“Pierino’s on La Cienega.”

“I know where Pierino’s is. My Porsche is done. I’ll drop you off there if you want.”

I flushed even more deeply. “Thank you.”

“Of course, the Porsche is a sports car, no back seat.” He frowned, as though puzzled. “You’ll have to sit beside me. You can’t pretend I’m your chauffeur.”

“That really won’t be necessary,” I replied with what I hoped was dignity.

Mr. Dexter went into the office with Reg, and one of the mechanics drove into the wide yard in a cream-colored Porsche convertible spewing dust all around, coating my navy blue suit and my white gloves.

Reg and Mr. Dexter came outside, and Reg held the Porsche door open for me as I lowered myself into the leather seat. I wanted to ask the driver to please put the top up, but something about him did not invite the asking of further favors, and besides, I was still smarting from my awful gaffe.

Reg chuckled, reached round to his back pocket, and handed me a coarse blue foursquare kerchief. “It’s clean, Miss Granville. Ironed, even. The wife just gave it to me this morning, and I swear, I haven’t used it yet.”

I tied Reg’s kerchief under my chin. The car hummed to life, and we pulled out of there in yet another cloud of dust.

“I really do appreciate the ride. I’m Roxanne Granville, by the way.”

“I know who you are. Leon Greene’s granddaughter.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the society pages,” I said, assuming he had seen photos of me at the Cocoanut Grove or some such place.

“If it’s in the newspaper, it ought to be true. Isn’t that the standard for journalism?” he asked as though I had some sort of answer. I didn’t. He continued, “I’m Terrence Dexter. I’m a columnist and reporter for the Challenger. Your grandmother was a big supporter of our paper and the NAACP.”

Oh god, now I remembered his face! “You were at my grandmother’s funeral. You brought the umbrella.”

“I did.” He looked over at me, rather surprised, and I wondered how I could ever have forgotten his face. He smiled, and I noticed he had a gold canine tooth.

“You came to the lawyer’s office with the man in the wheelchair.”

“Mr. Branch. He’s editor in chief of the Challenger and a leader of the NAACP.”

“I had no idea that Julia supported those causes.”

“Judging from the looks on the white folks’ faces there, no one else did either. Your granddaddy surely didn’t.” He barely suppressed a chuckle.