Carolina Moon

the behavior of my children, Gerald.” Margaret swept back into the main drawing room where her old friend waited.
    There would have been no such outbursts in his house when his children lived under his roof. But then, he thought, his daughters had been raised to behave as ladies at all times.
    Still, he offered Margaret a sympathetic and affectionate smile. “No, Margaret, no need to apologize. Just high spirits.” He took the glass of sherry she’d set down before going upstairs and offered it back to her.
    There was music playing on low. Bach. A favorite of both of them. He’d brought roses, as he always did, and Lilah had already put them into the Baccarat vase on the broad sweep of the piano.
    The room, with its deep blue divans and old, polished wood, was perfect, peaceful, and precisely as Margaret demanded. The piano was rarely played, but kept in tune just the same. It had been her wish that her daughters become accomplished on that instrument, but there she had been disappointed.
    There were no family photos in this room. Every memento had been carefully selected for how it would fit into the scheme so that heirlooms blended seamlessly with her own acquisitions.
    It was not a room where a man would prop his boots on a table, or a child would scatter toys on the rug.
    “High spirits,” she repeated. “It’s kind of you to say so.” She paced over to the window, watched Cade’s car roar down the drive. Dissatisfaction scratched her skin like wool. “I’m afraid it’s a great deal more, and less, than high spirits.”
    “Our children grow up, Margaret.”
    “Some of them do.”
    He said nothing for a moment. He knew the subject of Hope was never an easy one for her. And as he preferred things easy, would let it drift by as if it had never been said.
    He’d known her for thirty-five years, and had once, briefly, courted her himself. She had chosen Jasper Lavelle, who had been wealthier and with bluer blood. It hadn’t put more than a hitch in Gerald’s stride, or so he liked to think.
    He’d had ambitions even then, as a young lawyer. He had married well himself, raised two children, and had been comfortably widowed for five years.
    Like his old friend, he preferred his widowed status to marriage. So much less demanding of time and energies.
    He was a tall and strapping sixty with the dramatic features of enormous black eyebrows that winged up like ruffled feathers on his otherwise dignified, square face.
    He had made the law, all the ins and slippery outs of it, his life, prospered and carved out a respected niche in the community.
    He enjoyed Margaret’s company, their discussions of art and literature, and was her usual escort at events and affairs. They had never exchanged more than a cool sociable kiss on the cheek.
    For sex he enjoyed the favors of young prostitutes, who exchanged sexual fantasies for cash and remained nameless.
    He was a staunch Republican, a devout Baptist. He considered his sexual adventures a kind of hobby. After all, he didn’t golf.
    “I don’t know that I’m good company tonight, Gerald.”
    He was also a creature of habit. It was their night for a quiet dinner at Beaux Reves, a dinner that would be followed by coffee and a pleasant thirty minutes in the gardens.
    “I’m too old a friend for you to worry about that.”
    “I suppose I could use a friend. I’m upset, Gerald. Victoria Bodeen. I had hoped I could resolve myself to her coming back to Progress. But now I’ve learned that Cade is seeing her, socially.”
    “He’s a grown man, Margaret.”
    “He is my son.” She turned back then, her face hard as stone. “I won’t have it.”
    He nearly sighed. “It seems to me that if you press the matter with him, you’ll make it, and her, too important.”
    “I don’t intend to press it with him.” No, she knew what needed to be done, and would see to it. “He should have married your Deborah, Gerald.”
    It was a mutual regret, mild on his part, and made him smile sadly. “We might have had grandchildren together.”
    “What a thought,” Margaret murmured, and decided she could use another sherry.
    Tory was waiting for him to drive up. She had it all figured out. It always took a bit of time and distance for her to realize Cade had maneuvered her. He did so very smoothly, very quietly, and very skillfully. But it was still maneuvering.
    She’d been in charge of her life for too long now to allow anyone a turn at the wheel.
    He was a nice