Carolina Moon

concentrated on the now. The early lilies were in bloom, and there was a vase bright with them on a gorgeous table spread beneath the curve of the stairs.
    The scent of them was utterly female. Beside them were tall white tapers in bold blue stands. No one had lighted them, so they stood pure, untouched and perfect.
    Like a photograph, she thought. Every piece, every placement absolute as if it had remained, just exactly so, for decades.
    And now she was walking into the picture.
    Even as she stepped toward the doorway, Margaret appeared at the top of the sweep of stairs.
    “Kincade.” Her voice was sharp, stinging. Her hand wanted to tremble as it held the banister, but she wouldn’t permit it. Head lifted, she came halfway down. “I would like to speak with you.”
    “Of course.” He knew the tone, the stance, and didn’t bother to mask his response with a polite smile. “I’m about to show Tory into the parlor. Why don’t you join us?”
    “I prefer to speak with you privately. Please come upstairs.” She started to turn, assured he would follow.
    “I’m afraid that’ll have to wait,” he said pleasantly. “I have a guest.”
    She jerked to a halt, her head whipping around just as Cade led Tory into the parlor.
    “Cade, don’t do this.” Already the tension, the stabs of animosity were pricking her. “There’s no point.”
    “There’s an essential point. What would you like? I’m sure Lilah has iced tea in the kitchen, or there’s sparkling water behind the bar.”
    “I don’t need anything. Don’t use me as a weapon. It’s not fair.”
    “Darling.” He bent down to kiss her forehead. “I’m not.”
    “How dare you?” Margaret stood in the doorway, her face pale and set, her eyes swirling with temper. “How dare you defy me in this way, and with this woman? I made my wishes perfectly clear. I will not have her in this house.”
    “Perhaps I didn’t make my wishes perfectly clear.” Cade shifted, laid his hand on Tory’s shoulder. “Tory is with me, and welcome here. And I expect anyone I bring into my home to be treated with courtesy.”
    “Since you insist on having this conversation with her present, I see no reason to bother with a pretense of courtesy or manners.”
    The picture changed again as Margaret entered. The stage, Tory thought, was perfectly dressed. Only the characters revolved.
    “You are free to sleep with whomever you choose. I can’t stop you from spending your time with that woman or generating gossip about yourself and this family. But you will not bring your slut under my roof.”
    “Be careful, Mother.” Cade’s voice had gone soft, dangerously soft. “You’re speaking about the woman I’m going to marry.”
    As if he’d struck her, Margaret took a staggering step back. Color flooded her face now, staining her cheeks. “Have you lost your mind?”
    Where are my lines? Tory wondered. Surely I must have some in this odd little play. Why can’t I remember them?
    “I’m not asking you to approve. While I regret this upsets you, you’ll have to adjust.”
    “Cade.” Tory found her voice, already rusty with disuse. “I’m sure your mother would prefer to speak to you in private.”
    “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Margaret snapped at her. “I see I might have waited too long. If you persist on this path, with this woman, you risk Beaux Reves. I’ll use my influence to persuade the board of Lavelle Cotton to remove you as chairman.”
    “You can try,” he said equably. “You won’t succeed. I’ll fight you every step of the way, and I have the advantage. And even if you could undermine my position at the plant, which I doubt, you’ll never touch the farm.”
    “This is your gratitude? It’s her doing.” Margaret’s heels clicked on the hardwood as she rushed forward. Cade merely stepped to the side, putting himself between Tory and his mother.
    “No, it’s my doing. Deal with me.”
    “Oh good, a party.” With Bee racing at her heels, Faith strolled in. Her eyes were bright with anticipation, her smile wicked. “Hello, Tory, don’t you look pretty. How about some wine?”
    “That’s an excellent idea, Faith. Pour Tory some wine. Deal with me,” he repeated to Margaret.
    “You’re disgracing your family, and your sister’s memory.”
    “No, but you are. It’s a disgrace to blame one child for the death of another. A disgrace to treat a blameless woman with such contempt and viciousness out of your own guilt