He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He said more to her with his eyes than a thousand letters could have; more than if he’d been driving the car and holding her hand, talking all the way to Birmingham.

twenty-five

RONNI

Deanna and I stood in the reception area of Mary Mac’s Tea Room. It was eleven o’clock, and the place was already filling with a steady stream of Atlanta regulars and tourists. Melvin Sobel arrived in the middle of a big group of Red Hat Society ladies, swept along in a wave of chunky, middle-aged women. He spotted me and parted the red-and-purple sea to walk over.

“Mr. Sobel,” I said, “Meet your cousin, Deanna Henderson.”

“Please, both of you, call me Mel.” He was about Deanna’s height and gave her a side hug.

She hugged back, her eyes glued to Mel’s face. She was studying him, I knew, for genes she recognized. I wondered if Sam was in Mel’s craggy, lined features anywhere.

I waved at the hostess, who flashed a brilliant smile and beckoned us with three menus. She led us by framed photos of celebrity diners ranging from the Dalai Lama to Alan Jackson. A large sign proclaimed Mary Mac’s was declared “Atlanta’s Dining Room” by the Georgia House of Representatives. I eased into a seat at our table under a huge, colorful landscape painting.

Deanna did not sit, and was clearly struggling not to cry. “I’ll be right back,” she muttered.

Mel patted her hand gently and smiled encouragement. He looked around the room as Deanna walked away. “Funny you chose Mary Mac’s. My family loves the food so much we drive over every couple of months. My daughter used to want to live here when she was little.” He waved at a black lady with gray hair in cornrows and her hands on her hips. “That’s Marietta. She’s been working here since the seventies.” Marietta practically ran to our table.

“How you doin’, Mr. Mel?” She cocked a hip and wagged her finger at me. “This your first time?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, wondering what difference that could make.

“We have a guest who’s new here, too,” Mel told her.

“All right.”

What kind of initiation was coming? A Mary Mac’s hazing?

I know what you’re drinking, Mr. Mel.” A wink. “How about you, ma’am?”

Mel pointed to the Georgia Peach Martini on the menu. “Oooh,” I said, “I’ll have that and a glass of ice water, please.”

Marietta’s smile crinkled her eyes and radiated sweetness. I felt like we were visiting her house, not a restaurant. “You’re gonna want two of those, wait and see. What about your guest?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. Let’s start her with ice water.”

She nodded and disappeared.