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Lillyann

I was born on my mother’s fifteenth birthday, and was a great disappointment to everyone who knew her. Mama was a gorgeous redhead with ivory smooth skin, and a petite body that was a sculptor’s dream. It seemed unfair that with all these attributes she also had a magnetic personality and a rich singing voice. I was nothing like her, but oh how I wished I were. (Mama always closed her eyes in agony when I tried to sing, but she was delighted when I learned to play piano well enough to accompany her.)

Mama was a successful milliner in the days when no woman went hatless in downtown San Francisco regardless of her station in life. Her clients included Nob Hill grand dames, as well as bawdy ladies from the Barbary Coast, and she knew scandalous details about every one of them. I learned a great deal about life in the back room of the store where Lily Anne’s Creative Chapeaus were designed, and consequently I was the only girl in first grade who knew where babies came from and how they got there.

Mama almost died to give me life and reminded me of her sacrifice daily. My father died when I was two, and at the age of seventeen Mama was a vivacious, merry widow who refused to go anywhere without me. Her escorts didn’t seem to mind when I tagged along because I was never any trouble. “You mustn’t fuss,” she’d whisper, “or God will take me to sing with the angels, and you’ll never see me again.” I really feared the Lord.

Mama was adored by all who knew her, so I accepted all her views without question. We never wore red. We ate all vegetables except asparagus. At twelve I was allowed to sip Champagne, the only alcohol Mama ever drank, and we both wore Shalimar, Mama’s favorite perfume. We preferred tall, thin, artistic type men with dark hair and blue eyes. Mama married a man of that description, a wealthy attorney who once showed more affection to me than Mama, so it came as no surprise when she asked for a divorce. She was furious when the gentleman died soon after and left his entire estate to me!

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