A Four-Dollar Worn Shawl to Wear to Belle Meade

At two in the afternoon the Belle Meade lawn smelled heavily of wet grass and pricey fertilizer.

A huge white marquee tent took up the middle of the sprawling yard, throwing long shadows over the immaculate flower beds.

Dozens of wooden folding chairs stood stacked in tidy rows against the gray stone retaining wall.

Crystal lights hung in heavy strands from the old oak trees, tinkling gently in the spring breeze.

A young man in a crisp white catering uniform was struggling to haul a thick green garden hose over the wet grass.

He wiped his palms on his apron as I crossed the lawn.