PART 1

“They don’t let beggars sit at respectable people’s parties.”

The blast of icy water hit me square in the face before I had a chance to answer.

The cold soaked through my faded shawl, my worn blouse, and the inexpensive shoes I’d bought that very morning from a thrift shop outside Nashville. For a brief moment, the entire backyard of the sprawling Belle Meade estate blurred together—the white roses arranged across elegant tables, crystal chandeliers hanging from oak trees, waiters carrying silver trays of champagne, and impeccably dressed guests who first fell silent…

…and then burst into laughter.

“Look at her!” the bride-to-be shouted, gripping a garden hose in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. “She just wandered in like she was invited. What’s next? Is she going to ask for a seat at the wedding?”

Several women covered their mouths—not out of embarrassment, but to hide their laughter.