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“For Sale” sign posted on the front lawn. I tried to picture losing it and all the memories it held of my daddy and my childhood, and I swayed, the warm air suddenly seeming exceedingly hard to breathe. “You’re not thinking of moving?”
    “No, Andrea, I’ve no plans to live there,” she pooh-poohed, and I gulped with relief, my heart returning to its rightful spot in my chest. “But I have several friends who do. Mostly widows who’re tired of the responsibility of a big house and grounds, what’s left of their families all grown up or gone.” She ticked off a name on her finger. “Sarah Lee Sewell got herself a townhouse like Bebe’s a few months back, and she’s joined our weekly bridge group, though”—her voice trailed off, and she sucked in her cheeks.
    “Though what?” I prodded.
    She shook her head. “I didn’t see her at the church this morning, and I’d expected her. Hmm, perhaps she had a migraine and stayed in bed.” She cocked her head. “Oh, well, that’s why Annabelle is having the reception. It’ll give everyone who knew Bea a chance to say goodbye, particularly those who didn’t get to the memorial service, and I’m sure there were plenty.”
    There was something more to this, I could tell. The way she fiddled with the clasp on her pocketbook and didn’t meet my eyes.
    But I didn’t push. Whatever it was, I was sure I’d find out when she was ready to confess.
    “Oh, dear, there’s a policeman headin’ toward the Bentley. If we don’t go now, he’ll give Fredrik a ticket. So are you comin’ with your mother or running off on me again?”
    I thought of the carbohydrate-packed grub at Bubba’s that I wouldn’t be eating for lunch, and still I caved. “All right, I’ll go.”
    “Marvelous.” Cissy looked pleased as champagne punch. She took my hand and led me along as she had all morning.
    Ah, well. Doing my dutiful daughter routine for a few hours more surely wouldn’t kill me, would it?

Chapter 4
    I perched on the edge of the leather bench in the back of the Bentley, strangely eager to see Belle Meade and my long-lost camp comrade who’d built this alleged Shangri-la for seniors.
    Although it was rather difficult to imagine that the wannabe Greta Garbo with whom I’d shared a cabin—“ I just . . . boo hoo . . . want to be alone ”—had turned into the Donald Trump of old folks’ homes . . . excuse me, independent retirement living.
    Mother’s babble about Annabelle’s miraculous transformation reminded me of the lesson I’d learned on my first trip to Tiffany those many moons ago, about how an iridescent pearl grew from a tiny, irritating grain of sand. Annabelle had been quite irritating herself when she hadn’t gotten her way. She was an only child with older parents who hadn’t seemed at all involved with their late-life offspring. I’d never even met them, and she’d never talked about them much.
    I shrugged, because one never knew, right? The schoolyard bully could grow up to be an opera singer, or the neighborhood klutz, a prima ballerina. And look at Bill Gates. A total geek who’d grown up to be . . . well, a billionaire total geek.
    Like Doris Day used to sing, “ Qué será , será . . . whatever will be, will be.”
    Which was not a bad mantra, actually.
    I listened as Mother gave Fredrik directions to our destination, which apparently sat off Forest Lane, west of Preston Road, a spot I recalled used to have a sprawling antiques mall in the middle and a consignment store on the corner. As we came closer, I pressed my nose against the window, my mouth open and breath steaming up the glass. The antiques mall and consignment shop had vanished. So had the surrounding parking lot.
    Instead, tall perfectly trimmed hedges served as a privacy fence, stretching along the entire block. We passed yards and yards of green before we reached an opening and entered through a pair of enormous rock slabs topped with huge carriage