Julian, Liz, and I were mercifully not expected to listen to the tributes. We moved between tables smoothly serving drinks and clearing plates, and eventually, serving thick wedges of strawberry pie topped with vanilla ice cream. To the unlucky few who were allergic to strawberries, we offered large bowls of ice cream.
When the last speech was done and the partygoers were heading toward their cars, Nan Watkins came over to thank me. Holly Kerr, patting her wiry gray hair, accompanied her. They were both beaming.
“That was splendid,” Holly enthused. She’d clearly recovered from the committee breakfast, which relieved me. “How could you do three magnificent events in one week? You are a marvel.”
“Really superb,” Nan echoed. The dark eyes in her round chipmunk face had become brightened by
