I returned the photo to the hatbox then reached for one that had been flipped over, and I realized it was marked on the back with names and dates. And so were many of the others.

I went through everything again.

“The award ceremony was at the MoMA in 1979,” I told the pigeon, who watched with interest. The handsome man dancing with my grandmother was the Dutch ambassador, at a party at the embassy, not at a gallery. The strangers smiling into the camera were from Violet’s Van Gogh class.

“Wonder if she ever showed the little green book to her students.”

I picked up another photo of Violet, in Yves Saint Laurent’s famous Mondrian shift dress. A gift from the designer, the note said on the back. My mother had mentioned that dress a few times. Violet wore it to my graduation! Can you imagine? All your friends are there, and your mother shows up in a minidress and go-go boots?

Since I’d dragged the coffee table and bedroom chairs downstairs, I had floor space in the bedroom to spread out my treasure.

“I’m going to put these in chronological order.” Then looking through them would be like watching a movie about Violet’s life.

The earliest image was from 1965, Violet at eighteen, breathtakingly beautiful, a smart-alecky grin on her face. She’d already been accepted to NYU.

No other photos from 1965, only an article about Violet’s first show. Then nothing until 1966, the year my mother was born. Nothing in between. Nothing from the cursed Vanderbilt party.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling, frustrated. I banged my head on the floor, which earned immediate regret and a concerned coo from the pigeon.

Wait.

“Just because Violet didn’t have photos of the party, it doesn’t mean nobody else had them either.” And where did all photos end up? The internet.

I speed crawled to my laptop on the nightstand and made Google my best friend.

The opulent scenes my image search located could have been out of a movie made by Old Hollywood, one of those elaborate productions with Zsa Zsa or Marilyn: flowing dresses, feather boas, the occasional tiara. Too bad the photos were black-and-white, so I couldn’t tell the colors.

I magnified the screen and combed through the images one by one.

“There she is!”

Violet wore an empire-waist dress, at the same time sophisticated and innocent. An embroidered silk wrap covered her shoulders, her hair pinned up in a soft twist, her eyes filled with merriment.

Once I knew what dress and hairstyle to look for, finding her again was easier.

Invariably, she was surrounded by men. My heart pounded as I scrutinized each. They all wore tuxedos. “Half look like Daddy Warbucks, the other half like Fred Astaire.”

I caught no threatening vibes. I found no pictures of Violet disheveled.