After almost a year of hard work, the ball is fabulous. The weather is perfection, and the setting glorious. The soft light of dusk filters through the huge oak in front of the mansion, where Roger, Dona and I form the receiving line (a must in my book). A 1920s-style jazz trio sets the mood on the front porch. Partygoers sip champagne as they pass through to the veranda on the bayfront and then stroll down the promenade, where they take turns posing by the gleaming antique cars. Friend after friend arrives in gorgeous, brightly colored spring gowns, and each one innocently asks, “Where’s Jan?” I retell the sad events of the past week over and over and over.

As the cocktail hour ends and everyone makes their way to the tent, I feel a wave of sadness break over me. It’s almost more than I can bear. I wish my husband were here. I let grief wash over me for a minute or two and then tell myself to buck up and be the hostess I’m supposed to be. The crowd of almost 500 didn’t come to see me burst into tears. I put on my party face and move from table to table, talking to everyone and making sure they’re having a great time.

And a great time it is. The centerpieces become costumes, with many people donning the top hats and gloves, even out on the dance floor—something fun that we had not anticipated. A wonderful party always has a bit of serendipity involved. At the close of the evening, people leave with lots of hugs, kisses, and congratulations on another outstanding evening that raised a lot of money and made new friends for the gardens—which is what this was all about.

After climbing into bed (unzipped and ungowned), I close my eyes as the evening plays over and over in my head. I always have an afterglow at the completion of a successful event, and I feel warm and wonderful as I drift off. One thought does cross my mind before I finally fall asleep: Who has the next anniversary coming up, and am I available?