One date was written on the backing board.
On the back, in Mom’s handwriting, were five words. “Take her off the list.”
I looked at Helen.
“What list?”
She closed her eyes.
“Of women she thought your father should marry afterward.”
I laughed because the alternative was believing her. “Mom made Dad a dating list?”
“Seven names.”
“And he actually used it?”
“Eventually.”
Six women in 18 months. Every one at this restaurant.
My laughter stopped. “Why here?”
“Because this is where your parents met.”
“I know that.”
“It is also where your mother made the list.”
Helen finally lifted her hand from the letter.
“She made me help her.”
I snatched it. The first page wasn’t romantic. It was instructions.
Names.
Numbers.
Small descriptions beside each one.
“Anna likes old movies.”
“Beth hates seafood.”
“Lydia talks when she’s nervous, so give her time.”
Six names had check marks.
The seventh line had been violently crossed out.
