A Four-Dollar Worn Shawl to Wear to Belle Meade
She wore a pale green dress, and her hair was scraped back so tightly it tugged at her temples.
Her eyes moved from my shoes up to my collar.
“Oh,” she said.
“You’re here.”
“Vanessa,” I said.
“Did you write this card?”
Her lips curved.
She laid the folder on the desk and smoothed her skirt with both hands.
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