Carolina Moon

inside the house the air was cool, and her cotton nightgown stayed so crisp it crackled when she moved.
    It was the heat she wanted, and the adventure, but she kept those thoughts inside as she kissed Mama good night. A dainty peck against a perfumed cheek.
    Mama had the hall runners taken up and rolled into the attic every June. Now the loblolly pine floors with their coating of paste wax felt slick and smooth under the young girl’s bare feet as she wandered out, down the hall with its panels of bald cypress and paintings in thick frames of dull gold. Up the sharp, winding curves of the stairs to her father’s study.
    There her father’s scent. Smoke, leather, Old Spice, and bourbon.
    She loved this room, with its rounded walls and big, heavy chairs with leather the color of the port her papa sometimes drank after supper. Here the circling shelves were jammed full with books and treasures. She loved the man who sat behind the enormous desk with his cigar and his shot glass and his ledgers.
    The love was an ache of the heart in the woman inside the child, a shaft of longing and of envy for that uncomplicated and complete love.
    His voice boomed, his arms were strong and his stomach soft as he enveloped her in a hug that was so different from the gentle and restrained good-night kiss from Mama.
    There’s my princess, going off to the kingdom of dreams.
    What will I dream about, Papa?
    Knights and white chargers and adventures over the sea.
    She giggled, but rested her head on his shoulder a bit longer than usual, humming a little in her throat like a purring kitten.
    Did she know? Somehow did she know she would never sit safe on his lap again?
    Back down the stairs, past Cade’s room. Not his bed-time, not yet, because he was four years older and a boy and could stay up late on summer nights watching TV or reading books as long as he was up and ready for his chores in the morning.
    One day Cade would be the master of Beaux Reves, and sit at the big desk in the tower study with the ledgers. He would do the hiring and firing and oversee the planting and the harvest and smoke cigars at meetings and complain about the government and the price of cotton.
    Because he was the son.
    That was fine with Hope. She didn’t want to have to sit at a desk and add up figures.
    She stopped in front of her sister’s door, hesitated. It wasn’t fine with Faith. Nothing ever seemed to be all right with Faith. Lilah, the housekeeper, said Miss Faith would argue with God Almighty just to irritate Him.
    Hope supposed that was true, and even though Faith was her twin, she didn’t understand what made her sister so prickly all the time. Just tonight she’d been sent straight to her room for sassing. Now the door was shut tight and there was no light under it. Hope imagined Faith was staring up at the ceiling with that sulky look on her face and her fists clenched tight as if she waited to box with the shadows.
    Hope touched the doorknob. Most times she could coax Faith out of those black moods. She could huddle in bed with her in the dark and make up stories until Faith laughed and the spit in her eyes dried up again.
    But tonight was for other things. Tonight was for adventures.
    It was all planned, but Hope didn’t let the excitement come until she was in her own room with the door shut. She left the light off, moving quietly in the dark that was silvered by moonlight. She changed her cotton gown for shorts and a T-shirt. Her heart drummed pleasantly in her chest as she arranged the pillows on the bed in a shape that to her naive and childish eyes resembled a sleeping form.
    From under the bed, she took her adventure kit. The old dome-topped lunch box held a bottle of Coca-Cola gone warm, a bag of cookies sneaked carefully from the kitchen jar, a small, rusted penknife, matches, a compass, a water pistol—fully loaded—and a red plastic flashlight.
    For a moment she sat on the floor. She could smell her crayons, and the talc that clung to her own skin from after her bath. She could hear, just barely hear, the music drifting out from her mother’s sitting room.
    When she slid her window open, quietly took out the screen, she was smiling.
    Young, agile, and bright with anticipation, she swung her leg over the sill, found a toehold in the trellis mad with vining wisteria.
    The air was like syrup, and the hot, sweet flavor of it filled her lungs as she climbed down. A splinter stabbed into her finger, causing her to hiss in a