Chapter 21

Leota sat in her wheelchair, outside on the small patio. Annie had made sure she was bundled in a warm blanket and a soft, wool hat pulled down to cover her ears. Her hands were in wool-lined leather gloves. Annie had even gone so far as to heat a flat pillow she’d filled with rice and seeds in the microwave. It lay warm over Leota’s shoulders and against her back, smelling of lavender.

Her breath puffed in the cool afternoon air. She liked the feel of biting air against her skin and could see the result of it in the flush on Annie’s cheeks and the red tip of her nose. Leota had longed to be outside, and only this morning, Annie had understood what she was saying.

The garden was dying down for its winter sleep. Two things were coming into their glory with the approach of the Christmas season: the holly bush and the pyracantha. As soon as their berries were fully ripe, the birds would come and have a festival. It had always amazed Leota how they knew the exact day, as though invitations had been sent out for a party. They’d swarm over the bushes, eat their fill, and flutter away like drunken sailors returning to their ship.

In January the lavender heather and white candytufts would bloom. February perked up the plum tree, and March would bring forth the daffodils, narcissus, and moonlight bloom. April lilacs and sugartuft would blossom along with the pink and bloodred rhododendrons, bluebells, and the apple tree in the victory garden. As the weather warmed, miniature purple irises would rise amid the volunteers of white alyssum and verbena. The roses, dahlias, white Shasta daisies, black-eyed Susans, and marigolds would bloom from late spring to early fall.

Leota could see it. She knew exactly where she had planted everything, and with Annie’s tender care the garden would bloom again. She saw Annie’s unique touches here and there. The funny bowling balls, looking like dinosaur eggs, the metal sculpture that was now a starburst of color, the wash bucket and wheelbarrow that served as planters. She could imagine them spilling color come spring.

In this world of New Age philosophies and El Niño weather patterns, of gambling in almost every state, of drugs, abortion, crime, gay rights, and Dr. Death, there was still an oasis.

Leota knew the Lord was with her everywhere she went—even in that depressing hospital—but she had always felt His presence here the most. Is it because everything of great importance happened in a garden, Lord? Man fell in the Garden. You taught in a garden. You prayed Your passion in a garden. You were betrayed in a garden. You arose in a garden. I love this place, for when I sit out here, I see the wonder of Your creation. I smell the earth and flower-scented air, and it soothes me. It reminds me that Your hand is in it all. For I heard the voice of the Lord in the garden, calling to me.

Instruct Annie, Lord. Teach her as You taught me.

It wasn’t enough to love the flowers. Annie would have to hate the weeds that tried to choke the life from them. She would need to soften the soil and plant the seed so that she could watch the Father bring forth the growth. She would have to cut away the branches that died. It took harsh pruning sometimes to bring forth the fruit, all so that others might partake. Oh, Father, will she see that a garden is color and proportion and rhythm and line and balance and focus? Will she come to understand that some of us are poppies, blooming bold and brief? Others are ornamental vines, passionflowers, or trumpets. Still others are shy violets and wallflowers. But we are all in the garden by Your design, each one here to proclaim the glory of Your name. Oh, Father God, teach Annie that a garden is for sharing, for meditating on Your Word, for exercising faith and experiencing the surpassing joy of Your grace.

She closed her eyes, imagining the scent of stalk, hyacinth, sage, mock orange, gardenias, star jasmine, honeysuckle . . .

Oh, Lord, that my life could have been a fragrant aroma, a soothing sacrifice to You. Oh, that this desert of an old woman could have bloomed and brought You a bouquet of blossoms.

“I’ve decided to put in a vegetable garden this year, Grandma,” Annie said from where she worked. “Our first crop will be this summer. Sweet corn, beans, carrots, peas, onions . . .”

Leota savored every moment, watching her granddaughter tend the garden she had loved for so many years. She knew now it wouldn’t die.

Corban was standing in the corridor, next to Professor Webster’s office door, when he saw the portly instructor approaching. The dark eyes looked straight at him, no hint of emotion.

“I need to talk with you, Professor. Would it be convenient now, or should I make an appointment?”

“Now would be fine,” Professor Webster said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He stepped inside, leaving the door wide open for Corban. As Corban stepped inside, he saw what seemed to be chaos. The shelves were packed with books, and more were stacked on the floor. Files and papers cluttered the professor’s desk, leaving only a small work space. An old electric typewriter was on a stand in the corner. But Corban knew appearances could be deceiving: Professor Webster knew his subject.

“How’s your paper coming, Mr. Solsek?”

“That’s what I’d like to talk about with you, sir.”

“Sit.” The professor set his briefcase on the floor and took his seat behind the desk. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“The paper is in the trash, sir. Since there’s not enough time to start another, I’d like to drop the course.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Corban had figured as much. Still, his stomach dropped. He had worked hard to hold his standing. This would cost him dearly, but he knew it was right and fair. Anyone with half a brain didn’t ask for pity at a university this size. The competition didn’t allow for it. “Fair enough, sir. I’ll take the F. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to sit through the classes until the term ends.” He still had a lot to learn.

Professor Webster put his glasses back on. “What’s the trouble with the paper you started?”

Corban could feel the heat climb up his neck into his face. He let his breath out slowly. “I was on the wrong track.”

“The wrong track?”

“You start housing facilities for people no one cares about, and it’ll become too easy to do away with them. No matter how good it looks on paper, the bottom line is there’s too much government control and too much temptation to take easy solutions to long-term difficulties. With everyone griping about taxes and demanding relief, the first to be sacrificed are the ones who can least defend themselves. Right now, it’s the unborn. I don’t want to be part of making it easy to do away with the elderly, too.”

“One old woman taught you this?”

“Leota Reinhardt tried to teach me, sir, but I was deaf to what she was saying. It took two other women to get in my face and show me.” Ruth Coldwell and Nora Gaines. They’d never meet, but they had a lot in common.

Professor Webster leaned back in his chair. “We have a student body of brilliant young men and women here. I’ve had students come as puffed-up little peacocks, thinking top grades and high SAT scores make them something special. They’re so full of themselves, they think they know more than anyone else, including the PhDs with twenty years’ experience behind them.”

Corban’s face burned hot. Of all people, he knew he deserved a dressing-down. “You have my apologies, sir. I’ve been an idiot.” He started to rise.

“Sit down, Mr. Solsek. I’m not done yet.”

Heart sinking, Corban sat and waited for whatever else he had coming.

“In all my years of teaching, Mr. Solsek, I can count on one hand the number of students who’ve had the courage to come to me and admit they were wrong and take an F without complaining.”

An odd warmth filled Corban at the professor’s words. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome to attend class. I’ll give you an incomplete on the condition you enroll in my class again next term. Agreed?” The professor rose and extended his hand.

Corban stared at him for a moment, not quite sure what had just happened. Then he jumped up from his seat and shook the professor’s still-extended hand. “Agreed, sir! And thank you.”

The professor released his hand and smiled. “I’ll be interested in seeing what you come up with next time.”

Nora hadn’t spoken to Anne-Lynn in ten days, not since their telephone conversation two days after her mother had gone home from the hospital. “Would you like to help me, Mother?” Anne-Lynn had said. “One afternoon a week would make a big difference.”

“And if I agreed, I’d only be encouraging you to go on with this madness.”

“This is what I want to do.”

“Oh, so you wanted to quit art school and move away from your friends and give up dating? You want your life to narrow down to taking care of an old woman day in and day out for as long as she lives? You want that?”

“Mom, what better way can I spend my time than loving Grandma Leota?”

Nora had almost said, “You could love me,” but something held her back. Maybe it was her memory of the look on Anne-Lynn’s face when George had accused Leota of wasting their inheritance.

Now it had been more than a week since her telephone conversation with her daughter. Surely, Anne-Lynn had had more time to think things over and realize what she’d taken on. Nora dialed her mother’s number and waited. Within two rings, she heard Annie’s voice greeting her with a cheerful “Hello!”

“It’s your mother, Anne-Lynn. I—”

“We’re sorry, but we’re unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Thank you!”

An answering machine. That was a new addition. Nora listened, debating whether to leave a message or not. “It’s your mother, Anne-Lynn. I was just calling to check on you.” She gripped the telephone receiver a little tighter. “How are you two doing together?” She couldn’t truthfully add, “Well, I hope.” Unable to think of anything more to say, she held the phone away and pressed the button to disconnect. With a heavy sigh, she put the receiver against her aching heart for a moment and then placed it carefully back in its cradle. She had errands to run before she attended the University Women’s Literary Society luncheon. And there was Christmas shopping.

Christmas. How she hated Christmas.

Would Michael even call this year?

Did you call Leota last year?

She couldn’t get away from the past all the rest of the day. Every memory that came to mind brought misery with it. When Nora finally returned home late that afternoon, her answering machine was blinking a red 5. Her dentist’s receptionist had called to remind her of her appointment the next morning; Fred called to say he would be late getting home; someone from her old church had called to invite her to a women’s ministry night—a cookie exchange. The next was silence and then a click. Probably another sales call.

The last message was from Annie.

“Hello, Mother. Thanks for calling.” Her voice softened and became husky. “We both listened to your message. Grandma cried. We’re both doing fine. We’d love for you to come by for a visit. I hope you know you’re welcome anytime, Mom. If I don’t answer the doorbell, just look for us in the garden.”

Nora’s throat closed as she listened to her daughter’s voice. “You’re welcome anytime, Mom . . . just look for us in the garden.”

In the garden this time of year? The leaves were falling.

Nora remembered seeing her mother outside during the cold season, sometimes even in the rain. Raking leaves. Pruning. Putting plastic over the plants that couldn’t take the cold.

The ache within Nora grew.

Walk with Me. Talk with Me. You are My own.

She pressed the button and listened to the message again. And again. And again.

What should I do?

She kept hearing what George had said about their inheritance. The money mattered to him because he wanted to get out from under debt. Who could blame him? Nora didn’t care about her mother’s possessions, and her mother certainly had no money. How had she managed to live on Social Security all these years? Fred was wealthy, so Nora had all she’d ever need. What did she care about the house? Maybe she could help a little . . .

George had called several times, asking if she had managed to talk some sense into Annie. Nora had found herself defending her daughter, not for her actions but for her heart. “She’s not the kind of girl who’s out to steal your inheritance, George. I resent you even thinking such a thing!”

She felt so torn.

“Don’t you think I know that?” George had almost shouted into the telephone. “But Annie’s naive. Your daughter takes her religion a little too far! This is my inheritance she’s talking about, Nora—and yours. She’s going to do something stupid, like a reverse mortgage. Whatever she gets might provide a little money for the short term, but it’s going to strip us of everything in the long run!”

Nora had prevailed upon Fred to talk with Annie.

“Annie assured me she’s not going to do anything until the situation arises that makes it necessary,” he told her after he had stopped by for a visit. “By the way, your mother looks much better. She said to give you her love.” He hadn’t said it to be sarcastic—she knew that—but she had felt the pinch of guilt for not having asked about her mother’s condition before asking what Annie had said about money matters. She just wanted to get George off her back.

What a mess this situation had made of her life. It would’ve been easier on everyone if her mother had died of the stroke instead of ending up an invalid. Invalid. What a terrible word. What kind of life was Annie going to have confined to a little house in a ghetto neighborhood with an old woman as her only company?

Maybe a few more weeks of handling twenty-four-hour-a-day care all by herself with no help from anyone would bring Annie to her senses quicker than words could do. Nora could only hope so. She pressed another button and listened to her daughter’s voice one last time before deleting the message.

“We’ve had a steady stream of visitors.” Annie grinned at Corban. “Arba is here every day after work to collect the children.” She held up another hook for him to screw into the eaves.

“You’re taking care of them?” He looked at her in surprise. Once the hook was secure, he draped the string of lights. They’d look like shining icicles hanging from the eaves. Annie had already woven strings of tiny white lights through the front rhododendron bushes and the trimmed flowering plum. Devoid of foliage, it looked dramatic with the tiny lights wrapped around and around the trunk up through the center of the tree. Then she’d wrapped the two thickest lower branches outward, making a cross.

“Actually, the children are helping,” Annie said as she took another string of icicle lights from a box. “Grandma is usually resting in the afternoon. Did you see the new hospital bed? It makes it much easier for her to get up, and for me, too. Anyway, Nile does the reading now. He sits in the chair by the window, and the girls sit on Grandma’s bed. They’re almost finished with The Secret Garden.”

“The place looks better every time I come over, Annie.” He secured another hook and draped more lights.

“I want everything to look wonderful for Christmas. Only a couple feet to go,” Annie said, feeding the string of lights to him.

Corban draped the last of the lights on the last hook and came down the ladder. Annie stood back to admire his work. “Thanks, Corban. It’ll make it so much easier next year with those hooks up. All I’ll have to do is drape the lights.” She gathered up the empty boxes. “Why don’t you go on inside and visit with Grandma while I stash these in the garage. You are staying for soup, aren’t you? It should be ready. Grandma likes to eat early and then have her dessert later.”

“Sure. I’ll see you inside.”

When he came in the front door, Leota greeted him with her lopsided smile while Barnaby squawked, “911! Call 911!”

Corban laughed. “He’s better than a watchdog.” He closed the door and turned the dead bolt. Annie would be coming in the back. Leota motioned with her left hand for him to sit. “You’re looking pretty good, Leota.” He sat down on the sofa, resting in the warmth. Annie had a fire going and a new screen covering the mouth of the fireplace to keep sparks from flying out onto the rug.

“School?” Leota gave him one of her looks.

“I’m taking an incomplete and starting over on a new project next semester. I don’t know what yet.” He heard Annie come in the back door. “You two seem to be doing well together.” He surveyed the living room. “Annie’s been painting again.” The drab walls now glowed a warm peach in the lamplight. The mantel had been oiled and polished, and everything on it washed and rearranged.

“Corban!” Annie called from the kitchen. “Why don’t you help Grandma into her wheelchair while I set the table? Supper’s ready. All I have to do is warm up the biscuits.”

“Where’s your Christmas tree?” Corban said, wheeling Leota into her spot at the head of the kitchen nook table. From that place, she could look straight out at the garden.

“It’s on the television.” Annie smiled at him as she ladled thick beef soup into bowls.

Corban glanced back. “That puny thing?” It was barely two feet tall with a few ornaments on it.

“It’ll be bigger next year.” She set the bowl down in front of Leota. As Annie straightened, she looked at him. He knew she didn’t want him to say anything more about it.

Maybe it was a matter of money, Corban thought. Leota was living on Social Security, and Annie couldn’t get a job and take care of her grandmother at the same time. He held his silence as Annie placed a bowl of soup in front of him. When she had her own, she sat and took Leota’s hand. She held her other hand out to him. When he took it, she said the blessing. He felt comfortable in the warm kitchen. He noticed Annie had put up lights in the backyard as well.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” she said, buttering Leota’s biscuit.

“No point. My mother’s in Switzerland for the holidays.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Hang around my apartment until registration.” The soup was delicious.

“And eat what on Christmas Day?” Annie stared at him. “A TV dinner?”

“They’re not that bad, but I’ll probably go out to a restaurant. Live it up a little.” His mother had sent him a sizable check to buy a present.

“You sound like you’re really looking forward to it,” Annie said ruefully.

He shrugged. What could he say? There was nothing more depressing than eating alone on Christmas.

Leota made a harrumph. She tapped the table with her pointer finger.

“I agree, Grandma.” She looked at him. “Come and celebrate Christmas with us.” She offered him a small jar of jelly.

Corban almost said he didn’t want to inconvenience them, but who was he kidding? “My pleasure. What can I bring?”

Annie smiled mischievously and winked at her grandmother. “Can we ask for anything?”

“As long as I don’t have to cook the turkey.”

“No problem. We’re having honey-baked ham.”

“Then name it.”

“A cruise,” Leota said.

They all laughed, Leota most of all.

“A tree would be cheaper,” Annie said. “About four feet tall, preferably Douglas fir. It’s the best kind because there’s room between the branches for hanging ornaments, and I found some beauties in the garage the other day.”

“A tree it is.” Corban smiled. He was actually looking forward to it.

“There just happens to be a nice lot in front of the supermarket. All the proceeds go to charity.”

Corban grinned. “I’ll go get one right after supper.”

Annie was putting the last strands of tinsel on the tree when Arba and the children came by to drop off presents for her and Grandma Leota. Annie served warm apple cider with cinnamon sticks and Toll House cookies. Since Arba and the children were spending Christmas with relatives across the bay, they all decided to open presents right away.

The children helped Grandma Leota unwrap hers, then announced proudly they had all pitched in to buy the box of soft-center chocolates for Leota and the pretty bottle of bubble bath for Annie. Annie handed out their gifts, hoping they would like the dough ornaments of biblical people she had baked and painted. For Nile, she’d made Simeon called Niger; for Kenya, the queen of Sheba; and for Tunisha, Candace, queen of Ethiopia. She had talked about them once when Nile had told her a Muslim friend had said Jesus was a white man’s god forced on enslaved blacks.

For Arba, she’d made praying hands in chocolate-colored dough. Annie was delighted to see how the ornaments pleased all four of them. She had wanted to give them something special, something that would last.

“Time to go.” Arba leaned down and took Grandma Leota’s hand. “You have a wonderful Christmas, Leota. You’ll have a few days’ rest before we get back.”

“God bless.” Grandma Leota spoke clearly enough to be understood.

Annie walked out onto the porch as Arba and the children left. Arba paused at the bottom of the steps. “Is your family coming for Christmas?”

“Not this year. Uncle George’s family is spending Christmas in Phoenix with Aunt Jeanne’s parents. They were already committed to it when Grandma had her stroke. But they do plan to come over as soon as they get back. And Mother and Fred . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, Annie.”

“Me, too, but we had Thanksgiving. I’m glad of that. Corban’s coming, though, and Susan called. She and Sam want to come over in the afternoon. We have a lot to be thankful for.” Her smile wobbled. How she had wished the family would come together for Christmas! Lord, I have prayed so hard for reconciliation.

“Well, you and your granny have a merry Christmas, Annie.”

“You, too, Arba. Drop by when you can.”

“You know I will. The children’ve become very attached to Grandma Leota. How could they not?”

Annie waved as Arba headed for home, then went quietly back into the house. Grandma Leota was asleep in her recliner. Jimmy Stewart was wooing Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life. Annie quietly gathered the mugs and the cookie plates and carried them into the kitchen. She washed them and put them away. It was barely eight thirty, and she was so tired. She sat down on the sofa to rest for a few minutes. Leota looked so peaceful. She didn’t want to wake her yet. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the sofa.

Oh, Lord, there was no room in the inn for Your precious Son, and there doesn’t seem to be any room in my mother’s heart or Uncle George’s life for Grandma Leota. I don’t understand, Lord. I just don’t. It’s so sad. They’re missing all the blessings I’m receiving. She’s such a sweet old soul, and I hurt even thinking about losing her. Oh, God, please help me make this a special Christmas for Grandma. Don’t let another season go by without her knowing how much she’s loved.

Nora couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and she had never felt so alone and depressed. I hate Christmas. I’ve always hated Christmas. Every year I’m disappointed. When I was a child, it was because I knew I wouldn’t get what I wanted. Now it’s the shopping, fighting the crowds while trying to buy presents that will please everyone, decorating the house, paying good money to have lights strung all over the outside, cooking a big, fancy dinner everyone scarfs down in a matter of minutes. I’m always sick with exhaustion by the time it’s over. And what’s the point of it all?

She stared up into the darkness, listening to Fred snore beside her. She resented how he could fall asleep so easily after an argument, while she lay awake for hours, going over every word a hundred times. Usually, when she was in “one of her moods,” as he called it, Fred could talk her out of it. Not this evening. He’d kept silent until she’d asked him if he cared at all what she was feeling. And his response?

“Why don’t you call Annie? You know you want us all to be together for Christmas.”

“Here! I want her here!”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. It can’t happen.”

“If we go over there, it’ll only encourage her to keep on with this plan of hers, Fred.”

He’d snapped shut the book he had been reading all evening and dropped it on the table as he rose. “How you can know so little about your own daughter is beyond me, Nora. She’s committed to taking care of your mother. Nothing you do or say is going to change anything. And that’s what really gets to you, isn’t it? You’re no longer in control.”

“She’s throwing her life away.”

“How many years do you think your mother has left? She’s not going to live forever.”

“She’ll probably live to be a hundred.”

“You’d better hope she does.” And with that cryptic comment, Fred had gone up to bed.

Now she was tossing and turning and sleepless. Nora felt the tears running down into her hair. How many had she cried over the years, starting when her mother left her to go to work?

God, I can’t go on this way. Sometimes I wish I were dead. Nothing ever works out the way I want it. I called Michael this morning, and he couldn’t wait to get off the telephone. She was his mother, and he didn’t even care about her.

How have you treated your mother?

Nora clenched her teeth. She abandoned me first. Michael is just like his father, Bryan.

The silence pressed in upon her. The darkness was oppressive. Shivering, she curled on her side, tucking herself against Fred, hoping his warmth would warm her.

I loved Dean Gardner. I loved him so much I thought I’d die when he left me for that other woman—what was her name? Dominique. I kept hoping he would tire of her and come back to me. Well, he did tire of her, but then he met Phyllis and then Penny. I’ve lost count of the women he’s had over the years. What’s the name of his new paramour? Monica. She fought the tears pricking at her eyes. God, I gave Dean all the love I had, and it wasn’t enough to hold him. He was faithless. And now Anne-Lynn was proving to be just like her father. She’d forsaken Nora just the way Dean Gardner had.

You have forsaken her!

I haven’t. Her mouth trembled. She’ll probably marry that hoodlum, Sam Carter, and be miserable for the rest of her life.

And if that’s My plan for her, what is that to you?

Tears burned hotter as she thought about Susan and Susan’s mother and father. Now that their children were grown, they never had to call and ask them to come home. Their house was always full. All through the teen years, Anne-Lynn had wanted to be at the Carters’ house every chance she got. Nora used to think it was because of Sam and his Rebel without a Cause magnetism, but even after Sam was put into juvenile hall, Anne-Lynn kept going. She had loved being with the Carters.

Every time Anne-Lynn asked to spend the night at Susan’s, it hurt me. I felt as though she were defecting. I wanted her to love being at home with me, but she was like a bird trapped in my hands. The harder I held on, the harder she fought to be free.

And now she was free. She was free. And she was never coming back.

Oh, God, what is it about me that drives people away? All I’ve ever done is give my children everything I never had. All I want is for my children to have a better life than I had growing up. All she wanted was for them to love her.

All you want is to be their god.

No, I didn’t say that.

She could hear the grandfather clock downstairs chime four. There was no use in trying to sleep. It was almost time to get up. She eased herself from beneath the covers and slipped into her robe and slippers.

The tree lights were still on downstairs, and the soft glow lit the stairs. She had wrapped the banister with boughs of pine, putting in touches of holly berries. It looked so lovely and filled the house with a woodsy aroma. The mantel looked perfect with the silk poinsettias tucked into more pine boughs, and the tall red, green, and white candles were the perfect touch. No professional decorator could have done a better job.

It looked as perfectly arranged as any store window.

It’s all for show. It doesn’t mean a thing.

Christmas means something to Annie.

She remembered her daughter’s telephone message. The words came back as clearly as if they’d never been erased: “We’re both doing fine. We’d love for you to come by for a visit. I hope you know you’re welcome anytime, Mom.”

Mom. Not Mother. She called me Mom.

And she’d said it so tenderly.

Nora went into the kitchen and ground fresh, gourmet-blend coffee beans. She boiled an egg, then warmed a croissant in the microwave. It was too cold to sit in the sunroom, so she turned up the heater and sat in the den, looking out the glass doors at the manicured lawn, topiary pines, and cleanly mulched and weeded ground ready for bulb planting. It would look like a park in the spring.

A park for people to walk through and leave, not a garden where visitors relaxed and lingered. A park where people had to enter through the house and get permission from the owner . . . not a garden with a back gate for neighbors to use.

Nora closed her eyes. She could see her mother outside the kitchen window, on her knees, her hands in the soil.

It had been such a shock seeing her in that hospital bed. She’d looked so white, so confused, so pale, so frail.

The sunrise glowed pink-orange. The clock in the hall chimed seven. Where had the time gone? All the years of struggling and surviving one disappointment after another, of searching and searching for some kind of peace, some sense of accomplishment and purpose . . .

“I hope you know you’re welcome anytime, Mom.”

Mom. She clung to that word like a lifeline. Mom.

At 8 a.m. she picked up the telephone, called her daughter, and asked if the invitation was still open.

And, of course, it was.