A Four-Dollar Worn Shawl to Wear to Belle Meade
The huge wrought-iron gates of the rented Belle Meade estate stood wide open.
A man in a black security polo stood by the entrance, busy giving directions to a lost driver in a silver flower delivery van.
I walked straight past the security guard along the edge of the gravel drive.
He didn’t even look my way.
The little white stones crunched loudly under the thin soles of my cheap shoes.
The long driveway curved past a row of perfectly clipped green hedges and finally opened out onto the wide sweep of the back lawn.
The crystal lights hanging from the oak trees threw a sharp, glittering glare across the rented grass.
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