“This is to certify that Hanna May Edmunds has hereby completed the regular course of instruction . . .” He stopped and glanced from her to Papa and back again.

“Your diploma?” Papa asked.

Hanna nodded.

Charlie had gone back to reading. Now he looked up and whistled. “Listen to this. Geography, eighty-seven, history, eighty-four, orthography, one hundred, arithmetic, seventy-seven, grammar, ninety-eight. Those are some mighty fine marks there.”

Papa walked over and took the diploma from her to read it himself. When he looked at her, she was surprised by the gentleness in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “I was thinking of your mama,” he said softly. “She’d be right proud of you.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She could only whisper, caught between a smile on her lips and a lump in her throat.

Papa set the date for the grand opening: a week from Tuesday. “One more week of shipments, then the weekend to make sure everything’s ready. Don’t care to open on a Monday, so the Tuesday it is.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“We’ll be moving in over tomorrow. I’m counting on you to get the rented place packed up . . .”

That wouldn’t be too bad. Knowing that their stay in the rented house would be short, she had kept things pretty well organized for repacking. She could hardly believe that they would be living in a house of their own. Would this be the last time she would have to pack for moving?

Papa was still speaking. “. . . those parties Mama used to give?”

The mention of Mama caught her attention. “I remember them,” Hanna said.

Before Mama got sick, she had hosted parties at the shop in Los Angeles two or three times a year. Those parties were among Hanna’s fondest memories. She had been so young, only four or five; still, a few of the details stood out clearly.

Mama always served lemonade and another cold drink made from jujube fruits, a kind of dried Chinese date. She bought mooncakes from Chinatown’s best bakery and arranged a beautiful tray of grapes and orange slices or tangerines. People ate and drank and chatted, looked at the goods, shopped, put in orders. Customers would give Hanna sweets or pennies.

Even though it was a tailor shop for men, the women were always invited. Mama and Papa had known that it was often the ladies who chose the tailor for their menfolk. The women met old friends, as well as neighbors they hadn’t known before. The shop became a neighborhood hub, and people looked forward to the gatherings.

“A party would be good for the opening,” Papa said, “but I won’t have time. You’ll have to do it.”

Hanna’s eyes widened. He wants me to take charge of a party?