“You see,” she said, the blonde strands of her hair catching the porch light, “a swing isn’t about going backward. It’s about finding your rhythm again. Forward, then back. But always returning to center.”

These weren’t your typical garden parties. Kitty’s events were an eclectic blend of old-school grace and modern fun. She’d set out mason jars filled with sweet tea vodka, arrange platters of pimento cheese and fried green tomatoes, and cue up a playlist that shuffled between Patsy Cline and Daft Punk. Her guests were a mix: divorcees in their sixties, young entrepreneurs, and a few “silver foxes” who appreciated a woman who knew the difference between a Mint Julep and a Mojito.

“You’re going to break your neck on that thing, Kitty,” he grumbled.