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later, a turquoise blue box arrived at Grove Hill.
    Mother was determined that her daughters possess the skills she believed necessary for our own social survival—writing that seemingly sincere thank-you note, needlepointing one’s monogram in the same turquoise blue thread that Mother confirmed was in fact Tiffany’s signature color, and of course, maintaining that perfect smile whenever you’re dining at the club or having cocktails with friends. It was as simple as that.
    So it was really no surprise to me when I came home from school one day and found a strange man with dark black hair and a silver mustache standing on the front porch. He greeted me as if we were old friends, enthusiastic and warm, even if I didn’t understand a single word he said.
    “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Monsieur Gadoue. Je suis votre le nouveau professeur. Votre mère veut que vous parlez français. Elle est au club de loisirs en discutant le menu pour la boule avec Madame Hunt.”
    I understood nothing but “Madame Hunt,” which was all the explanation I needed. Mrs. Hunt believed that any modern, educated child should speak French fluently. I had heard her say it myself. After all, it was the language of international diplomacy and of sophisticated, glamorous women like Jackie Kennedy. And Monsieur Gadoue was now here to make certain that someday I could politely converse with the former First Lady in both English and French.
    I’m sure my mother’s motives were more mundane than the thought of sending her daughter to the White House or abroad with a needlepointed peace treaty to engage in foreign affairs. But I rather liked Monsieur Gadoue, and the thought of engaging in any type of diplomacy, even buying a café au lait on the banks of the Seine someday, sounded exciting and wildly exotic to me. Besides, Mother never seemed as happy as she did now. And dancing and sewing and speaking French all seemed like a very small price to pay for her happiness, fleeting or not.
    By the first of June, however, I was growing very tired of doing whatever Mrs. Hunt judged important, and I found myself counting the days until I would leave Grove Hill. Even my father seemed to think I had needlepointed enough pincushions to last me a lifetime and maybe my fingers needed a rest. I had hoped that poor little Adelaide would be ready to go too, but when Nathaniel carried her trunk into her bedroom, she started crying and kicking her feet. She cried when Maizelle packed all of her neatly folded matching short sets. She cried when Maizelle told her to collect her books and babies. And she cried when Maizelle closed the lid of her trunk and fastened the lock. Finally, even Maizelle put her hands on her hips and told my sister to hush. Not until Adelaide was much older did I realize that it wasn’t that she loved Grove Hill so much. She was just afraid to be anyplace else.
    My father came into my room late that night to tell me goodbye. He stood awkwardly by my bed and said he was going to miss me. He said he didn’t know what he was going to do all summer in this big, empty house without his darling daughters there to liven things up a bit. He said he would be at the hospital when we woke and then kissed me on the forehead. He lingered for a minute, seeming unsure of what to do or where to go next. I stroked the top of his hand and told him not to worry, that I’d be home soon. Then I went to sleep as I had so many times before, wondering if my father was happy, wondering if he had ever been happy.
    Just as the sun began to light my room, I heard the telephone ring. The house was so quiet and still that the abrupt sound of the phone rolled through my body like thunder, and I could hear my mother speaking as plainly as if she was standing next to me.
    “What? When?” There was a long pause. “The doctor said what? Damn it. Well, what am I supposed to say, Mama?” And suddenly I knew my plans for the summer had changed. There was another pause, and I