Carolina Moon

were indulgences, and therefore weaknesses she would not permit.
    The mistress of Beaux Reves was required, in her opinion, to be visible in town, to patronize certain shops and maintain the proper relationship with the right merchants and civil servants.
    This civic responsibility was never to be shrugged aside for convenience.
    Margaret did more than write generous checks to her selected charities. She held positions on committees. The local art council and the historical society might have been personal interests, but that bent did not negate the time, energy, and funds she funneled into them.
    In more than thirty-two years as mistress of Beaux Reves, she had never once failed in her duties. She did not intend to fail today.
    She didn’t wince when she drove past the stand of moss-draped trees that cloaked the entrance to the swamp, nor did she slow down or speed up. She didn’t notice that the planks on the little bridge had been replaced, and the sumac hacked down.
    She drove steadily past the site of her daughter’s death. If there was a pang, it would not have shown on her face.
    It had not shown the day that child had been buried, even when her own heart lay ripped open and bleeding out.
    Her face remained set and composed as she turned in to the narrow lane that led to the Marsh House. She parked behind Tory’s station wagon, retrieved her purse. She didn’t take one last look at herself in the rearview mirror. That would have been vain, and it would have been weak.
    She stepped out of the car, closed the door, locked it.
    She hadn’t been to the Marsh House in sixteen years. She knew there had been work done on it, work Cade had arranged and paid for over her silent disapproval. As far as she was concerned, fresh paint and flowering bushes didn’t change what it was.
    A shanty. A slum. Better bulldozed into the ground than lived in. There had been a time, in the swarm of her grief, when she’d wanted to burn it, to set fire to the swamp, to see it all scorched to hell.
    But that, of course, was foolish. And she was not a foolish woman.
    It was Lavelle property, and despite everything, must be maintained and passed on to the next generation.
    She climbed the steps, ignoring the charm of the long clay troth full of spilling flowers and vines, and knocked briskly on the wooden frame of the screen door.
    Inside, Tory paused in the act of reaching for a cup. She was running behind, and didn’t much give a damn. Tired to the bone, she’d slept late, had yet to dress. She was trying to gear herself up for a lecture on responsibility, to scold herself for self-indulgence. She hoped the coffee would help snap her system to life so she could work up the enthusiasm it would take to go into the shop and finish preparing for her opening.
    The interruption wasn’t just unwelcome, it was almost intolerable. There was no one she wanted to see, no words she wanted to exchange. She wanted, more than anything, to go back to bed and fight her way into the dreamless sleep that had eluded her through the night.
    But she answered the knock because to ignore it would have been weak. That, at least, Margaret would have understood.
    Faced with Hope’s mother, Tory felt immediately guilty, frazzled, and embarrassed. “Mrs. Lavelle.”
    “Victoria.” Margaret skimmed her ice-edged gaze up from Tory’s bare feet, over the rumpled robe, to the top of her tousled hair. This sloth, she told herself with cold satisfaction, was no more or less than what she’d expected from a Bodeen. “I beg your pardon. I assumed you would be up by nine, and preparing for the day.”
    “Yes. Yes, I should be.” Miserably self-conscious, Tory tugged at the belt of her robe. “I was … I’m afraid I overslept.”
    “I need a few moments of your time. If I might come in.”
    “Yes. Of course.” With all her carefully learned layers of composure shredded, Tory fumbled with the screen door. “I’m sorry, the house isn’t much more presentable than I am.”
    She’d found a chair she’d liked, a big, overstuffed wingback in soft, faded blue. That and the little pie-crust table she planned to refinish eventually were the sum total of her living room furniture.
    There was no rug, no curtains, no lamp. Neither was there dirt or dust, but Tory stepped back feeling as though she were inviting a queen into a hovel.
    Her voice echoed uncomfortably in the near-empty room as Margaret stood taking a silent and damning assessment.
    “I’ve