She wasn’t wrong. “We need to figure out when we can meet up. I had a meeting with him yesterday that fell through.” A noon intro session at Ludington’s.

An hour before the meeting, he rescheduled for 10:00 p.m. at his hotel’s restaurant. On arrival, the maître d’ informed me that the meeting was moved to the gentleman’s suite. I’d pretended that I had an emergency phone call and had to leave.

When something like this happened, I usually asked Trey to take the rescheduled meeting, but Selig had requested me specifically because he had concerns about our auction format, which was my area. I was going to have to deal with him.

“Oh, honey. Are you going to lose out because you came to visit me?”

“He’s in LA for a few days. We’ll meet when I get back.” And that was as much time as I was willing to waste on talking about Selig. “Hey, guess what I had under the hammer this week?”

“Trey’s face?”

Violet was still indignant on my behalf, and I loved her for that. “I auctioned off an A-list action star’s sweat-stained jockstrap for a hundred grand.”

“I hereby pronounce Old Hollywood glamour officially dead.” She closed her eyes as if the idea pained her, or she was offering up a prayer for Hollywood’s collective soul. Then, after a mournful moment, her eyes popped open. “Did it stink?”

“Didn’t smell like roses at dusk.” My laptop beeped. “Mom is calling.”

“Remind me later that I want to give you something,” Violet said quickly.

Then the call connected, and Mom ruled the screen from Florida, in all her tanned and teased glory.

“Why are you so close to the screen? Put that laptop somewhere so I can see the both of you,” was her opening bid into the conversation.

Mom excelled at issuing orders and preferred all things orderly, in their place. If something wasn’t the way she liked it, she made it that way. Born Johanna Velar, she’d changed her first name to Anna in high school. And then she married Philip Gregory Wilson right after graduation to divest herself of Velar, Violet’s maiden name, a clear sign that my mother had been born out of wedlock. Johanna Velar—too exotic, people would think she was a foreigner, for heaven’s sake. Anna Wilson—American, traditional, conservative, perfect for a dentist’s wife. And then, when she finally had me, she named me Emily Wilson. Except, starting in kindergarten, I made everyone call me Emsley, Violet’s nickname for me. Which drove my mother crazy.

Dad popped up behind her, golf bag over his shoulder. “Violet.” Then to me, “Hi, dumpling.” And then he kissed Mom on the cheek. “Why is my beer fridge in the garage full of face cream?”