He took the pages from me, glanced at them. “How do we find out more? I mean, not a lot. I don’t want to intrude, but enough that I can put something substantial in the timeline?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How did you know … I mean, who told you that she’d been active in this way?”

“Well, when I started doing the research on all ten women, I started first with the paperwork and voting records. It seems that your mother was nominated for her philanthropy work, but someone told the committee about her summer of ’61 and this tipped the votes in her favor. The records don’t show who provided the information, so … I don’t know who to interview except you.”

“And Mother didn’t tell you anything?”

“She pretended I didn’t ask, glossing right over it and continuing the story about her Lilly’s Love charity.”

I shook my head. “Wow …” I opened my menu. “Let’s order and then I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.”

He closed his menu. “I’ve already decided what I want.”

We ordered, and until our food arrived we talked about how the history center had just joined with the Margaret Mitchell House and random small talk to fill the empty places where meaningful words hadn’t yet arrived.

Our food came—roasted chicken for him, ravioli for me. We thanked the waitress, and then he lifted his silverware. “Now tell me what you’re thinking about how to find out more about your mother,” he said.

“Well, when Mother spent those summers in Alabama, she stayed at the Worthingtons’ Summer House in Bayside with Sadie’s mom, Birdie. Birdie lives there full-time now. I thought I’d go down there and talk to her, ask a few questions … .”

“I’m coming,” he said, and took a bite of his roasted chicken.

I laughed. “No way. That’s just not a very good idea.”

“Funny how a lot of what I do isn’t a very good idea, but turns out great.” He took another bite and leaned over the table. “I’m serious. My best buddy, Drew, lives there now.”

“Drew Irving?”

He nodded. “He’s a vet there.” He planted his palms on either side of the table. “So when do you think you’ll go?”

“I think …” I stared off and knew, looking back to him. “Tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” he said. “So now let’s talk about you. How are you?”

“That’s boring. First, tell me all about you.” I smiled, cutting into my ravioli. “Please,” I said. “Tell me what and how you’ve been doing.” I paused, weighing words before saying the truth. “I’ve often wondered.”