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hours.”
    Ann Rose raised her voice slightly. “Katharine, since you’re near the door, would you ask Francie to have someone bring in Bara’s groceries and store them properly until she’s ready to leave? Bara, give Katharine your keys. I believe there’s a seat here on the couch.”
    Two women obligingly shifted to make space for a third in the center. Katharine took the keys and headed in search of Ann Rose’s cook. Ann Rose resumed her speech.
    The kitchen bustled with caterers in gray uniforms with white aprons, preparing dainty sandwiches and finger foods under Francie’s stern eye. Francie—who had run the Anderson kitchen since Jeffers was a boy and who insisted that the Anderson staff wear soft peach uniforms (“more friendly” she called it)—accepted the commission as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. “Bara don’t know a thing about groceries. I’ll take care of them.”
    As Katharine rejoined the group, Posey leaned over and whispered, “Did you know there are grown people in Atlanta who don’t know how to read? I’ll fill you in later.” Katharine would be interested to hear what Posey absorbed. That ought to give Ann Rose a baseline for the least somebody could retain.
    Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang twice, an urgent summons. Katharine rose to answer, but reached the door in a dead heat with a peach-clad maid. The maid opened the door, then stepped back to let Katharine welcome the newcomers.
    Katharine found Murdoch Payne about to press the bell a third time. Behind her stood Payne Anderson wearing an anxious expression and the casual seersucker shorts and T-shirt of a young mother who had been forced to run out when she’d planned to be home all day.
    No stranger seeing the two women on the doorstep would guess they were cousins. Payne at thirty looked a lot like her mother used to: tall and striking, with smooth olive skin, perfect brows above dark eyes, and short silky curls the color of polished ebony.
    Murdoch looked like a large mouse in a tan pantsuit and comfortable shoes.
    Payne spoke in a low, anxious voice. “Did Mama get here safely?”
    Katharine nodded, but before she could speak, Murdoch sidled into the hall and announced, “Bara forgot to pick me up, after I’d called!”
    Katharine had never liked Murdoch much. They had served together on a couple of committees, and the woman screeched when she got excited. She also took forever to make up her mind about minor decisions, driving other members of the committee wild with pointless discussion; yet, if she were in charge of anything, she would make impulsive, unwise decisions that left messes for others to clear up.
    She took the first empty chair she came to—which happened to be the one Katharine had just vacated—and dropped her purse on the floor with an indignant clunk ! Since she didn’t look before she dropped it, she squarely bombed the half-full glass Katharine had left beside her chair. Water flowed under Katharine’s purse and across the hardwood floor.
    The same maid who had opened the door hurried forward with towels to sop up the mess. Murdoch ignored her and continued her lament. She didn’t bother to lower her voice, being one of those women who presume their distress is the concern of the world. “I’m sorry to be so late, but Bara forgot to come get me.” She glared at her cousin. Bara ignored her.
    Payne apologized for them both. “I’m sorry we interrupted the program.”
    Ann Rose smiled her forgiveness, but Rita Louise Phipps—a frail elderly woman in a wing chair—gave Payne a formidable frown. She had been the close friend of Payne’s grandmother, Nettie Holcomb. For five decades Rita Louise, Nettie, and Katharine’s aunt, Sara Claire Everanes, had formed a triumvirate that arbitrated Buckhead’s manners and monitored its social gates. Posey used to refer to them as “the scariest women in town.” As the only survivor of the triumvirate and the widow of an Episcopal priest,