"Tell your parents thank you," I said, "but I'll probably need something full-time. I haven't figured out what to do yet."

"I've always said you should go to beauty school. You would be such a great hairstylist. I can see you with your own shop someday." Lucy knew me too well—the idea of working in a salon, all aspects of it, appealed to me more than any other kind of job. But...

"It would take about nine months to a year, full-time, to get my license," I said regretfully. "And there's no way I could afford the tuition."

"You could borrow—"

"No." I pulled on a black sleeveless acrylic top and tucked it into the top of my skirt. "I can't start by borrowing, Luce, or I'll just keep going on that way. If I don't have the means for it, I'll have to wait until I've saved enough."

"You may never save enough." She regarded me with patent exasperation. "Girlfriend, if you're waiting for a fairy godmother to show up with a dress and a ride, you're not going to make it to the party."

I picked up a brush from my dresser and began to fix my hair in a low ponytail. "I'm not waiting for anyone. I can do it by myself."

"All I'm saying is, take help where you can get it. You don't have to do everything the hard way."

"I know that." Swallowing back the irritation, I managed to haul the corners of my mouth up into a smile. Lucy was a concerned friend, and knowing that made her bossiness a little easier to take. "And I'm not as stubborn as you make it sound—I let Mr. Ferguson upgrade the casket, didn't I?"

The day before the funeral, Mr. Ferguson had called and said he had a deal for me if I was interested. Seeming to choose his words carefully, he told me that the casket manufacturer had just put its art models on sale, and the Monet casket had been discounted. Since the starting price had been sixty-five hundred, I said I doubted I could afford it even on sale.

"They're nearly giving them away," Mr. Ferguson had pressed. "In fact, the Monet is

now the exact same price as the pine coffin you purchased. I can switch them out for you at no extra expense."

I had almost been too stunned to speak. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Suspecting that Mr. Ferguson's generosity might have had something to do with the fact that he had taken Miss Marva out to dinner a couple of nights before. I went to ask her exactly what had happened on their date.

"Liberty Jones," she had said indignantly, "are you suggesting I slept with that man to get you a discounted coffin?"

Abashed, I replied that I'd meant no disrespect, and of course I didn't think such a thing.

Still indignant. Miss Marva had informed me that if she had slept with Arthur Ferguson. there was no doubt he would have given me the dadgum coffin for free.

The graveside service was beautiful, if a little scandalous by Welcome standards. Mr. Ferguson conducted the sendee, talking a little about Mama and her life, and how much she would be missed by her friends and two daughters. There was no mention at all of Louis. His kin had taken his body off to Mesquite. where he'd been born and many of the Sadleks still lived. They'd hired a manager for Bluebonnet Ranch, a shiftless young man named Mike Mendeke.

One of Mama's closest friends at work, a plump woman with tea-colored hair, read a poem:

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

It may not have been a religious poem, but by the time Deb had finished, there were tears in many eyes.

I laid two yellow roses, one from Carrington and one from me. on top of the coffin. Red may be the preferred color of roses everywhere else, but in Texas it's yellow. Mr. Ferguson had promised me the flowers would be buried with Mama when it was lowered into the ground.

At the end of the service, we played "Imagine" by John Lennon, which elicited smiles from a few faces, and disapproving frowns from many more. Forty-two white balloons—one for each year of Mama's age—were released in the warm blue sky.

It was the perfect funeral for Diana Truitt Jones. I think my mother would have loved it. When the service was over, I felt a sudden fierce need to rush back to Carrington. I wanted to hug her for a long time, and stroke the pale blond curls that reminded me so much of Mama's. Carrington had never seemed so fragile to me, so vulnerable to every kind of harm.

As I turned to glance at the row of cars, I saw a black limo with tinted windows parked in the distance. Welcome is not what you'd call limo country, so this was a mildly startling sight. The design of the vehicle was modern, its doors and windows sealed, its shape as streamlined and perfect as a shark's.

No other funeral was being held that day. Whoever was sitting in that limo had known my mother, had wanted to watch her service from a distance. I stood very still, staring at the vehicle. My feet moved, and I suppose I was going over to ask if he—or she—wanted to come to the graveside. But just as I started toward it. the limo pulled away in a slow glide.

It’s me. The thought that I would never find out who it was.