The hostess at my own restaurant called security to throw me into the snow while a dining room full of wealthy strangers laughed at my coat, my boots, and the old silver telephone in my hand.
I had a reservation for twelve-thirty, and I knew the exact table where I was supposed to sit.
Table seven, beside the north window.
What the hostess did not know was why I knew that particular table so well, or why the man whose name I was dialing would understand the significance of those three simple words.
My name is Lena Brooks, and I was seventy-two years old on the Saturday when a woman half my age decided that my appearance told her everything worth knowing about me.
I had walked through enough winters to recognize the sound of snow beneath my boots, and that morning the sidewalks were covered with the wet, heavy kind that clung to wool.
My raspberry-colored coat was eleven years old, with a careful repair inside one sleeve and a lining I had sewn back into place myself.
I could have bought another one.
I simply liked the one I had.
The coat had accompanied me through ordinary lunches, difficult meetings, quiet celebrations, and some of the most meaningful days of my life.
That morning, I had chosen it because the cold was sharp and because I wanted to feel comfortable.
I was not expecting to defend my right to enter a restaurant.
Aureline stood on a broad avenue where expensive cars waited beneath polished awnings and doormen hurried to protect customers from the weather.
Its brass doors had been polished so carefully that I could see the blurred reflection of my silver hair as I approached.
Through the glass, I could make out the warm glow of chandeliers, white tablecloths, and the beautiful arrangement of winter branches beside the entrance.
The restaurant looked magnificent.
For several seconds, I stood beneath the awning and appreciated the sight.
Some places become so familiar that people stop noticing them, but I had never lost the habit of studying Aureline's windows, entrance, and dining room with a mixture of affection and concern.
I noticed when flowers were tired, when furniture had been moved, and when the atmosphere felt different from the place I remembered.
There was something unusual about the entrance that afternoon.