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"Mrs. Randolph?"

"Yes, that's right," Mama said firmly. "We're not too early and we're not late," she added.

"Oh." She gazed at her chart. "Yes. Mrs. Randolph has booked a table for three at one o'clock. She's not here yet," she added. There was a pregnant pause, one that could give birth to a scream if my anxious lungs had their way. I stepped forward.

"You could seat us at the table," I suggested. "Mrs. Randolph might appreciate that."

"Oh. Yes," she said. She turned and signaled to a waiter. He hurried over. "Daniel," she said, "would you show these ladies to number 22, s'il vous pl

ait."

"Oui, Mademoiselle," the waiter replied.

Mama's eyes widened. She turned to me as we started behind the waiter.

"They speak French, too?"

"It's just part of the act, Mama," I said.

The women and men we passed along the way all gazed at us with quizzical smiles. One woman looked upset, however, and whispered to her lunch date, who laughed aloud. Number 22 was a table all the way in the rear of the restaurant. I was positive Megan Hudson Randolph had asked for it to be less conspicuous. That was also why she was arriving late.

The waiter pulled out the chair for Mama and she sat. He did the same for me. Mama ran her hand over the tablecloth.

"It's good cotton," she said.

I had to smile.

"I'm sure this is a very expensive restaurant, Mama. The customers expect the best."

She nodded and looked up when the busboy set a basket of warm French rolls on our table. Another busboy poured water from bottles of Evian. Mama watched everything with the eyes of someone who had just been let out of prison. The most expensive restaurant we had eaten in was Joe Mandel's Beef and Ribs Diner, and not that often either.

Now that I was actually here, my nerves grew even more frazzled. Every time a single woman entered the restaurant, I felt a terrible pounding of panic. Although we were seated, people were still stealing glimpses at us.

I imagined every whisper, every laugh was about Mama and me. Finally, a brunette in a dark blue pin-striped suit entered and approached the hostess. I saw her turn and nod in our direction. It made me wish I could shrink into that small hiding place in my brain where I could feel safe and unafraid.

Mama was studying the menu, complaining about the French words.

"How are we supposed to know what

everything is?" "Mama," I said nodding toward the front of the restaurant.

She turned slowly. As the woman who might have been my mother drew closer, I held my breath. She was about my height, but she was wearing high heeled boots. Her hair was styled and the length was an inch or so above the nape of her neck. She was slim and small boned. I thought she was very pretty. I saw immediately that we had the same color eyes and practically the same shape jaw. Her lips remained taut until she was only a few steps away. Then, her eyes rested on me and her lips quivered in the corners, almost forming a smile. It was as if they wanted to, but something stronger held them back.

She turned to Mama.

"Mrs. Arnold?"

"Yes," Mama said.

For a moment the two women just drank each other in. To Mama's credit, she didn't appear intimidated or insecure.

"I'm Megan Hudson Randolph," my real mother said. She turned to me.

"This here's your daughter, Rain," Mama said. "Say hello to your real mama, honey."

"Hello," I said, my throat so tight, I thought I would gag.

My mother put her jeweled purse on the table and waited for the waiter to pull out her seat.