Carolina Moon

taking what fits in the back of your car, and going off to a new place, a new life, a new start. But the fact is, I don’t. Not one little bit. God almighty, the energy it takes, and the guts. Then again, you’re young enough to have plenty of both.”
    “Maybe a new start, but it’s back to my beginnings. I still have family in Progress, such as it is.”
    “You ask me, it takes more guts to go back to the beginning than just about anyplace else. I hope you’re happy, Tory.”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “Fine’s one thing.” To Tory’s surprise, Abigail took her hand, then leaned over and brushed her cheek in a light kiss. “Happy’s another. Be happy.”
    “I intend to.” Tory drew back. There was something in the hand-to-hand connection, something in the concern in Abigail’s eyes. “You knew,” Tory murmured.
    “Of course I did.” Abigail gave Tory’s fingers a light squeeze before releasing them. “News from New York winds its way down here, and some of us even pay attention to it now and again. You changed your hair, your name, but I recognized you. I’m good with faces.”
    “Why didn’t you say anything? Ask me?”
    “You hired me to see to your business, not to pry into it. The way I figured it is if you’d wanted people to know you were the Victoria Mooney who made news out of New York City a few years back, you’d have said so.”
    “Thank you for that.”
    The formality, and the caution, had Abigail grinning. “For heaven’s sake, honey, do you think I’m going to ask you if my son’s ever going to get married, or where the hell I lost my mama’s diamond engagement ring? All I’m saying is I know you’ve been through some rough times, and I hope you find better. Now, if you have any problems up there in Progress, you just give a holler.”
    Simple kindness never failed to fluster her. Tory fumbled with the door handle. “Thank you. Really. I’d better get started. I have several stops to make.” But she held out her hand once more. “I appreciate everything.”
    “Drive safe.”
    Tory slid inside, hesitated, then opened the window as she started the engine. “In the middle file cabinet drawer of your home office, between the D’s and E’s.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Your mother’s ring. It’s a little too big for you, and it slipped off, fell in the files. You should have it sized.” Tory reversed quickly, swung the car around while Abigail blinked after her.
    She headed west out of Charleston, then dipped south to begin her planned circle of the state before landing in Progress. The list of artists and craftsmen she intended to visit was neatly typed and in her new briefcase. Directions for each were included, and it meant taking a number of back roads. Time-consuming, but necessary.
    She’d already made arrangements with several southern artists to display and sell their work in the shop she would open on Market Street, but she needed more. Starting small didn’t mean not starting well.
    Start-up costs, buying stock, finding an acceptable place to live were going to take nearly every penny she’d saved. She intended to make it worthwhile, and she intended to make more.
    In a week, if everything went as planned, she would begin setting up shop. By the end of May, she would open the doors. Then they would see.
    As for the rest, she would deal with what came when it came. When the time was right, she would drive down the long, shady lane to Beaux Reves and face the Lavelles.
    She would face Hope.
    At the end of a week, Tory was exhausted, several hundred dollars poorer thanks to a cracked radiator, and ready to call an end to her travels. The replacement radiator meant she had to postpone her arrival in Florence until the following morning, and make do for a night with the dubious comfort of a motel off Route 9 outside of Chester.
    The room stank of stale smoke, and its amenities included a sliver of soap and pay movies designed to stimulate the sexual appetites of the rent-by-the-hour clientele that kept the establishment out of bankruptcy. There were stains on the carpet, the origin of which she decided it best not to contemplate.
    She’d paid cash for one night because she didn’t like the idea of handing over her credit card to a sly-eyed clerk who smelled like the gin he cleverly disguised in a coffee mug.
    The room was as unappealing as the idea of climbing back behind the wheel for another hour, but it was there. Tory carried the single flimsy chair