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clogged the street, giving cars a narrow strip in which to pass around it. Adding to the congestion was a camera crew from Fox News.
    Funny.
    I raised my eyebrows.
    It’s not like I’d never seen an orange Atlas truck on Beverly Drive before—or something akin to it—though it usually signified that someone had died and the heirs were loading up the merchandise for auction. The folks who resided in this part of Highland Park often stayed for generations. It wasn’t a place for transients, other than the occasional pro sports figures who came and went, largely ignored.
    So I was curious about who was coming as much as who was going, particularly if the new homeowners warranted TV coverage.
    Cissy hadn’t mentioned anything about a neighbor moving out. I was less sure of who lived where since I’d left home over a decade ago, but my mother had kept track. She not only knew names but also who was related to whom, who worked where or owned what company, and, most important, who had eligible sons or grandsons of marrying age.
    Never let it be said that Mother didn’t have her priorities in order.
    I pulled slowly past the enormous truck and the media van, catching a glimpse of the movers drenched in perspiration, a dark-skinned woman with her head tied in a red kerchief hovering at the massive front door of the residence, swinging her arms as if she were directing traffic. A reporter with microphone in hand and a fellow with a video camera wedged on his shoulder followed the woman’s every move as if she were a film star.
    I squinted hard at her, reassured it wasn’t Oprah. Otherwise, she didn’t look familiar. Though I didn’t watch enough television to be sure she wasn’t some kind of celebrity. With all the reality shows hitting the airwaves, she might’ve been the sole “Survivor” or someone who’d found love and a million dollars by smooching in a hot tub with a bevy of bachelors in front of the nation.
    With a twist of the wheel, I swept up the curving drive that led to Mother’s house, feeling anxiety flutter within my chest as I parked in front of the whitewashed terracotta lions that stood guard on either side of the front door.
    For a moment, I sat in the car, fussing with my bangs and wiping sweat from my upper lip. My usual delay tactics.
    Finally, I shut off the engine, pocketed the keys, and got out, ambling toward the carved front doors. I pressed a finger to the bell, hearing its clear chimes, and rested a shoulder against yellow limestone, the surface smooth and cool against my flushed skin.
    I practiced saying, “No, thank you, Mother, but I don’t need no stinkin’ dress” several times before the door swung inward, and Sandy Beck stood smiling behind it, her lined face crinkling merrily beneath the cap of gray hair. Despite the soaring mercury, she wore an ever-present cardigan. This one was yellow with tiny pearl buttons.
    “Andy,” she said and opened her arms. “Always good to see you, sweetheart. Cissy said you might drop by.”
    Might drop by?
    “I was summoned,” I confessed before getting enveloped in a bear hug. Sandy rubbed my back, and I breathed in the scent of roses. “Seems she’s intent on dressing me tonight for Marilee’s bash.”
    Sandy tugged me into the foyer, frosty with conditioned air, and closed the door behind us. “Well, she does have good taste.”
    “She makes me feel like her toy poodle.”
    “Oh, please, Andy, you know Cissy would never allow a dog in her house. All that chewing and shedding.”
    I made a face.
    “You’re her only child, sweet pea”—my fairy godmother wrapped an arm around me, walking me toward the curving staircase that would take me upstairs to Mother’s room, where she held court—“so she can’t help but . . . well . . .”
    “Meddle?” I finished for her when she hesitated, keeping my voice low for my own sake. Mother had ears like a bat.
    Sandy chuckled and gave me a squeeze. “I was going to say ‘dote on