An Excerpt

"The journey of a thousand tiles begins with a single draw."  

She arrived at the Halloween party wearing paint-sample chips — fifty shades of   gray draped around her tiny waist like a hula skirt. We dissolved into laughter  the moment she walked into the room.  

That's Terry: one of those rare individuals whose very personality feels warmly   wrapped in a gift. Thoughtful, encouraging, genuinely fun to be around. She took me under her wing from the start, enlisting Carol to teach me the wonderfully byzantine entertainment of mahjong. One look at The Card and my eyes glazed   over. But they were patient — walking me through the Charleston, steering me toward easier lines, showing me how to pivot, and cheering exuberantly at my   first win.  

I was hooked.  

After a handful of sessions, they pronounced me ready to join The Ridge Girls: fifteen to twenty women who gathered weekly for three-hour sessions in rotating homes. Every house on those Western North Carolina mountains near Old Fort seemed finer than the last, and the welcome at each one was genuine. Remarkably — and I mention this with affection — the grander the home, the warmer the host.  

Everybody carpooled, and two players, Diane and Ruth, who had survived a terrible accident together and emerged closer for it, were usually in tow.

Once inside, music met us at the door: classical some weeks, '70s rock on others. Each host seemed to have a green thumb; you could not find a dead leaf   anywhere. And the smell of homemade food had us salivating before we'd set down our purses. Terry made the best sorbet; her strawberry version reminded me of summers as a child.

When players sat down to play, the tiles being shuffled and washed across the table produced a sound unlike anything else — a percussive beat, part ceramic, part ritual, that carried through walls and closed doors.  

Diane and Ruth taught defensive strategies. Eleanor was one of the most analytical players I've known. When she called "mahjong" in a whisper not long   into the game, her tablemates would groan. Terry didn't win often, yet she seemed to be having the most fun.  

No one gossiped. No one whined. Talk of politics was avoided. Everyone was present. Cell phones were laid face down, on mute. Once play began, the table formed a beat of its own.  

We mourned together. When Eleanor died a few months after one of our sessions, we were shocked. None of us knew she was carrying a terminal   diagnosis. She'd kept it entirely to herself, right to the end. Terry was the glue, guiding us gently through our grief.  

Playing mahjong with The Ridge Girls spoiled me. I thought everyone played this way — with this much warmth, this much grace, this much laughter and respect.

Boy, was I wrong.