was square. Grandma always wore it in the winter.”

“Oh, yes,” said my father. He looked at my mother. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that pin,” he said.

“I’ve only worn it two or three times in my life,” said my mother. “But I wore it out to lunch that time, on that blue jacket, and I think I left the pin on the lapel when I sent the jacket to the dry cleaner. I’m so annoyed about it. I thought I might have brought it up here, but it’s not with my jewelry and it’s not in my box in New York.”

“Maybe if you call the dry cleaner they’ll have it,” I said.

“No, I’m sure it’s gone,” said my mother. “I didn’t wear it much, of course. But someone else might have worn it someday. Your grandmother loved that pin.”