in small blue and yellow flowers.
The colors had faded from years of washing.
It wasn’t ugly.
Fifteen years earlier, it had probably been nice.
But in Farrow’s, surrounded by tailored jackets, silk blouses, candlelight, and expensive wine, it looked completely out of place.
She carried her good wool coat over one arm and handed it to the host.
Underneath was that dress.
I watched Catherine notice.
Her gaze moved briefly from my mother’s face to the dress.
Then back.
She recovered almost immediately.
Catherine stood and smiled.
“Oh,” she
