They seated me at table 12 behind a flower arrangement large enough to hide a small aircraft, like I was an embarrassing relative they hoped would vanish into the centerpiece, so I smiled sweetly and let my new son-in-law think he’d won.
My name is Sylvia Hartley. I am seventy-two years old, a widow, and I live just outside Charleston in a house with a wide porch, a good tea service, and more cameras than anyone visiting me ever assumes. Around here, people still believe good manners can smooth over bad intentions. That is true only until you watch someone use “polite” as a weapon.
