When I'd finally made it to the hospital parking lot, I was forced to wedge my fifty-five Ford T-Bird between a pickup truck and a van. I wasn't pleased, the potential for damage to the paint job being very high. Ignoring the likelihood of scratches and bruises to my beloved car, I scurried toward the entrance.

Of course it didn't help matters that I dropped my purse at the elevator doors, scattering the contents, including a stool sample from my cat, Fergus. I had been driving to the vet clinic when I got the call from my overwrought son-in-law, Gregory Cardwell.

Gregory definitely doesn't have a way with words even on a good day, but today was his worst by far. I waited impatiently as he told me that Zara had just made it to the hospital in time. My dearest and only daughter, who'd always lived life in the safe lane, must have been frantic as they rushed through the doors.

"Excuse me. Please excuse me. I need to get on this elevator," I said, eyeing my lipstick and nail file wedged against the chrome leg of a seat positioned next to the elevator doors. Scooping up these articles within reach, including the stool sample, I scrambled onto the elevator, leaving the lipstick and nail file to fend for themselves.

"You dropped this, ma'am," called the security guard as he held up the errant tube of lipstick.

I snatched it from his hand, thanked him and smiled at the other occupants as the elevator doors closed and we rode up to the maternity floor without a stop.

Clutching my grocery li