She spun around toward the big oak desk. There were times when she still didn’t believe this was hers, still felt that someone would come into the room and scold her for being in here. This had been Momma’s office. The one room in the house where Momma did her “home work,” as she’d always called the studying and writing she’d done about local and state politics. It was in this room that Momma had written what some had called brilliant articles for the League of Women Voters newsletters. This was where she wrote speeches delivered by the highest-ranking people in state politics. It was also into this room that all three of her children had come when they needed a special motherly word or touch from Emily Andrews. It was a special room, open and warm and inviting. And still, over twenty-five years after her death, it belonged to Emily Andrews, no matter how hard her youngest child tried to own it.