(Since the hiring of Olivier, their new chef, Lattamore Acres was every bit as good as some of these overpriced uptown restaurants that prey upon Charlotte these days, Jeannette was happy to tell anyone.) It was only when dear Mrs. Doaks knocked on her door to tell her that her family was on the local TV and that something bad had happened that she was roused to action. This turn of events made Jeannette Jarvis the subject of public interest again, her words and actions once again noted by the public. Well, didn’t such things come naturally to her? Jeannette strode through the main dining room of the retirement community the next day, marked, everyone staring, noticing her carriage and composure, wondering how she was bearing up. Jeannette wore her best violet pastel, somber but not lugubrious, light rather than dark, and an amethyst brooch passed down through her mother’s side of the family, the Jellicoes of Salisbury, to remind people of her station. All of Lattamore, even the old harpies she despised, knew to cease hostilities temporarily to express support, because a larger conflict loomed in these situations: good families made to look like bad families, the quality made sport of by the rabble.
