Grace's Pictures by Cindy Thomson

friends of his mother’s and then shook hands with a stockbroker his father dealt with, along with the executive of a chain of department stores.
    The night dragged. He chose to stay in the front room, as did many others who apparently held no fondness for dancing.
    “Excuse me.” A woman pulled her arm away even though she had barely brushed against him.
    He caught a glimpse of yellow fabric as she wove her way through black suits. He trailed behind. When he caught up and captured her attention, he tipped his chin. “Lovely piano playing, Miss Pierpont.”
    Her ruby lips turned into a smile. “Why, thank you.” She reached out her hand.
    Owen spent the next hour chatting with the young lady and was delighted to find they shared an interest in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novels and Southern pecan pie. He supposed he had been lonely and bored. His mother found them engaging in conversation on the parlor sofa.
    “Come along, darlings. Come dance with us in the ballroom.” She pulled Owen to his feet and, with a shrug of her eyebrows, suggested he help Miss Pierpont rise.
    Thankfully, once they entered the ballroom, his mother disappeared. He took Miss Pierpont’s gentle hand and led her to the dance floor.
    “I must warn you that my mother plays matchmaker.”
    “Oh? And I suppose this does not please you.”
    “It does not. Uh . . . don’t misunderstand. It’s been lovely spending time with you, Miss Pierpont, and I’ve enjoyed our conversation. But let me be clear about something.”
    “Please.”
    She frowned, but he thought it would be better to set things straight. “I have a demanding job chasing down thieves and gangsters. I work most nights. I live in Lower Manhattan . . .”
    He felt her sink back slightly.
    “I am not suitable courting material, I’m afraid.”
    “I see.” She pinched a smile. “I’m sure you are being too hard on yourself, Officer.”
    “Realistic. I don’t mean to be rude. I truly have enjoyed your company this night.”
    “I’m flattered.”
    They waltzed to the edge of the crowd, and he released her. He coughed. The thickly populated house seemed to close in on him.
    His mother appeared by his side. “Here come the O’Tooles. Say hello, darling, before they make their speech.”
    He turned to find the smiling faces of Mr. and Mrs. O’Toole. He had not seen them since the funeral. Mr. O’Toole shook his hand firmly, and Mrs. O’Toole leaned forward while he kissed her cheek.
    “So happy you’re here, Owen,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “The night would not be complete without you.”
    “You are too kind.”
    “We are grateful for your service to the citizens, son.” Mr. O’Toole thumped Owen’s back.
    “Well, I . . .”
    The orchestra ceased playing, and Miss Amelia led the man and his wife to the center of the room.
    Mr. O’Toole, dressed in an ordinary black suit, and his wife, wearing an unadorned navy dress and no hat, stood in the middle of the crowd, an island of ordinariness surrounded by wealthy patrons, the finest New York could attire. The contrast was more than just visible. It was palpable.
    Mr. O’Toole began by talking about his deceased son and the plight of the poor in the city. The crowd nodded as though they understood. Owen knew none of them really did. Throwing money at a problem never solved it. The only way to make change was to roll up your sleeves and—
    Suddenly the room erupted in applause, and the couple in the center waved to him. He drew closer. Mr. O’Toole continued on. “With the dedication of officers like Owen McNulty, much good is being done. This fine young man, who traded a life of comfort for one of service, utilizing good morals and avoiding the corruption of Tammany Hall, represents the spirit of servitude our own son possessed. We now award him the first annual Dan O’Toole Award for Excellence.”
    Had his mother and Miss Amelia only invited Tammany opposition, Mother might have endured this better. She stood at the