She spotted my dark olive service dress jacket and stopped mid-stride.

“Emily, what in the world made you wear that uniform to your brother’s luncheon?” Linda asked, her sharp voice cutting through the murmur of early arrivals.

“This is my formal service dress jacket, Aunt Linda,” I told her.

Linda set the pitcher down on the linen tablecloth and checked her reflection in the silver side of a coffee urn.

“You look like an office clerk who got lost on the way to a recruiting station,” Linda said, fixing her pearl earring.

“The auxiliary board’s invitation called for military dress for active personnel,” I said.