I was summoned today by one of the ladies who lunch. In other words, I was invited to socialize with an interesting and varied group of women I would not have expected to be sitting with, practicing my rusty table manners and accepting another glass of wine while conversation whipped around the table, stories of local families and politics and history; the hostess' husband was going to the movies with a local politician, and the ten of us, doyennes and faded socialites, widows and fixtures, ate hearty soup and cornbread off fine china after about an hour of dosing ourselves with the vintage and picking at a mountain of cheese and fruit in the dark wood and leather den, acquainting, reacquainting. I spoke to my church-friend Charlsie of my plan to write a series of mystery novels, the first time I'd spoken of it aloud. The lady who owns the coffee shop looks and sounds just like Clairee Belcher. The politician's wife, and the lady to my right, were ex-Texans, both familiars of the Bushes. Of the widows, there was the rector's widow, the coach's widow, the mayor's widow... I felt strangely young, and surreal, clutching my linen napkin in my lap and feeling my way around the unfamiliar waters of the well-to-do in the fleur de lis t-shirt and leggings that I wore to work today. For the first time in a long time I did not introduce myself as a nurse, but as a church secretary, and once the who's your mama's were out of the way, I felt... accepted. Maybe it was just the wine talking. But here in Brigadoon, this is something of a sea change for me, and I wonder if I'm becoming a local character myself.