We're on our way to meet her grandmother, Nan Cavannaugh, at the preschool Nan has hand-selected. It's a tony sort of place in Chestnut Hill that calls itself a country day school though it's hardly in the countryside. Of course the name and location give it panache, which explains the two year-plus waiting list. My husband's godmother is on the board of governors for the school. Nan cooed this to me on the phone when she told me Lily had been accepted."Of course Ellie Ballantine pulled a few strings since it's John's daughter being considered and not just any child," she'd said and I imagined her chest puffing up with pride like some bird ready to preen and strut as a part of its mating ritual.Afterwards, all I remembered was how she enunciated John's daughter. And the exclusion of my name unnerved me a little.Beside me, Lily squirms. "It smells funny in here," she grumbles as she picks at the dusty rose corduroy dress, a gift from her aunt Maria.Lily doesn't like wearing dresses but she knows today is important so she's suffered through having her unruly dark hair combed and pulled back into two relatively tamed ponytails.
