The foundation luncheon arrived on Saturday like something that had been scheduled in a different life.
Margaret had been preparing for it since Tuesday, the specific operational intensity of a woman who treated social events as military campaigns, guest lists reviewed and revised, catering confirmed twice, floral arrangements adjusted after the first delivery was deemed insufficiently spring-like and sent back. The house had absorbed the preparations the way it absorbed everything Margaret imposed on it, efficiently and without visible complaint.
I had spent the week being useful in small ways. Confirming RSVPs that Margaret passed to me. Reviewing the seating chart when she asked for a second opinion. Appearing interested in the question of whether the east drawing room or the main din
