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before the event and it was ninety-five percent sold out.
    They talked about sticking a few more tables out in the inner courtyard and to that end they all got up to go take a look; Susan showing where the tent kitchen would be placed and Mary and her committee figuring out that they could get four more round tables for ten in by the herb garden without killing the herbs. When they arrived back inside at the conference room, someone was waiting for them.
    “Uh-oh. It’s Amelia Hart,” Mary whispered.
    “Who’s she?” Heaven asked, noticing that this woman had already changed the dynamics of the group without saying a word. The easy talk had died down and everyone was eying the newcomer.
    “A local television reporter and a real troublemaker,” Mary replied.
    Amelia Hart was one of those burnished African-American women that, had they chosen a life outside of New Orleans, could have passed easily as a white person from a Mediterranean country. She was extraordinarily beautiful, tall and haughty-looking, her hair up in an elaborate but professional French twist, her bronze-colored outfit expensive enough to give Nancy Blair a run for her money as the best dressed in the room. It was in fact Nancy who spoke to Amelia’s presence first, before she herself gave them any indication why she was there.
    “Amelia, darlin’. So nice of you to come but we’d rather save the publicity until a little closer to the night of the dinner. We don’t want the sisters to be criticized for working on a fund-raising project during Lent, now, do we?” Nancy said firmly as the committee members silently took their places around the long oval table.
    Amelia had taken the best seat for herself, at the head of the table where Susan Spicer had been sitting. Susan found a side chair and quietly pulled it to the table downstream from Amelia, who now stood up dramatically. “Thanks, Nancy, but I’m not here professionally. Truth is, I could give a rat’s ass if the lovely Sisters of the Holy Trinity here were the laughingstock of New Orleans for hustling during Lent. They were slave owners themselves, you know.”
    Nancy Blair had remained standing until now, the better to face down her opponent. “Well, then what in the hell are you doing here, Ms. Hart? And I’m sure you’re gonna tell us.” Her voice held about equal parts ice andhumor as she took her seat. Heaven noticed she had changed the way she addressed the other woman from Amelia to Ms. Hart. When you want something, she’s Amelia. When they want something, she’s Ms. Hart.
    “Boy, no one worries about cursing in a religious institution, do they,” Heaven whispered to her friend.
    Mary, intent on what was going to happen next, shushed her with a finger over her lips.
    Amelia was ready to let loose now. “What I want to know is, if you Uptown ladies, and you too, Nancy, have so much time on your hands and need to help someone, why the sisters? There’s another religious order that is just as much a part of our history and they always get passed over for the blessed sisters. The Sisters of the Holy Trinity may be dying out but they get more attention than they worth, that’s fo’sure,” she said, losing a little of her anchorwoman pronunciation.
    Nancy Blair, ignoring the cut that Amelia had slipped in to make sure everyone remembered Nancy was no Uptown lady, seemed to be enjoying her role as spokesperson for the group. “I’m not going to argue our choice with you, Ms. Hart. And you know as well as I do that the sisters have educated thousands of underprivileged children over the years, black and white. But go on. Who’s more deserving, in your opinion?”
    Amelia had her own script and timing worked out in her mind. Heaven wondered if she’d been lurking outside waiting for the group to take a break so she could make her stand. Now she smiled for the first time, a dazzling smile. “When I decided to have a career in television, I legally changed my name to