in public. I felt panic like hungry little dogs nipping at my heels, and I started mentally screaming for Tonilynn to arrive. Finally I saw her crossing the street, wearing a sparkly aqua T-shirt and tight stonewashed jeans tucked into her pink cowboy boots. I held the door for her, and she passed through wheeling the biggest, reddest Samsonite I’d ever seen, and cradled in her other arm, like a baby, an enormous load of flowers. “Brung you some hydrangeas for the road trip, hon,” she said, her frosted pink lips stretching in a wide smile as she lifted the bouquet. I was stunned. “Ohhhhh, thank you. Nobody ever gave me flowers before.” “Sure they did. I’ve personally seen dozens of bouquets lined up every time you have a concert or award ceremony.” “They all say ‘To Jenny Cloud’ on the little cards. Those people don’t know me.” I felt tears welling. Tonilynn set the flowers on a table and took my hands in hers. “When we’re all boarded, I’m going to sit down and write a little card, saying, ‘To my dear friend, Jennifer Clodfelter, who is beautiful inside and out.’ ”
