My hands were completely steady.

I wasn’t going to cry one single tear over being shut out of the Belle Meade estate.

I slid the box into the middle of the table.

Margaret leaned on the kitchen island.

She drummed her fingernails on the granite.

“I could drop that box at the thrift store tomorrow morning,” Margaret said.

“I’m taking in a bag of old winter coats and work shirts anyway.

Somebody might want a fancy blue dress.”