She stood up and waddled toward me in the most peculiar walk I’d ever seen. She hugged me and held me against her bosom for a moment. “It is just so hard losing a mama. Just so hard. I’ll be right back, let me tell Micah you’re here. Oh, and what was her name?”

“Lillian,” I said. “He would have known her as Lilly Ashford.”

When Micah walked out and into the foyer, I was struck by his beauty and then secondly, his smile. He held out his hand before he’d even reached my side. “Hello,” he said in a voice as full of authority as if he were narrating a documentary. “I’m Micah Reynolds. And you,” he said as he reached me, “you must be Lilly’s daughter. Good God, you look just like her.” He pumped my hand.

“Yes, I’m Ellie Calvin. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Well, well, how can I help you?”

“I am hoping I can just talk to you for a moment or two. I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

“Follow me.” He pointed down the marble-floored back hallway, and I followed him into his office.

He shut the door and I sat in the leather chair on the opposite side of his desk, but he motioned me away to two wingback chairs facing each other across a mahogany coffee table. “Come on over here, let’s talk.”

In his office hung framed photos of Micah with dignitaries and with awards, degrees, and honors, so much so that I could hardly tell what color the dented plaster walls were painted. I sat across from him, and after the pleasantries, after the facts of Mother’s death and the condolences were complete, he bent forward in his chair. “So, how can I help you?”

“The summer of 1961,” I said. “I’m hoping you can tell me a little bit about that.”

“There are books and books and articles and articles written about that time, Ms. Calvin. It was a turning point in Alabama history.”

“I know. I meant, can you tell me about Mother during that time?”

He smiled at me and settled back into his chair as if he had a very long story to tell. “You know, she never came back here as far as I heard. Birdie begged her; I know that. But she never returned after that summer of 1961.”

“She did—once, but only briefly,” I said.

He looked up at the ceiling and then at me. “Yes, she did.” Placing his hands on his knees, he bent toward me. “What would you like to know?”

“What was she like?”