After her debut at the leftovers party, my mother became a kind of mascot to a small coterie of society women, led by Ellen Creigh. Given that Arch’s sisters—both married and moved away—were not much younger than my mother, it was only natural for Mrs. Creigh to turn her attentions toward this fallen angel, rescuing her from Café Divorcée and surrounding her with a less outwardly dubious caste of people. Within a week, Mrs. Creigh had arranged a job for my mother as a personal assistant for the elderly Mrs. Kenton Tate, whose late husband had been a prominent insurance company executive, and a second job as a salesperson at an appointments-only dress shop. How could my mother turn these down? What woman would prefer schlepping drinks in a shady bar for a bunch of leering creeps to helping a genteel matron host tea parties in her manse on the Boulevard? And thanks to Mrs. Creigh, my mother soon found herself being extended every imaginable courtesy by women who would otherwise have looked down their noses at her.

“Watch yourself, honey,” Sunny told my mother. “Those Belle Meade folks might seem nice, but you’re trash to them.”

Sunny did not envy the country club set, nor did she believe in miraculous escapes from hard living and hard times.

“They’re not like you think,” my mother said.

Sunny took a long drag on her cigarette.

“We’ll see about that,” she said.

A week or two before exams and the end of my freshman year, Mrs. Haltom invited my mother and me over for family dinner. I’d been around long enough to know that “family dinner” was not really a thing in the Haltom home. But when we arrived, Mrs. Haltom behaved as if the four of them held hands and said grace six nights a week over wholesome meals prepared by her own design, if not her own hand. The twins and I exchanged a few curious glances. But we played along.

My mother seemed more comfortable with the fiction. There were no “family dinners” in Montague Village either; she seemed neither affronted nor surprised when the occasion shaped up into a de facto interview.

“Now, Bonnie,” Mrs. Haltom said. “Remind me where you came from.”

“South Carolina,” my mother said. “Greer. It’s a little town just outside of Greenville.”

“I’ve heard Greenville’s lovely,” Mrs. Haltom said. “What made you leave?”

“After Charlie’s father died, I thought it might be good for us to have a fresh start,” my mother said.

“So far from your family?”

“I have a cousin here.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Haltom said. “The singer.”

My mother offered no further explanation beyond a polite nod.

“You and Ellen Creigh have become quite close,” Mrs. Haltom said.

“She’s been very kind,” my mother said.

“How do you like working for Kenton Tate?”

“Mrs. Tate is wonderful,” my mother said. “Just lovely.”