up the stairwell as she carted it off to the truck. “And the wedge sandals with the cork heels and the tan belt. And earrings. Just gold posts. We’re going for a suburban mom look.”
“Got it!” Polly grabbed me by the elbow and started steering me toward the bedroom. “What about her hair?”
“Scrunchie and a ponytail. There’s no time to wash it.”
“But there’s paint in it. How am I supposed to get it out?”
“I don’t know. Think of something. They’ll be here any minute!”
WE MADE IT, but barely.
Twenty-five minutes after I’d called the “code blue,” Felicia was shooing everybody out the door and herding the women over to her house, leaving me alone to greet Anne Dowling and the Cavanaughs.
“Call us the second they leave,” Felicia instructed, then gave me a quick hug before scurrying off with the others. Trey, Lorne, and Heath were right behind her, carrying one last load of equipment to the truck. When that was done, Heath jogged across the street to his house, turning to give me a big thumbs-up before going inside and closing the door. Lorne and Trey jumped into the pickup and drove off, tires spinning.
Seconds later, a silver sedan that looked like rental cars always do—nondescript and sporting out-of-state plates—approached from the opposite direction. I smoothed my hair with my hand and caught a whiff of paint thinner and perfume. Polly had brushed both through the paint-splashed strands, thinner to remove the paint and perfume to cover the smell. It didn’t work but there was nothing to do about it now.
I took a deep breath and gave myself a little pep talk. “The house is ready and so are you. Everything is going to be fine. You’ve got this.”
Just as I was about to paste on a smile and come down from the piazza to greet my guests, I heard a dull but insistent tapping sound. I glanced to the right and saw Felicia, Polly, and the others standing at Felicia’s dining room window. Caroline knocked on the window and mouthed something and Pris motioned with her hand.
At first, I thought they were just trying to be encouraging and gave them a big thumbs-up. Then all six of them started waving their hands and pointing, their eyes panicked and their lips twisting silently. It was like the world’s most frustrating game of charades. The more they pointed and flapped and gestured, the less clue I had about what they were trying to tell me.
Was there lipstick on my teeth? Toilet paper on my shoe? Had I sat in paint? Was the porch about to collapse? I had no clue.
The rental car pulled up in front of the house and a flash of red caught my eye. I reached out, ripped the fire hazard placard off the front door just as Anne and the Cavanaughs climbed out of the car. I crumpled the placard into a ball, shoved it in my pocket, and descended the steps to meet them.
“Welcome,” I said, as I opened the gate. “Did you have any trouble with the directions? Downtown Charleston can be tricky if you’re not from here; streets just start and end for no good reason. I’m Celia, by the way.” I laughed nervously, realizing I’d been babbling, and reached out to shake Anne Dowling’s hand.
Even if I hadn’t recognized her from her photo on the law firm’s website, Anne would have been easy to spot. She wore a black suit, just like Trey did when he was lawyering. But unlike Trey’s, Anne’s suit actually fit and looked good. The fabric was fine and obviously expensive. She’d accessorized it with pearl earrings, a circle pin with emeralds and diamonds, and a black leather briefcase with a Kate Spade logo.
She looked like a lawyer, all right. A very high-priced one. One glance at Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh told me they could well afford the services of Anne Dowling, and just about anything else they wanted. It never occurred to me that the Cavanaughs would be well off, but in retrospect, I guess it should have. If you can afford to hire a private lawyer to handle every aspect of a private adoption and fly around the country to check out potential parents, you’re probably not hurting for cash. The Cavanaughs certainly weren’t.
Their clothing was understated but expensive, devoid of designer labels or trendy designs, simple pieces that were never quite in or out of style, a look favored by old families with old money, one I’d