“Dawn,” she continued, changing the subject, “I want to look good, and I trust you, but I don’t want to look like a southern belle. I can’t pull that off. Please don’t make me look…you know…over the top.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “What does that even mean?”

“I think that means no baby blue eye shadow. And maybe no body glitter. I want to look good—but not like I’m at a cotillion. I want to look like me, just better.”

Dawn grinned. “Cotillion makeup is usually very subtle, just so you know. Body glitter was designed for go-go dancers and prostitutes. I don’t own it, and I don’t condone it. Okay, hon?”

Hannah let out a deep sigh and nodded. The reality of the wedding had set in, and Hannah was already exhausted. Tom was probably already in town, maybe even on his way to the country club. He was with his date, a guidance counselor named Jaime.

“Honey, are you okay?” Dawn asked, suddenly looking more genuine than Hannah thought possible.

“I do want him back,” Hannah said, surprising herself as she lost control, tears suddenly soaking her still-liner-free eyes.

“Sweetie,” Dawn responded, pulling Hannah to her chest. “Sweetie, you’ll get him back in a snap. You’re gorgeous.”

Vicki

“You play?”

“Hmm?” Vicki looked up to see a teenage boy pointing at the case strapped to her back.

“Sorry. I was just wondering about your instrument. What kind is it?”

“It’s just a basic Takamine acoustic. Nothing special,” Vicki responded with a shrug and a half smile.

“Are you in a band?” the boy continued.

“No. It’s just a hobby. I just like to play before bed. I sing myself to sleep.”

“Cool,” the boy muttered, and then he went off to join his parents, who argued quietly by the historic hotel’s front door.

Vicki had come up with a few canned answers to the guitar question because inevitably someone would ask.

It was usually a man or younger woman who inquired. Women Vicki’s age and older rarely took interest in the guitar case. At most they’d scowl, as if they’d decided that Vicki was far too old to be carrying an instrument on her back.

Vicki imagined that traveling with a guitar case was something like being pregnant. Strangers felt entitled to pass judgment or know more. Instead of “How far along are you?” it was “Are you in a band?” or “What do you play?” You were just supposed to answer.

Vicki’s shoulders tensed as she watched the hotel clerk swipe her credit card for incidentals. It pained her to stay here. The Robert Johnson House was a beautifully restored brick building that, according to the plaque on the wall, was home to the Johnson family in the 1700s. It was probably an ideal place to experience Maryland’s capital as a tourist, just steps away from the waterfront, but it was a huge waste of money for Vicki, who had thousands of unused Marriott points from her work travels. It was Hannah who had demanded they stay here.