“Thank you so much. I am so proud to be part of this upcoming celebration of many, many women who have made a difference in Atlanta and in the South. This award was given to me over forty years ago and wasn’t so much about me as it was my charity—Lilly’s Love, which we are also benefiting tonight. So right now this party is about my daughter, Ellie—Lillian Eddington Calvin. For ten years, she has been painting in private.” Mother looked at me with wide and proud eyes; fake eyes that could just as easily have been made of glass or plastic. “She’s been holed up in her attic, and I have finally convinced her to show off her talent to the community, and for that we are all enriched.”

Polite clapping filled the room, and Mother handed me the microphone. I’d prepared a speech about art and how creativity opens the heart and mind, but somehow all the words left my head and mouth. I smiled out at the crowd. There was my husband; there were my friends, my daughter, and my father; and I said the only words my tangled tongue formed. “I am grateful for all of you and for this night. Thanks for coming.”

I handed the microphone back to Mother, who began the birthday song, and then there was the cake and the candles and the wishes and the hugs.

And just as anything wonderful does, the night fled away too fast.

Soon there were only empty plastic wineglasses, crumpled napkins, and the caterers cleaning and waiting for their payment. Rusty had taken Lil home, but Sadie stayed until the very end. We sat at a long conference table, laughing about how Mrs. Palo had bought a painting from the studio believing it was mine, but it had been painted by another artist on permanent display in the gallery. We wondered if she’d ever figure it out.

Mother sat with us. “Well, dear, I don’t think that could have gone any better. It was a wonderful night. Truly wonderful. And you do look beautiful.”

“Thanks, Mother. And congratulations on the history center exhibit. You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I was waiting for the right time.”

I nodded, and Sadie kicked me under the table.

“And I meant to tell you this, too …” Mother clicked her manicured nails together, and it sounded like the skittering of a small animal’s claws across a wooden floor. “The man who is doing the exhibit came to interview me yesterday. I couldn’t place him, but then I remembered who he was—that silly old boyfriend of yours.”

“Old boyfriend?” I asked, gathering my purse and cell phone.

“Yes, that college boy. Hutch something or other.”

“Hutch O’Brien?” I asked.

She shooed her hand through the air. “I’d forgotten about him.”