This was undeniably true. Homecoming queen at seventeen and Fairest of Fairfield at seventy-seven, Violet wore her beauty effortlessly. The old ladies generally despised her, but the men—every single one—took in her smiles and laughter like parched ground drinks spring rain.

Fairfield employed a man named Emory who piloted an ancient white Lincoln Town Car for its residents. Violet referred to him as “my driver.” His Friday afternoons were spent waiting outside The Coiffure & Couture while she got her hair done, then dropping her off at the grocery store for fancy cheese and crackers. Violet’s last stop was Duffy’s Liquor Store, where she sauntered in and purchased the same fifth of bourbon, sugar cubes and maraschino cherries each week. Five o’clock every day she enjoyed a cocktail or two in her apartment. I was extended an open invitation but usually had to work through six-thirty unless I was working night shift, which made a visit impossible. By that point, Violet was entertaining gleefully in the dining room, sneaking salt onto tasteless chicken.

She didn’t need assistance of any kind, at least not for the first few years of her stay. Violet was there for love, pure and simple. The man she’d adored for more than fifty years―her biggest secret―was in extended care at Fairfield. Having Johnny, Sam, James, Clifton and Harvey by her side was icing on her social cake.

The facility surprised every visitor with its beauty. Fairfield drew a moneyed crowd from all parts of Alabama, especially the upper crust families in surrounding counties. There was nothing remotely comparable in the state, and it wasn’t unusual for people who’d played teenaged tennis together at area country clubs to find themselves reunited as they strolled around the gardens and lake.

The lobby, library, sitting room and administrative offices were housed in a renovated Queen Anne Victorian. Wings on the east side were for independent living. On the west was an extended care complex where I worked. Residents and workers met in a posh dining room and common area behind the lobby. That’s where Violet shared her first stories with me, sitting in her favorite wingback chair and transporting me to post-WWII Alabama.

The memories nibbled at my heart like minnows. Violet was my surrogate grandmother, my closest confidante, and the source of what little understanding of life’s mysteries I had. As soon as Halle finished licking her bowl, I took four legal pads of notes, the cardboard box holding her countless letters and my laptop to the bedroom to contemplate writing her story.

Violet had chosen the title for my work, though she gave me permission to brainstorm an alternative. “Everybody Loved Her” was the epitaph she’d chosen for her headstone and her (typically) modest suggestion for the novel based on her life. I pored over my notes, staring at the first sentences she’d told me to write down.