Dear Mama, I have never properly thanked you for lifting me up onto Lawanda's back. For our trip to the wild jungle, for your bravery, for the way you were true to me on that hot blacktop of the Southgate Shopping Center. There is a lot I haven't thanked you for.

The Ya-Yas told me about your early birthday party in October. Would an out-of-town daughter and her sweetheart be welcome?

Thank you also for the crayfish meal you sent. It was your kitchen, it was the best of Louisiana distilled into one dish. It moved me to tears.

I love you,

Sidda

September 16, 1993 Sidda Dahlin- I do deserve to be thanked. But so does Lawanda, Mother of Us All. Glad you remembered something good for a change.

As for my birthday, you'll have to take your chances. I have no idea of whether I'll be in a welcoming mood or not. It's my birthday, and I'm not in the least bit interested in having the party scrutinized in the national media.

You must let me know about your wedding-is it on or what?

Love,

Mama

September 20, 1993 Dear Mama, Wedding plans are still on hold. We'll just play the party by ear, what do you say?

I love you,

Sidda

September 26, 1993 Sidda Dahlin- Life is short, Buddy. Don't keep your wedding on hold too long or you won't have anything to hold on to.

As for my early birthday party at Pecan Grove on October 18, which starts around seven in the evening: I play everything by ear.

Love,

Mama

On the night of October 17, the day before she and Connor were scheduled to fly from Seattle to Louisiana, Sidda very carefully photographed the old snapshots and memorabilia contained in the scrapbook of "Divine Secrets." The photo she took the most care with was a picture she hadn't discovered until she'd returned to Seattle. Tucked into the folds of one of the back pages was the image of a woman, blonde with dark eyes, holding an auburn-haired baby girl in her lap as she sat on a porch swing. Each of them was dressed in a fetching summer dress, and back-lit by the sun. Sidda photographed the image several times. With each advancement of the film, she dropped deeper into an appreciation of the moment recorded on that Southern swing. When she finished photographing the image, she turned the snapshot over and photographed the inscription on the back. In Vivi's hand were written the following words: "Vivi and Sidda, 1953. A beautiful day, a pink dress. Photo by Buggy."

After finishing eight rolls of film, Sidda closed the scrapbook and set it on the dining-room table. On either side of the album, she set sanctuary candles, one with an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe and one with a depiction of Saint Jude. She lit both candles, turned out all the lights, and said a little prayer of thanks to the Holy Lady and her angels. Tenderly, she took the "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" album, and wrapped it in a silk pillow case, and placed it in a gallon-size Ziploc bag. Then she tucked it into her carry-on bag, along with a tiny, gift-wrapped package.

For the fourth time since she'd boarded the plane, Sidda checked her carry-on to make sure the scrapbook was still safe. Then she took a sip of her Diet Coke and settled back for the flight.

"Have I lost my mind?" she asked Connor. "I mean, Vivi Dahlin still sounds angry. There's no telling what will happen."

"Your mother doesn't own Louisiana," Connor said.

"Yes, she does," Sidda said. "She is the Queen of Central Louisiana. But she's getting old. She won't live forever. I want to see her."

"What do you want from this visit?" Connor asked.

"Oh, just the perfect healing of all wounds, transcending of all pain. That sort of thing. What do you want?"

"To marry you in your hometown."

Sidda choked on a peanut and quickly reached for a quick sip of her Diet Coke. When she recovered, she said, "I'm not going to touch that right now. Okay?"

"Definitely do not touch it right now," he said. "Not in public."

As they flew over the heart of the country, the earth tinged by the reds and golds of October, Sidda and Connor played game after game of gin rummy, betting everything from trips to Tuscany to back rubs to little private pleasures only the two of them knew how to broker. They didn't stop playing until the Boeing 707 landed-just barely-in Houston, where the weather had grown melodramatic. A mean, exciting storm born somewhere off the coast of Africa had Houston in its grip.

Sidda's perfectly calculated plans-to arrive in Thornton in plenty of time to check into their lodging, shower, change, and make a shining entrance just as Vivi's party kicked off-were blown off course. During a three-hour wait in an airport cafe, Sidda had plenty of time to wonder if her reentry into the land of tropical depressions and storms was a crazy mistake.

"It is hurricane season, after all," she told Connor. "We should have never attempted to make this trip. Jesus."

"The last time you were home-when was that-couple of years ago? That was October too, wasn't it?"

"Right," Sidda said. "My goddaughter Lee's baptism."

"No hurricane then, right?" he asked.

"No," she replied, "just your run-of-the-mill psychic squalls and mental typhoons."

"Well," Connor said, testing her, "maybe we won't make it after all. Maybe we should just check into a hotel here in Houston."

"Are you kidding? And miss the birthday party?! No, no, no, if that plane doesn't take off soon, we're renting a car and driving."

"That's what I thought," he said.

"Smarty pants."

When the small puddle-jumper plane from Houston to Thornton was cleared for take-off, Sidda took it as a sign. Visibility has increased: this means my mother will not kill me.

By the time the plane landed at Thornton's tiny airport, it was almost ten o'clock at night. They rented a car, cracking up when the only one available was a big silver deluxe Chrysler New Yorker Fifth Avenue with burgundy leather interior.

When they turned off Highway 1 onto Jefferson Street, Sidda wished she smoked. "Cocktail hour has come and gone," she told Connor. "No telling what shape Vivi Dahlin will be in. Daddy either."

"You know how to wing it."

"Yep," Sidda said, trying to control the nausea, "I know how to wing it, but I'd sure as hell rather have a finished script in my hands."

At the sight of her parents' home, Sidda slowed the car to a crawl. The long brick house on the rise above the bayou looked different than it did in her memories. The pine trees seemed taller. The pecan trees and azaleas were older, and ivy now covered almost the whole back side of the six-bedroom brick house. Everything felt more settled and peaceful-looking than she remembered.

She could see the small wood frame house at the edge of the field, where Willetta and Chaney lived. Something about that little house helped her keep driving toward the much larger house in which she'd grown up.

"We've made it this far," Sidda said, creeping the car up the long drive, "I guess we might as well at least drop in."

She slowly drove past the bayou to the front of the house. The first thing she saw as she turned off the motor was her parents. They were sitting on a wooden swing under two old pecan trees in the front yard. White Christmas lights were strung around the swing set, and Vivi and Shep sat inside their glow. Vivi was wearing a rust-and-gold-colored silk pants suit, her ash-blonde hair cut in a smart page boy, which swung from side to side as she moved her head. Shep wore a pair of light gray Dockers and a blue-and-gray-plaid shirt. They both had aged in the past two years.

Sidda watched for a moment as her mother gestured animatedly with her hands. She did not recognize the person sitting in an Adirondack chair opposite the swing, which surprised her. Sidda believed she should be able to recognize every person in her hometown, in spite of the fact that she hadn't actually lived there in over twenty-five years. There were very few other cars. Most of the guests had already left.

Clearly, her parents did not recognize their unfamiliar rental car. Taking a deep breath, she said a prayer to the Holy Lady and her band of Louisiana angels, then Sidda started blowing the horn.

"Hold my hand and tell me I'm not insane," Sidda whispered to Connor.

"You're not insane," he said, "and I love you."

As Sidda watched her mother rise from the swing and walk toward the car, she noticed how Vivi moved more slowly than she remembered. Her mother seemed to have shrunk a little in height, but other than that, she looked positively robust. With each step Vivi took, Sidda's heart beat faster.

When Vivi reached the car, Sidda rolled down the window. "It's me, Mama." Her voice sounded foreign. She tried not to feel five years old. She tried to feel at least eleven.

As Vivi leaned her head into the car, Sidda could smell bourbon on her breath, mixed with the painfully familiar Vivi scent.

"Sidda?" Vivi asked, unbelieving. "Is that really you?"

Sidda was relieved to hear that her mother was not drunk, only lightly tipsy.

"Yes, ma'am," Sidda said, "it's me."

Vivi didn't respond for a moment. Sidda wondered if she would turn and walk away.

After a beat or two, Vivi put her fingers in her mouth, and let rip one of her famous Ya-Ya whistles. "You crazy fool! What in the world are you doing all the way down here?"

"I came for your birthday," Sidda said. "I decided to take my chances."

"Holy Mother of Pearl!" Vivi said, then turned to Shep and the other guest, "Would yall believe it?! It's Siddalee! It's my oldest child!"

Sidda stepped out of the car and into her mother's arms. "Happy Birthday, Mama," she whispered. They embraced for an instant before Vivi's body stiffened and pulled away.

"I can't believe it!" Vivi said, nervous. "You nut! I didn't think you'd really come!" Leaving Sidda, she crossed to the car's passenger side, and peeked in.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Connor McGill, Mrs. Walker," he said, and gave her a slow grin.

The minute Connor smiled, Vivi gasped, and stepped back from the car, momentarily shaken.

Sidda held her breath.

Stepping back to the car window, Vivi said, "Gloriosko-Zero! I do not believe it! What are you doing just sitting there, Dahlin? Get out of this car and let me see you!"

Folding his long legs out of the car, Connor stood next to Vivi, who appeared absolutely tiny next to him. As he stood there, relaxed, open, Vivi surveyed him from head to toe. The whole time she studied him, she kept one hand clasped to her chest, like she was trying to keep her heart in place. Sidda had absolutely no idea what her mother might say or do next.

"Oh," is all Vivi said at first. "Oh," she said a second time, in a small, young voice.

Then she wrapped her arms around her waist, which was not a gesture Sidda could recall ever seeing her mother make. Vivi was silent for so long that Sidda wondered if she were experiencing pain.

Finally, almost abruptly, Vivi shifted her hands to her hips. "Sidda," she said, "for God's sake, why didn't you tell me Connor looked exactly like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington?"

Connor laughed.

"My, my," Vivi said, as she extended her hand to her daughter's lover. "I have always adored tall men."

Connor then completely shocked Sidda by refusing to shake her mother's hand. Instead he kissed it. He lowered his lips to Vivi's hand and kissed it. Sidda almost fell on the ground.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Walker," he said.

"Oh," Vivi said, "please call me Vivi, or you'll make me feel terribly old."

"You are old, Babe," Shep Walker said, stepping over to the car.

"Oh, shut up," Vivi said, laughing. "Don't give away my secrets. Shep, this is Connor McGill. Connor, meet my first husband," she said playfully, making it sound like she'd had several.

"Shep Walker," Sidda's father said, extending his hand to Connor.

"Connor McGill, sir," Connor said. "A pleasure to meet you."