“Which school?” She tilts her head and frowns.

“Young Leaders Academy of Atlanta.”

“Oh my God!” Her face lights up. “My cousin Tribbie goes there.”

“I know Tribbie. Seventh grade. She’s in the chorus. Alto. Beautiful voice.”

“And can’t pay her to sing at church on Sundays.” Cherise laughs. “My auntie says it’s been so good for her. She also said you don’t charge and it’s a private school. How y’all manage that?”

“Fundraising.” I shrug. ”Generous donors from the community. Grants.”

“Well, she loves it. Her grades are better and she—” Cherise shoots Kimba a self-conscious glance. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She clears her throat and says, “I’ll get those pickles right out. Did you want something other than water, ma’am?”

“Water’s fine for now,” Kimba replies with a smile, watching me speculatively when Cherise leaves. “Sounds like you’re doing good work. Not that I doubted it. Daddy wouldn’t have selected you if you weren’t.”

“Running into him was such a fluke, but sometimes what we call a fluke is fate, at least I like to think so.”

“What’d you guys talk about? What’d he say?”

The hero worship for her father that so characterized her as a child is still in her eyes. I see that hunger for every detail of a loved one you didn’t get nearly enough time with at the end. That was how I felt when my grandmother died, asking my mom dozens of questions she didn’t want to answer, pouring over photo albums so I could see my bubbe at each stage of her life. Every detail was precious and made me feel closer to her.

“He said exactly what I needed to hear,” I tell her because it’s true. “I wasn’t sure I should start the school—wasn’t sure where to start, but he probed to figure out the things I was most passionate about.” I laugh, the details of that fateful meeting coming back to me with a rush of fondness and respect for the man who was such a huge part of my life when I was a kid, and who was so notably absent after the night of the dance.

“He used to say your mission starts with people.” Kimba brushes the gold ring on her thumb. “And your passions should fit on a napkin.”

“Yup. He asked me about the kinds of students I wanted to help, and he jotted it down on a napkin while I talked.”

“What’d you say?” she asks, her stare a welcome weight on my face. “What’d he write?”