On Saturday morning, my mother arrived in her silver Lincoln to pick Amelia up. Evelyn didn’t step across my threshold; she stood on the porch in her champagne silk mother-of-the-bride dress, checking her watch with irritated efficiency:
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“You really should reconsider and come, Annie,” my mother said, not looking at my denim chore clothes: “It would show the family that you have true grace. It would stop the gossip among the Middleburg set.”
“I’m staying home with the boys, Mother,” I replied evenly: “Have a safe drive.”
After they left, the boys and I made a mountain of buttered popcorn, spread blankets across the living room carpet, and put on old animated films. But as the clock on the mantel ticked past two o’clock—the hour printed on the letterpress invitation—my gaze drifted repeatedly toward the window.
