Midnight Bayou

he’d be happy in Boston—and with the one he almost married.”
    “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? But we can’t choose other people’s lives. Even our children’s. And you certainly can’t select the person they’ll love. Are you in love with my son, Lena?”
    Hands rock steady, Lena strained the martinis into the cold glasses. “That’s something I’ll talk to him about, when I’m ready. These are on the house,” she added, sliding the olives in. “I hope they suit your tastes.”
    “Thank you.” Colleen picked up her glass, sipped. Raised an eyebrow. “It’s excellent. I’ve always felt mixing the perfect martini is a kind of art, and have been surprised and disappointed that often those who own a bar or club or restaurant make or serve imperfect martinis.”
    “Why do anything if you don’t set out to do it right?”
    “Exactly. It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it? In self, in one’s work, one’s life. Flaws are acceptable, even necessary to make us human and humble. But to serve a guest or customer less than the best one is capable of, strikes me as arrogant or sloppy. Often both.”
    “I don’t see the point in doing anything halfway,” Lena said, and filled a bowl with fresh snack mix. “If I can’t make a martini, fine, then I step back until I learn how it’s done. Otherwise I’d disappoint myself and the person who was counting on me.”
    “A good policy.” Colleen sampled an olive. “Without high standards, we tend to settle for less than what makes us happy and productive, and can shortchange the people who matter to us.”
    “When someone matters to me—and I’m careful about who does—I want the best for them. They may settle for less. But I won’t.”
    When Patrick leaned over, peered closely at Colleen’smartini, she frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
    “Trying to see what’s in yours that isn’t in mine.”
    It made Lena laugh, had her shoulders relaxing. “He’s an awful lot like you, isn’t he? Got his mama’s eyes though. Sees right through you. Even when you don’t want him to. He loves you both like crazy, and that says something to me. So I’m going to say something to you.”
    She leaned a little closer. “I come from plain stock. Strong, but plain. My mother, she’s a dead loss, and more of an embarrassment to me than I care to speak of. But my grandfather was a fine and decent man. My grandmama’s as good as anybody, and better than most. I run this bar because I’m good at it—and I like it—and I don’t waste my time on things I don’t like.”
    She swept her hair behind her ear, kept her gaze level on Colleen’s. “I’m selfish and I’m stubborn, and I don’t see a damn thing wrong with that. I don’t care about his money, or yours, so let’s just set that aside. He’s the best man I ever met in my life, and I’m not good enough for him. I say that knowing I’m good enough for damn near anybody, but he’s different. Turns out under that affable exterior that man’s even more stubborn than I am, and I haven’t figured out what to do about that quite yet. When I do, he’ll be the first to know. I expect he’ll fill you in on that particular outcome.
    “Now.” Unconsciously, Lena toyed with the key she wore around her neck. “Would you like another drink?”
    “We’ll just nurse these for a while,” Colleen told her.
    “Excuse me a minute. I see I have an order to fill.” She moved down the bar to where her waitress waited with an empty tray.
    “Well?” Patrick asked. “I believe she set you neatly in your place.”
    “Yes.” Well satisfied, Colleen took another sip of her martini. “She’ll do.”
    “ I ’m not nervous.” Pale, jittery, Remy stood in the library while Declan attached the boutonniere of lily of the valley to his friend’s tuxedo lapel.
    “Maybe if you say that another dozen times, you’ll believe it. Hold still, damn, Remy.”
    “I’m holding still.”
    “Sure, except for the mild seizure you seem to be having, you’re steady as a rock.”
    “I want to marry Effie. Want to live my life with her. This is the day we’ve both been looking forward to for months.”
    “That’s right. Today,” Declan said in sober tones, “is the first day of the rest of your life.”
    “I feel a little sick.”
    “It’s too late to puke,” Declan said cheerfully. “You’re down to the final fifteen. Want me to call your dad back in?”
    “No. No, he’ll have his hands full with