Can’t fool a mother.” Charly pointed a manicured finger at Fletcher’s tuxedo jacket. “Pull out the cell phone you’re hiding in that beautiful pocket and check the news. See if they’ve found out anything on that shooter.” She scoffed at his attempt to assure her it could wait. “Go ahead,” she insisted. “A woman who steps out with a man packin’ a gun learns to graciously accept these things. Just don’t confuse those two objects —cell phone and revolver. I’m not up to that kind of excitement.” “Not going to happen,” Fletcher laughed. He slid an arm around his mother’s shoulders, draped in a shawl that matched her long blue gown. “Tonight is about you.” Despite his earlier misgivings —and the necessity to rent a tux —Fletcher was glad he was here tonight after all. For his mother and because it was a welcome diversion. He wasn’t so sure that the TV news flash about the new evidence hadn’t served the same purpose by delaying his declaration of love to Jessica Barclay.