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services for a Mother’s Day party. A gala of sorts if seventy- and eighty-year-old people can experience such a thing without falling asleep. You see, I want to do this for . . . for my family. By that I mean relatives who no longer have children or whose children have . . . forgotten about them. Several cousins won’t make it past the new year, so I thought . . . It’s such a special day. Perhaps I’m wrong to do this. What is your opinion, chère?”
    â€œI think it’s a wonderful thing to be remembered on Mother’s Day. My sister and I always tried to do something special for Mom. We’d pick flowers, serve her toast in bed. We weren’t allowed to make anything else when we were younger. We’d sing her a song we learned in school. She’d clap her hands and hug us. They were the best hugs,” Josie said, with a catch in her voice. “Do you have children of your own, Mrs. Lobelia?”
    â€œI did,” Marie said flatly. “My oldest daughter died in childbirth. Her husband moved away and took the child with him. She’d be about your age now. I’ve never seen or heard from them since that day. My second daughter died at the age of sixteen from cystic fibrosis. My son . . . my son operates our family business out of our corporate headquarters in New York. I never see him. He calls on occasion. I can’t change things. I’m not sure I would even if I could. Everything in life is preordained. Do you believe that, chère?”
    How sad she is. What could be worse than having no family? “Yes, I do agree. Now, tell me what it is you would like for your Mother’s Day party.”
    â€œSince it’s going to be the same group of ladies, I think we’ll need a different menu. I’ll take care of the gifts and the flowers. Every mother should get flowers on Mother’s Day. How hard is it to send a card?”
    Josie pretended not to see the tears gathering in the faded caramel-colored eyes. She looked down at the paper in front of her. “I think my sister and I can make this a very special day for you and your friends. Let me talk to Kitty, and I’ll run the details by you before we make any definite decisions. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
    â€œI don’t know if you know this or not, but I still own and operate a small company that my first husband and I started. We package cornmeal and print a new recipe each quarter on our bags. I’ve run out of recipes. I’d like something new and unique. I’m afraid the company is faltering a bit. I need something to perk it up. I don’t want my son to come back and snatch it away from me because he thinks I’m seventy-four years old and not capable of operating the company. Right now we’re holding our own. I’ve found over the years that a new recipe drives up sales. Do you think you could come up with something? Name your price.”
    What kind of son did this sweet woman have? A shark. “This is just off the top of my head, Mrs. Lobelia, but have you given any thought to, say, a bake-off or cook-off, something like that. More important, do you have a Web page? If not, I know someone who can design one for you. Perhaps a dish that could be written up and prepared at someplace like the Commander’s Palace or possibly Emeril Lagasse’s restaurant if you go with the cook-off idea?”
    â€œNow you’re cookin’, chère. What a fabulous idea! I don’t want to be a failure at my age. Now, why didn’t I think of that? I’ll need the recipe by April first. I can’t wait to tell the girls. The Web page sounds wonderful. I’ll do it. Will that be a problem?”
    Josie smiled. “I don’t think so. Are you Cajun, Mrs. Lobelia? Lobelia isn’t a Cajun-sounding name.”
    â€œLobelia is Choctaw. However, I am Cajun. I’ve been married four times. Somehow I managed to outlive all four