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were napping, so I went for a little visit with my mom, true. But we didn’t talk about you.”

“Yes you did!” she screeches. “When I woke up I went looking for you. I was about to open the door of your mom’s room when I heard y’all laughing and talking about me.”

It hits me so hard that I push back from the table with a loud gasp. I stare from Michael to Jocasta in disbelief. “This afternoon? That was you, Michael? You were in your mother’s room this afternoon?”

Michael looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “I was just visiting with Mom, Chris. Okay, Missy’s right. We did talk about everybody, like we always do.” He glances over at his wife apologetically, suddenly sober. “But I swear, Missy. We didn’t say anything bad about you. I’m sorry if you thought otherwise.”

She looks baffled, then says, “Well, I couldn’t really hear that well—”

With dawning understanding of what I heard, and how mistaken I was about it, I let out a peal of laughter that startles everyone at the table. Nellie Bee stares at me then joins in, though she has no idea what I’m laughing at. Neither do I, but I can’t seem to stop myself. All the pent-up emotion I’ve suppressed in order to get through the evening comes pouring out. Heard through a closed door, a son’s voice sounded like his father’s, and I jumped to the worst possible conclusion. I laugh so hard that my shoulders shake and tears roll down my cheeks. When I hear Steve bellow out, “Okay, that’s a take!” I force myself to take deep breaths and try to pull myself together. Suddenly Bram’s there, and when he pulls me to my feet I throw my arms around him, holding on so tight I’m afraid I’ll squeeze the life out of him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Bram says as he cups my face in his hands. “I was so nervous after my first show I puked for days. It could be worse.”

I look up at him through my tears. “You have no idea how much worse it could be,” I tell him with a laugh, but this time, it’s a laugh of such joy and relief that I feel light-headed, and cling to Bram even harder. He has no idea what happened this afternoon or what I foolishly thought of him, and I might never tell him. Maybe, just maybe, even the best of marriages needs some secrets.

When Steve appears with a bottle of champagne, Bram, still holding me close, waves him off. “You’d better let the crew enjoy that, Steve. This bunch’s had all they need tonight.” He leans down to kiss me lightly on the lips. “Even my bride, it appears.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, I noticed. I was getting worried toward the end.”

“You were?” Bram says with a snort. “You’re cutting out the last part, I hope?”

Steve blinks at him in disbelief. “Are you insane? The audience will eat that up. Wait till Rick sees it. We argue all the time about who has the most screwed-up family.” Popping the champagne cork, he grins at Bram. “Yours might win the prize.”

At Steve’s signal, the crew cuts off the overhanging lights and the room plunges into darkness. The only light comes from the flickering candles on the table, but it’s just enough. In the soft glow, I see a tipsy Nellie Bee lean into Charlie, who kisses the top of her head, and Missy takes a drunken Michael in her arms in forgiveness. Although she’s slumped in her chair, Jocasta’s forlorn gaze is fastened on Bram, as it has been since she arrived. But I know now that she’ll go back alone, while Bram and I will remain in the home we’ve created together.

I reach for Bram’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s been a long day. Let’s help this crazy family of ours get themselves to bed.”

With an exhausted smile, he raises my hand to his lips. “I cannot wait.”

About Cassandra King Conroy

CASSANDRA KING CONROY is an award-winning author of five bestselling novels and two nonfiction books in addition to numerous short stories, essays, and magazine articles. Her latest book, Tell Me a Story, a memoir about life with her late husband, Pat Conroy, was named SIBA’s 2020 nonfiction Book of the Year.

When Pat gave Dottie Frank a blurb for her first book, Sullivan’s Island, Cassandra invited Dottie for a visit to Fripp Island, and the Conroys and Franks became fast friends.

A native of LA (Lower Alabama), Cassandra resides in Beaufort, South Carolina, where she is honorary chair of the Pat Conroy Literary Center.

Also by Cassandra King Conroy

Tell Me a Story

The Same Sweet Girls’ Guide to Life

Moonrise

Queen of Broken Hearts

The Same Sweet Girls

The Sunday Wife

Making Waves

Dottie and Me

Mary Norris

At an authors’ lunch outside Detroit in May 2016, a brunette in a bold red-and-white-print dress made a beeline for me. She was Dorothea Benton Frank, known to her friends as Dottie, the author of bestselling books set in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, and she was eager to talk about grammar, of all things. We were in a clubby room with a bar and retractable walls, enjoying a cocktail or something milder, before appearing on a program that featured Steve Hamilton, a curly-haired, prolific author of mysteries, and Lesley Stahl, the 60 Minutes correspondent. We watched Stahl make her entrance, impeccably coiffed, a loose coat thrown over a slim dress. Her book about being a grandmother had just been published, and Dottie and I had a strong suspicion that the big turnout for this event—more than a thousand tickets had been sold—was for her.

The authors sat at a long table on a platform at the front of the room and were given five or ten minutes apiece to pitch their books while the audience, mostly book-club ladies seated at big round tables in a banqueting hall, consumed a three-course lunch. Dottie didn’t touch her food,