Pots of jasmine and day lilies and geraniums overflowed on every step, spilling their blossoms one on top of the next, and white wicker chairs and love seats were gathered in chatty groups under the dogwoods, punctuated with coral and aqua and foam-green pillows. India must have transplanted her entire patio to my front yard, and ordered my usually sad azaleas to get happy for the day. In the kitchen, Hank was running an impressive operation of pots simmering on the stove and aromas seeping from the oven and trays of puffed and golden appetizers covering every horizontal plane. Joe wore a chef’s hat, and crisp aprons awaited Jasmine and Mercedes and Sherry and me. I was already close to crying, but when Desmond’s bedroom door opened and he promenaded into the kitchen, I gave in to the tears I’d been choking back all morning. The kid was dressed in a tuxedo. All starched collar and shiny cuff links and pants pressed into a crease like the sharp edge of a knife.
