Carolina Moon

ever refused him, of course, never once since their wedding night had she turned from him in their bed.
    Margaret was proud of that, proud she’d been a good and dutiful wife. Even when the idea of sex sickened her, hadn’t she lain silent and allowed him his release?
    She clipped off more deadheads with a sharp clack of blades, placed the faded flowers in her discard basket.
    It was he who had turned away, he who had changed. Nothing had been the same in their marriage, in their lives, in their home since that terrible morning, that hot, sticky August morning when they’d found their Hope in the marsh.
    Sweet, good-natured Hope, she thought, with a grief that had become both duller and more heavy through the years. Hope, her bright little angel, the only one of the children who’d come from her who had seemed truly connected. Truly hers.
    There were times, after all these years there were still times she wondered if that loss had been a kind of punishment. The taking away of the child she’d loved most. But what crime, what sin had she committed that had merited that kind of punishment?
    Indulgence perhaps. Indulging the little girl when it would have been wiser—it was so easy to be wise with distance—to have discouraged, even to have forbade her sweet, innocent Hope from associating with the Bodeen girl. That had been a mistake, but surely not a sin.
    And if it had been a sin, it had been more Jasper’s. He’d brushed away her concerns when she’d voiced them, even laughed at them. The Bodeen girl was harmless, that’s what he’d said. Harmless.
    Jasper had paid for that misconception, that mistake, that sin, the whole rest of his life. And still it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
    The Bodeen girl had killed Hope as surely as if she’d choked the life from her with her own small and dirty hands.
    Now she was back. Back to Progress, back to the Marsh House, back to their lives. As if she had the right.
    Margaret yanked out some bindweed, tossed it into her basket. Her grandmother had liked to say that weeds were just wildflowers that bloomed in the wrong place. But they weren’t. They were invaders and needed to be pulled out, cut down, destroyed however it could be done.
    Victoria Bodeen could not be allowed to set roots and bloom in Progress.
    She looked so pretty, Cade mused. His mother, that admirable and unreachable woman. She dressed for gardening as she dressed for everything. With care, precision, and perfection.
    She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her head, the ribbon around it a soft blue to match the long cotton skirt and crisp blouse she protected with a dull gray gardening apron.
    There were pearls at her ears, round moons of white as luminous as the gardenias she so treasured.
    She’d let her hair go white as well, though she was only fifty-three. It was as if she wanted that symbol of age and dignity. Her skin was smooth. Worry never seemed to show on it. The contrast of that pretty, youthful face and the shock of white hair was striking.
    She’d kept her figure. She sculpted it ruthlessly with diet and exercise. Unwanted pounds weren’t tolerated any more than the stray weed in her gardens.
    She’d been a widow eight years now, and had slid so slickly into that slot, it was hard to remember her being otherwise.
    He knew she was displeased with him, but that was nothing new. Her displeasure was most usually expressed in the same way as her approval. With a few cool words.
    He couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched him with feeling, or with warmth. He couldn’t remember if he had ever expected her to do so.
    But she remained his mother, and he would do what he could to close the rift between them. He knew, too well, how a rift could widen into a gulf with silence.
    A small yellow butterfly flitted around her head, and was ignored. She knew it was there, just as she knew he walked to her with long strides along the bricked path. But she acknowledged neither.
    “It’s a nice morning for being outside,” Cade began. “Spring’s been good to the flowers.”
    “We could use some rain.”
    “They’re calling for some tonight, and none too soon. April’s been drier than I like.” He crouched down, leaving an arm span between them. Nearby bees hummed madly in the hills of azaleas. “Most of the first cultivating’s done. I’ve got to go ‘round and check on how the cattle’s doing. We’ve got some bull calves ready to become steers. I’ve got