by Nora Roberts
“It doesn’t. It’s your business.”
“The way you and Tory is yours.” She stepped over, crouched down so their eyes were level. “I am sorry, Cade. It was mean and spiteful of me to say what I did, and I wish I could take it back.”
“You always do.”
“No, I might say I do, but half the time I don’t mean it. This time I do.” Since there was more fatigue than anger in his eyes, she reached up to dance her fingers in his hair. She’d always envied the weight and the curl of his hair.
“But you don’t pay any attention to Mama. She’s got no business telling you what to do. Even if she’s probably right.”
He caught a drift of his mother’s jasmine, the night bloomer. “She’s not right.”
“Well, I’m the last one to give advice on romantic entanglements—”
“Exactly.”
She arched a brow. “Ouch. That was a quick little stab. But, as I was going to say before I started bleeding, this family is screwed up enough on its own without adding a strange element like Tory Bodeen to the mix.”
“She’s a part of what happened that night.”
“Oh Lord, Cade, we were screwed up long before Hope died.”
He looked so frustrated at that statement, and so tired, she nearly backed off, made some joke out of the whole thing. But she’d been doing a lot of thinking since Tory had come back to town. It was time to say it.
“You think about it.” Anger with him, and more than a little self-loathing, made her voice sharp as honed tacks. “We were made the minute we were born, all three of us. And Mama and Papa before us. You think their marriage was some sort of love match? You might like to look at the pretty side of things, but you know better than that.”
“They had a good marriage, Faith, until—”
“A good marriage?” With a sound of disgust, she pushed to her feet, dragged her cigarettes from her robe pocket. “What the hell does that mean? A good marriage? That they were suited for each other, that it was smart and convenient for the heir of the county’s biggest and richest plantation to marry the well-to-do debutante? Fine, it was a good marriage. Maybe they even had feelings for each other, for a while anyway. They did their duty,” she said bitterly, and snapped on her lighter. “They made us.”
“They did their best,” Cade said wearily. “You never wanted to see that.”
“Maybe their best was never good enough, not for me. And I don’t see why it was for you. What choice did they ever give you, Cade? All your life you were expected and groomed to be the master of Beaux Reves. What if you’d wanted to be a plumber, for God’s sake.”
“That always was my secret life’s ambition. I often fix a leaky faucet just to give myself a thrill.”
She laughed, and the roughest edge of her anger smoothed. “You know very well what I mean. You might have wanted to be an engineer or a writer or a doctor, or something, but you weren’t given the chance to choose. You were the oldest son, the only son, and your path was set.”
“You’re right. And I don’t know what might have happened if I’d wanted to be any of those things. But the point is, Faith, I didn’t.”
“Well, how could you, growing up and hearing ‘When Cade runs Beaux Reves,’ and ‘When Cade’s in charge’? You never got to be anything else, never got to say ‘I’m going to play guitar in a rock-and-roll band.’”
This time he laughed and she sighed and leaned back against the rail. It reminded her why she so often came to his room, so often sought out his company. With Cade she could say what she needed to. He’d let her. He’d listen.
“Don’t you see, Cade, they made us what we are, and maybe you got what you wanted in the end. I’m glad you did, and I mean that.”
“I know you do.”
“That still doesn’t make it right. You were expected to be smart, to know things, to figure things. And while you were off learning your life’s work, I was here being told to behave, to speak softly, not to run in the house.”
“You can take comfort that you rarely listened.”
“I might’ve,” she murmured. “I might’ve if I hadn’t already figured out that this house was a training ground for a good wife, a good marriage, just like Mama’d made before me. No one ever asked me if I wanted something more, something else, and when I questioned I was shushed. ‘Let your father worry about that, or your brother. Practice your piano, Faith. Read a good book so that you can discuss it intelligently. But not too intelligently. Wouldn’t want some man to think you might be smarter than he is. When you marry, it’ll be your job to make a pleasant home.’”
She stared at the tip of her cigarette. “A pleasant home. That was to be the sum total of my ambitions, according to the rules of the Lavelles. So, of course, being me, I was bound and determined to do just the opposite. I wasn’t going to discover myself some dried-up repressed woman at thirty, no indeed. I made sure that wouldn’t happen to me. Ran off with the first slick-talking, wild-eyed boy who asked me, one who was everything I wasn’t supposed to want. Married and divorced before I was twenty.”
“That showed them, didn’t it?” Cade murmured.
“Yes, it did. As did my next foray into marriage and divorce. Marriage was all I’d been trained for, after all. Not Mama’s kind of marriage. I twisted that around and strangled myself doing it. Now here I am, twenty-six years old and two strikes against me. And no place to go but here.”
“Here you are,” Cade commented. “Twenty-six years old, beautiful, smart, and experienced enough to know better than to repeat your mistakes. You never asked for any part in the farm, or the plant. If you want to learn, if you want work—”
The look she sent him stopped the words. It was so quietly indulgent. “You really are too good for the rest of us. Christ knows how you manage it. It’s too late for that, Cade. I’m a product of my upbringing and my own rebellion against it. I’m lazy and I like it. One of these days I’ll find me a rich and doddering old man and charm him into marrying me. I’ll take good care of him, of course, and spend his money like water. I might even be faithful, too. I was with the others, for all the good it did me. Then, with luck and time, I’ll be a rich widow, and that, I think, will suit me best.”
The way it suits Mama, she thought bitterly. Bitterly.
“You’re more than you think you are, Faith. A hell of a lot more.”
“No, honey, it’s likely I’m a great deal less. Maybe it would’ve all turned out different, just a few shades different, anyway, if Hope had lived. You see, she never even had the chance to live.”
“That’s no one’s fault but the bastard who killed her.”
“You think not?” Faith said quietly. “I wonder, would she have gone out that night, gone off to have her adventure with Tory, if she hadn’t felt as closed-in here as I did? Would she have climbed out that window if she’d known that she’d be free to do as she pleased, with whom she pleased, the next morning? I knew her, better than anyone else in this house. That’s the way of twins. She’d have made something of herself, Cade, because she’d have quietly chipped away at the bars. But she never got the chance. And when she died, the illusion of balance in this house went with her. They loved her best, you know.”
Faith pressed her lips together, heaved the cigarette over the rail. “Better than you or me. I can’t count the times afterward, one of them would look at me, me who shared her face, and I’d see in their eyes what they were thinking. Why hadn’t it been me out there in the swamp instead of Hope.”
“Don’t.” He got to his feet. “That’s not true. No one ever thought that.”
“I did. And it’s what I felt from them. And I was a constant reminder that she’d died. I was not to be forgiven for that.”
“No.” He touched her face, saw the woman, and the child who’d been. “That she’d lived.”
“But I couldn’t be her, Cade.” The tears that sheened her eyes shone in the dim light, made them, he thought, so brutally alive. “She was so
mething they shared the way they couldn’t share anything or anyone else. But they couldn’t share the loss of her.”
“No, they couldn’t.”
“So Papa built his shrine to her, and found his solace in the bed of another woman. And Mama got colder and harder. You and me, we just went the way we’d already been directed. So here we are in the middle of the night, with no one to call our own. And we still have nobody who loves us best.”
It hurt to hear it, and know it was true. “We don’t have to stay that way.”
“Cade, we are that way.” She leaned against him, rested her head when his arms came around her. “Neither one of us has ever loved anyone, not enough to put that balance back. Maybe we loved Hope enough, maybe even back then we knew she was the one who held it all steady.”
“We can’t change what happened, any of it. Only what we do about it now.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? I just don’t want to do anything, about anything. I hate Tory Bodeen for coming back here, for making me remember Hope, miss her, grieve for her again.”
“She’s not to blame, Faith.”
“Maybe not.” She closed her eyes. “But I’ve got to blame someone.”
12
The matter had to be dealt with, and as quickly and efficiently as possible. Money, Margaret knew, spoke to a certain class of people. It bought their silence, their loyalty, and what passed for their honor.
She dressed carefully for the meeting, but then she always dressed carefully. She wore a crisp suit in dignified navy, and her grandmother’s single-strand pearls at her throat. She’d sat, as she did every morning, at her vanity, not so much disguising the signs of age, as she considered age an advantage, but using them to show her character and her station.
Character and station were both sword and shield.
She left the house at precisely eight-fifty, telling Lilah that she had an early appointment and would then be attending a luncheon in Charleston. She could be expected back at three-thirty.
She would, of course, be on time.
Margaret calculated the business she had to attend to before making the drive south would take no more than thirty minutes, but she had allowed forty-five, which would still give her time to tend to her short list of errands before the lunch.
She could have hired a driver, even kept one on staff. She could have assigned the errands to a servant. These were indulgences, and therefore weaknesses she would not permit.
The mistress of Beaux Reves was required, in her opinion, to be visible in town, to patronize certain shops and maintain the proper relationship with the right merchants and civil servants.
This civic responsibility was never to be shrugged aside for convenience.
Margaret did more than write generous checks to her selected charities. She held positions on committees. The local art council and the historical society might have been personal interests, but that bent did not negate the time, energy, and funds she funneled into them.
In more than thirty-two years as mistress of Beaux Reves, she had never once failed in her duties. She did not intend to fail today.
She didn’t wince when she drove past the stand of moss-draped trees that cloaked the entrance to the swamp, nor did she slow down or speed up. She didn’t notice that the planks on the little bridge had been replaced, and the sumac hacked down.
She drove steadily past the site of her daughter’s death. If there was a pang, it would not have shown on her face.
It had not shown the day that child had been buried, even when her own heart lay ripped open and bleeding out.
Her face remained set and composed as she turned in to the narrow lane that led to the Marsh House. She parked behind Tory’s station wagon, retrieved her purse. She didn’t take one last look at herself in the rearview mirror. That would have been vain, and it would have been weak.
She stepped out of the car, closed the door, locked it.
She hadn’t been to the Marsh House in sixteen years. She knew there had been work done on it, work Cade had arranged and paid for over her silent disapproval. As far as she was concerned, fresh paint and flowering bushes didn’t change what it was.
A shanty. A slum. Better bulldozed into the ground than lived in. There had been a time, in the swarm of her grief, when she’d wanted to burn it, to set fire to the swamp, to see it all scorched to hell.
But that, of course, was foolish. And she was not a foolish woman.
It was Lavelle property, and despite everything, must be maintained and passed on to the next generation.
She climbed the steps, ignoring the charm of the long clay troth full of spilling flowers and vines, and knocked briskly on the wooden frame of the screen door.
Inside, Tory paused in the act of reaching for a cup. She was running behind, and didn’t much give a damn. Tired to the bone, she’d slept late, had yet to dress. She was trying to gear herself up for a lecture on responsibility, to scold herself for self-indulgence. She hoped the coffee would help snap her system to life so she could work up the enthusiasm it would take to go into the shop and finish preparing for her opening.
The interruption wasn’t just unwelcome, it was almost intolerable. There was no one she wanted to see, no words she wanted to exchange. She wanted, more than anything, to go back to bed and fight her way into the dreamless sleep that had eluded her through the night.
But she answered the knock because to ignore it would have been weak. That, at least, Margaret would have understood.
Faced with Hope’s mother, Tory felt immediately guilty, frazzled, and embarrassed. “Mrs. Lavelle.”
“Victoria.” Margaret skimmed her ice-edged gaze up from Tory’s bare feet, over the rumpled robe, to the top of her tousled hair. This sloth, she told herself with cold satisfaction, was no more or less than what she’d expected from a Bodeen. “I beg your pardon. I assumed you would be up by nine, and preparing for the day.”
“Yes. Yes, I should be.” Miserably self-conscious, Tory tugged at the belt of her robe. “I was … I’m afraid I overslept.”
“I need a few moments of your time. If I might come in.”
“Yes. Of course.” With all her carefully learned layers of composure shredded, Tory fumbled with the screen door. “I’m sorry, the house isn’t much more presentable than I am.”
She’d found a chair she’d liked, a big, overstuffed wingback in soft, faded blue. That and the little pie-crust table she planned to refinish eventually were the sum total of her living room furniture.
There was no rug, no curtains, no lamp. Neither was there dirt or dust, but Tory stepped back feeling as though she were inviting a queen into a hovel.
Her voice echoed uncomfortably in the near-empty room as Margaret stood taking a silent and damning assessment.
“I’ve been concentrating on setting up my shop and haven’t …” Tory caught herself clutching her hands together, deliberately unlaced her fingers. Damn it, she wasn’t eight years old any longer, a child to be mortified and awed by the regal disapproval of a friend’s mother.
“I’ve just made coffee,” she said, rigidly polite. “Would you like some?”
“Is there a seat?”
“Yes. It seems I live primarily in the kitchen and the bedroom, and will until I have my business up and running smoothly.” Babbling, Tory told herself, as she led the way. Stop babbling. You’ve nothing to apologize for.
Everything to apologize for.
“Please, sit down.”
At least she’d bought a good solid kitchen table and chairs, she thought. And the kitchen was clean, nearly cheerful with the little herbs she’d potted on the windowsill and the darkly glazed bowl from her own stock on the table.
It helped to pour the coffee, to set the sugar bowl out, but when she opened the refrigerator, fresh mortification reared up and bit pink into her cheeks.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any cream. Or milk.”
“This will do.” Margaret nudged her cup aside a bare i
nch. A subtle and deliberate slap. “If you would sit down, please?” Margaret let the silence hang a moment. She knew the value of silences, and of timing.
When Tory was seated, Margaret folded her hands on the edge of the table, and with her eyes mild and level, began.
“It has come to my attention that you have become involved with my son.” Another beat of silence while she watched surprise flicker over Tory’s face. “Small-town gossip is as unattractive as it is unavoidable.”
“Mrs. Lavelle—”
“Please.” Margaret cut her off with the lift of one finger. “You’ve been away for a number of years. Though you do have family connections in Progress, you are, virtually, a newcomer. A stranger. Virtually,” Margaret repeated. “But not entirely. For whatever reason, you’ve decided to return, to establish a business here.”
“Are you here to ask me my reasons, Mrs. Lavelle?”
“They hold no interest for me. I will be frank and tell you I did not approve of my son renting you space for your business, or renting you this house. However, Cade is the head of the family, and as such, business decisions are his alone. When those decisions, and their results, affect our family position, it becomes a different matter.”
The longer Margaret spoke in that soft, implacable tone, the easier it was for Tory to settle. Her stomach continued to jump, but when she spoke her voice was equally soft, and equally implacable. “And how, Mrs. Lavelle, do my business and my choice of residence affect your family position?”
“That alone would have been difficult enough to tolerate. The circumstances are inconvenient, as I’m sure you’re aware. But this personal element is not in any way acceptable.”
“So while you will tolerate, for now, my business association with your family, you’re asking me not to see Cade in a personal manner? Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Who was this cool-eyed woman who remained so still, so composed? Margaret wondered. Where was the spindly child who’d slunk away or stared out from shadows?
