Clare chose a booth in the back corner near the kitchen doors, sliding onto the red vinyl seat with her purse on her lap.

The waitress set two heavy white porcelain mugs on the Formica table and filled them to the rim with black coffee without asking.

“Forty-two dollars and sixteen cents,” Clare said, setting a yellow register receipt beside the sugar dispenser.

“For what?” I asked.

“The rehearsal dinner breakfasts Margaret ordered on Friday,” she said.

“She tried to charge them to Dad’s business card, but the bank canceled his credit line at six this morning.”

I reached into my navy clutch purse and pulled out the original black-and-white photograph Clare had recovered from our mother’s cedar chest.