It was dark by the time he stroked the General’s velvety nose one last time, then latched the door shut and said good-night. Maybe he should take Emma’s advice to sell. Yet he couldn’t seem to.
Looking over his shoulder once, then again, he hurried down the long aisle to the open barn doors, out into the parking lot. He rolled down his sleeves, slipped into his jacket and got into his truck. He was already late.
As he drove away he could see the girls from the ring leading their horses back to their stalls, laughing and calling to each other. Christian headed for his mother’s house.
He wouldn’t come here again.
FRANKIE OWEN MALLORY stood in the parlor of her home on East Brow Road, waiting for Christian. He was an hour late. On the mantel the clock chimed seven times. She was already tired, still exhausted from the fund-raiser last night, and it had been a long day.
He was her son, she told herself. Her only son. She would be glad to see him. But like many Southern women she was no shrinking violet. She could handle him. Emma had already hinted about the anniversary party.
Forty-five years.
“Mom?” She heard Christian calling from the entry hall. At last.
“In here,” she answered, barely raising her voice.
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