We floated 700 feet over Peachtree Street at the Sun Dial in the Westin hotel, looking out over the evening cityscape of Atlanta. Our waiter walked towards the table, carrying a dessert tray high over his head, and aside from him, I was the only one in the restaurant who knew that there was more than sorbet on that platter.

He sat the plate down in front of Naylene, who took all of a half a second to notice the contents of this special delivery. She gasped and raised her hands to cover her face, tearing up like a switch on her side had been flipped.

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