By the time my mother sent the text, I had already packed the garment bags, printed the boarding passes, confirmed the hotel suite upgrade, and boxed up my father’s favorite bourbon pecan pie in a cooler with dry ice so it would survive the flight.
I was sitting at my kitchen island in Denver, reviewing the itinerary for the Charleston Heritage Gala for what must have been the tenth time.
My father, Gerald Davenport, had spent months talking about the event.
He wasn’t just attending.
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