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She had no intention of giving in. She’d rather sell her antebellum sterling silver, the family antiques that had been handed down for two hundred years, or the oil portraits in the gallery from so many generations, including one Confederate general.
Frankie refused to take part in her family’s countdown to her anniversary. She wouldn’t see the humor in their teasing. Some of those years—much of the last year—had been impossible to bear.
She smoothed her tailored pants as if putting on armor. If only she and Christian could conduct this conversation without a battle.
“Hey.” He strode into the room and she sniffed the air.
“Do I smell horse?” She eyed his dark suit. “Surely you didn’t go riding dressed like that.”
“I just stopped by the barn. I didn’t have time to change.” He kissed her cheek. “How’s my favorite mother?” He folded Frankie into a hug, but the best defense, as Lanier would say, is a good offense.
“That horse is a killer. You should put him down.”
He flinched. “Have you been talking to Emma?”
“No, but it seems we agree. I can’t imagine you’d even think of going anywhere near that barn again.”
“Well, I did,” he said in the same stubborn tone he’d used since he was a little boy. “And I’m not here to argue about the General. Emma asked me to come by—speak to you about a party for your anniversary.”
Her heart lurched. “No party,” Frankie told him. “A small private dinner would suit me, thank you very much. Here’s the guest list—you, Emma, Grace, Rafael—” she all but wrinkled her nose “—your father and me. No one else.”
“That would be a first. Mom, half this town will want to celebrate your day,” he said with a cheeky grin that curdled her already precarious mood. “All those people, maybe we should rent the convention center for the night.”
Frankie picked invisible lint from the upholstered arm of a chair. The wooden surface of every end table, the gleaming white marble of the fireplace mantel, showed not a trace of dust.
“My anniversary hardly compares with the annual Pink Ball,” she said. “I should know.” Last year Frankie had served as co-chairperson of the event to benefit breast cancer research. Still, she was, in her own way, a survivor.
“Of course it does. We could even get corporate sponsors,” he said, straight-faced. “Big budget. Forget the chicken and go for the filet mignon.”
“You will do no such thing.” She patted her hair. “And don’t try to trick me with a surprise party, either. I’ll walk out. I can’t speak for your father but this guest of honor will disappear into the night.”
Christian’s smile had faded. “If this was your Ladies’ Tea Society, or whatever you call it—”
“A worthwhile service to this community.”
“—you’d jump at the chance.” He ran a hand through his dark hair.
Frankie felt a swift pain across her chest. She never knew how to talk to him. But then, in these past months she hadn’t known how to deal with what life had handed her once more.
She voiced the painful truth. “I see nothing to celebrate.”
His eyes flashed. “How about the fact that you and Dad are still walking around, breathing and talking, sixty-some years longer than my son did? Or is it easier to just forget him? The way you’ve stripped this house of every last reminder?”
She felt a pinch right behind her eyes. Yes, she’d put away all the pictures. Frankie stared, unblinking, at the room’s sparkling-clean windows. And yet...
Not quite gone.
From here she could see that single, untouched spot on the glass where Owen’s small palm print still showed, far more precious than even her antique silver. Every Friday when her “girls” came to clean, Frankie warned them to avoid that one smudge.
For most of the day the smear would be invisible to anyone but her. But at certain moments, with the angle of the light just right against the windowpane, the outline of his little hand came to life again. As if he were still...she looked away from the window.
“How I choose to run my home is none of your concern,” she said.
His tone hardened. “Fine.” He walked out into the hall. “I did what Emma asked me to, but I wash my hands of this.”
“I don’t want a party, Christian!”
“Which is exactly what I thought you’d say.”
She tried to call him back, but the slam of the front door told her he was gone. Immobilized, Frankie stood there alone, wishing she could make Christian understand.
She twisted her hands together. She’d lost a child of her own many years ago, and last year her grandson. In a very different way she’d always feared losing Christian, too.
Frankie marched upstairs. In her bedroom she studied a framed painting on one wall, an autumn scene in greens and golds. A moment later the front door opened, then shut again. Had Christian come back?
“Frankie?” Instead, Lanier’s booming voice came from downstairs.
She turned from the painting and schooled her features into a calm mask.
“There you are.” Lanier stepped into the room, his oxford shoes sinking into the plush carpet. “How was your meeting?” He kissed her forehead. “Why are you standing here in the dark?” He leaned past her to switch on her nightstand lamp.
She tried to soften her tone. “I’m standing in the dark because after my cataract surgery I don’t require floodlights to see.” Lanier was forever turning on lamps and overhead fixtures. She paused. “The meeting was...a meeting. You know how Elise can be,” she said with a half smile.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve agreed to chair next spring’s fashion show.”
“And luncheon,” she admitted.
“Again? One day, my love, you should learn to say no.”
“I did moments ago,” she murmured with another dash of regret for the tense exchange she’d had with Christian. Lanier knew instantly whom she meant. He avoided her gaze.
“That boy.” He tugged off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes. And left them all in a heap on the floor. Frankie bit her lip and looked away. “He tried to strong-arm me into some ridiculous party. I refused. You see? I can say no. Why would y’all insist on making me miserable?”
Lanier wrapped his arms around her. “Darlin’, you might as well give in.”
“The convention center, Christian said. Of all places.” Although she tried to scoff, her eyes filled with tears. “What good would a party accomplish? And don’t assume you can take his side and sweet-talk me. Why would you?”
“Too bad. That party would be a good thing.”
“I don’t agree.”
He stepped back, then walked to his dresser, removed his cuff links and unbuttoned his shirt. Silence invaded the room. Except for the faint rustle of fabric as he tossed his shirt onto the bed, she heard nothing.
“Then, to change the subject,” he said after a long pause, “why does Christian keep hinting that he’s fed up with his job? Even last night in front of my friends? Where would he find a better-paying position, better benefits for his family and most of all a secure future?” he muttered with a curse.
“Don’t swear, Lanier.”
In four and a half decades of marriage he’d evolved from the charming Southern boy she’d wed into this stubborn older man who knew just how to push her buttons.
“If he doesn’t shape up, I’ll cut him out of my will. Leave the business to Chester Berglund. How does that sound?”
“Foolish, as you well know.” She rose to the challenge. “Chester Berglund may have kept a low profile so far—and don’t look at me as if you’ve never seen that. They may even play tennis together now and then, but underneath, I assure you, he’s Christian’s rival. Chester Berglund would love to be VP of sales. You and Christian may not see eye to eye, but he is your own flesh and blood.”
“And yours,” he pointed out, which counted for everything in the South.
Frankie turned her back.
“I’m worried about him, too,” she said. Every April on Christian’s birthday she gave thanks for another year of his life. Trying to save herself from a messy bout of hysteria—like Aunt Pittypat in Gone with the Wind—she said, “What would my Ladies’ Tea Society think if you disowned him?”
Lanier snorted, a habit of which she’d never been able to make him break. “Social climbing doesn’t become you, Frankie Owen Mallory.”
Yet he wouldn’t meet her eyes. His teasing seemed halfhearted.
“Wait a minute,” she said. The timing of his arrival struck her as too perfect. Almost as soon as Christian had stormed out, Lanier had gotten home. “That party was your idea. Wasn’t it?”
He framed her face in both hands. “Frankie, I only want you—us—to be happy again. Somehow. Maybe a party could be the right start.” His eyes stayed somber and his fingers trembled. “I haven’t forgotten how you were...after Sarah died. It’s the same all over again. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He sighed. His hands dropped to his sides. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sure you do.”
An anniversary party. Indeed, she thought.
* * *
“NO SALE,” CHRISTIAN ANNOUNCED, shutting the door to the garage a bit too hard. He walked down the short hall into the kitchen and went straight for the sweet tea in the fridge. “The party’s off. If my mother isn’t the most stubborn woman—on the way home I thought I’d have a stroke.”
Emma sniffed the air as if she, too, smelled horse. But at least she didn’t bring up the General. And he wasn’t about to do so, either.
“Well, at least you tried. With Frankie, I mean.”
“Ball’s in your court now,” he muttered, dropping into a chair at the table. “And Dad’s.” As if that were a cue, Bob appeared from the other room, tail wagging, and laid her head on his lap. Her chocolate-brown eyes stared up at him in sympathy. “Why not forget the whole thing, Em?”
“I agree with Lanier. This family needs a celebration,” she said, stirring something in a pot.
“My mother doesn’t think so.” I see nothing to celebrate.
“I can try to change her mind, but after last night at Coolidge Park—”
“Emma, I’m sorry. I never meant to say wife instead of life.”
Still, he wasn’t sure of anything these days. Then he’d seen Emma deep in conversation with Max Barrett near the carousel, and something inside him had curled into a tight little ball. She never talked with Christian like that anymore. He didn’t think for a moment she was interested in another man, but she was pulling back...already had. He stroked Bob’s head. “How did your lunch with Mel go?”
Her face brightened. “If she approves my estimate, I’ll be doing her twins’ bedroom.”
“You think that’s the best idea?”
“I think it’s a fine idea,” she insisted. “If Melanie likes my work, she’ll recommend me to her friends the way someone else mentioned me to her.”
“Really,” he said. Not that Mel would ostracize her if things didn’t go well—meanness wasn’t in her nature—but he wasn’t sure a recommendation would mean much. Emma had lost too many clients since the accident, for which other people seemed to blame her, and was fighting to stay in business. As he’d told her, selling No More Clutter might be the better option. “Be careful,” he said.
“You don’t think I should do this?”
“I know you can.” He paused. Bob studied him with adoring eyes. “But you ran into the tribe’s buzz saw a few times just last night. Don’t forget—the worst phrase in this part of the country is ‘bless your heart.’”
“No one said that.”
“Some were likely thinking it, though, and you took the first opportunity to disappear from the pavilion. So don’t expect me to believe you’re not concerned or that you’re unaware.”
“I left because I needed air.”
“And to talk to Max Barrett.”
“I did want to apologize for not returning his calls but he found me first. And since then, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “That pony needs to be sold. Max offered to display it but—”
“It’s not the pony’s fault.” He stared into his glass. Bob blinked up at him as if she could see into Christian’s heart.
“But why would we keep it? I’m sure it’s beautiful, as he said, but instead of advertising his shop, it could give joy to another child...”
Christian’s senses went on alert.
“The playroom here was never more than half finished,” she went on.
His shoulders tensed. The room had formed a suite of sorts with Owen’s bedroom—his former nursery—on the other side of the jack-and-jill bathroom in between. And Emma clearly had other plans for it now.
“It would make a great home office, Christian. Temporarily. I know you’re not crazy about me bringing files here but I may have to. And while I’m looking for new space, which may take time, we could remove the mural, repaint the walls a different color—maybe a soft grayed taupe instead of the blue that’s in there now. There’s plenty of space for a desk on either side of that room.”
“For me, too? Or, no, you mean Grace? I don’t need a home office.” He paused. “You don’t, either. Sometimes I think your job will take over our whole marriage.” Now, he added silently, that there’s no little boy for you to come home to. As if Bob sadly agreed, she nudged her head into his hand. “After work we should be together.”
“That’s fine, but I still have a business to run.”
He tried to meet her eyes. “Emma, we have to talk, make sense of—”
Her voice quavered. “There aren’t enough words in the English language to make sense of what happened. Why can’t you see that?”
“So we should lock it all up inside and, what’s the phrase people always use, just move on?”
“That’s exactly what we should do.” She paused. “That’s all I know to do.”
“Well.” He eased Bob away, then rose from the table.
“Christian, what good is there in keeping the pony or keeping that room the way it is now?”
He turned to face her. Bob sat between them, head moving back and forth as if she were at one of his mother’s tennis matches. “You can’t even make yourself go in there,” he said, his jaw clenched. “How do you expect to sit there doing paperwork? Even to avoid me?”
“That isn’t true.”
Christian shook his head. “I wonder,” he said, “if you’re not like my mother after all.” He slammed his glass down on the counter by the sink.
