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she loved being in the midst of a community like this. She was enjoying herself, truly coming into her own without Homer. Now she’s gone, and it isn’t fair.” She expelled a weighty sigh and sagged against the leather seat. “It was too soon for her, Andrea,” she said, and I noticed the faint track of her tears in the powder dusted on her cheeks. “Much too soon. I wasn’t ready to give her up yet.”
    “We’re never ready, are we?” I asked, remembering how unprepared I’d been when Daddy had his fatal heart attack.
    She pursed her lips before she answered. “No,” she said, “we never are.”
    Beneath the swept-back blond of her hair, the perfect oval of her face seemed to crumple. I’d never thought of my mother as “old” before. Maybe old-fashioned , but never any of those awful words to describe someone who qualified for the senior discount, like “past her prime” or “dried up” or “out to pasture.” She was prettier than I’d ever be, always so perfectly made-up, so expertly coiffed, so stylishly dressed.
    Timeless.
    That was the word for her. She was my comic book Wonder Woman come to life—or the Highland Park version, anyway—using her diamond tennis bracelets to ward off bullets and her Gucci belt to shackle her enemies. I’d always imagined she’d live forever. Despite how she drove me nuts sometimes, I wished she would stick around, as long as I was here. I couldn’t imagine my life without her, though I told myself she was ornery enough to make it to a hundred, piece of cake.
    But, in the filtered light of the tinted windows, she looked worn out.
    My chest hurt to see it.
    “You’ve still got me,” I said and nudged her, wanting to cheer her up—and maybe myself, just a little.
    For an instant, a spark flickered in her eyes. “Thank God for that,” she drawled and lay her cool palm flush against my cheek. It was as close to spilling her guts as Cissy ever got. Her way of telling me she loved me.
    I closed my eyes.
    Suddenly, I was five years old, stuck in the backseat of the Bentley between Mother and Daddy, their thighs pressed against mine, so that I was in my own private cocoon, so safe and adored.
    The Bentley’s wheels rolled to a stop, gently rocking us. She dropped her hand away, and I opened my eyes, the moment lost.
    Mother waited as Fredrik came around to open her door; then she accepted his proffered hand and gracefully slid out.
    Wanting to leave my hands free for some two-fisted eating, I left my handbag on the floor mat, scooted across the seat and disembarked, standing on the drive as Fredrik shut the door. He tipped his cap—Mother liked him to wear it—before he got back into the Bentley and moved it to a shady spot where he’d stay until Mother beckoned.
    Though I didn’t see any other Bentleys clogging the drive, I figured that, at the very least, Belle Meade had a fleet of Town Cars to haul around the chi-chi residents to the shopping malls or Symphony Hall. Across the brick road, the sun glinted off cars neatly parked in a row marked for visitors.
    “Andrea?”
    Mother’s voice tugged at me, like a leash on a puppy.
    She was already ascending the front steps, and I caught up with her, taking in my surroundings, the pillars that stood like grinning teeth, holding up the portico as we passed beneath. Unlike in the Old South, however, the architecture of Belle Meade had modern conventions that flowed into the setting seamlessly, like wheelchair ramps that sloped gently toward alternate entrances and artfully designed metal rails for support.
    Cissy appeared to know where she was going, so I followed on her heels, sticking behind her as she approached an enormous door painted a shiny black like the window shutters. I noticed a tiny camera placed above the doorframe, aimed right at us and doubtless beaming our images to a carefully watched monitor.
    At the threshold, Mother paused and rummaged in her handbag and emerged with what looked like a credit