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never mind what was in art galleries or in the breathtaking showrooms of antique dealers and, I guess, here’s the point . . . have you ever seen a mother take a child to Toys “R” Us and then tell them they can’t have anything? They say, Sorry, honey, we’re just here to get something for Blah Blah’s birthday! The poor child just wants to break down and wail. I mean, if you don’t want to buy that child a little something, don’t put that child in that store!
    I did not have to be Albert Einstein to come to the conclusion that I had no business surrounding myself with an Everest I would never conquer or possess.
    Just for a while, I wanted to try living in an environment where the comforts were within my reach. At least, I could try.
    Maybe by moving back to Mount Pleasant, my sister would help me reacquaint myself with all the details that would make my new life at least appear to approach something more cheerful and hopeful. I could begin again in a home without drafty windows and uneven floors. I’d find a house with enough closets, a sunny kitchen and a little screened porch where I could sit and read or talk to a friend.
    You could say that appearances don’t mean everything and you wouldn’t be wrong, but frequently, I have found the opposite to be true. What you wear and how you are groomed has a lot to do with how you are treated at a restaurant or a teacher’s conference. Mimi’s house and yard spoke volumes about her life. If nothing else, she was perceived as satisfied and proud of her lot.
    Her home was not only regulation Americana, but regulation belle. Thoughtfully arranged photographs in small silver frames of our long-deceased parents and grandparents were but one small demonstration of her regard for our heritage. Our mother’s mahogany secretary in her living room had other small but precious family relics on display—our mother’s miniature first Bible, our grandmother’s wirerimmed reading glasses folded neatly over its open pages and our father’s silver mint julep cup filled with sprigs of dried rosemary from her yard. Next to the cup rested his baptismal cap of lace, tatted by our grandmother’s own hands.
    The care and thought that went into each small detail of her world was a constant amazement to me. I, the Oscar to her Felix, had been living life on a roaring freight train, almost laughing at my sister’s prissiness for years. I used to think, What good had it done her? I ran a crazy house, she ran a show house and both of us got dumped by our husbands. The major difference was that I had two children and for a whole assortment of medical and emotional reasons, Mimi never had any.
    All that said, when I came to the end of what I could endure on my own, I secretly believed that the temple to tradition she had built would be a place where we could not only heal, but change. Besides, there was the outside chance that she knew something I didn’t, but I doubted it.
    I couldn’t get out of the car. I just kept thinking about what I had done. In less than one measly hour, I had made a decision that would alter the course of my whole life. Incredible. You would date somebody for years before you would even consider marriage or you could wrack your brains for years studying before you practiced medicine, but you could have one interview and change your world. Just like that. I had done it. I, Linda Breland, the biggest chicken on the face of the earth, had caught the boomerang that would land me back in my hometown. Somewhere along the line, I had developed some very impressive nerve.
    I gathered up my purse and newspapers and got out of the car, opening the back hatch to bring in the steaks I’d bought at the Piggly Wiggly . This important day demanded an important supper. In a moment of wild abandon, I had even sprung for a bottle of champagne, deciding we needed to do something celebratory for the occasion.
    I couldn’t wait to tell Mimi the news—she would be thrilled—but