Last Light over Carolina by Mary Alice Monroe

Quiet suddenly descended, save for the truck engine purring like a well-fed cat. Talk ceased between them, too, as anxiety tightened their throats. Carolina sat up and with prim strokes smoothed her pink cashmere sweater.
    Bud leaned over to give her a quick kiss. She smiled, seemingly relieved. They both knew they might not get another chance in front of the old man.
    With a deep breath, he rammed the stick into first gear. Shadows dappled the winding driveway as they passed a meandering creek, towering hardwoods, and the rolling fairways of the golf course. A couple of die-hard golfers were trying to squeeze in a few holes before the sun set. Bud felt apprehension tighten his gut at seeing the white pillars of the country club, looming like a facsimile of Tara or the White House on top of the hill. Closer, he saw a young valet, probably a college boy from Clemson, leap forward to open the door of a Cadillac for a woman in a fancy dress and high heels. The driver, a middle-aged man in a gray suit, handed his keys to the valet with hardly a backward glance.
    Bud ran his finger around his collar. Carolina had purchased the white button-down shirt for him on King Street inCharleston. She’d also bought him khaki pants and a navy wool blazer. “Just because,” she’d told him, but he knew full well it was because she wanted her fiancé to make a good impression on her parents. Because he wanted the same thing, he wore them.
    “This tie is choking me.”
    “You look handsome.”
    He could hear in her voice that she found him attractive in his new getup. “I feel like I’m about to get lynched.”
    “They’ll love you. I promise.”
    “I don’t know why we had to meet them at some country club. Why couldn’t we just go to your house for barbecue like normal folks?”
    “It’s just a local club. We hang out here all the time. Mama and Daddy like to invite people here for dinner. It’s so easy. Between golf and meetings, Daddy practically lives here, and Mama doesn’t have to fuss. I think cooking makes her nervous.”
    Bud looked at her askance. “You’re not going to take after your mama, are you?”
    “I’m not a good cook, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “Doesn’t matter, sweet thing, because I’m a great cook. I’ll spoil you with my barbecue.”
    “Thank God,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Our marriage is secure. What does any successful marriage need other than a good barbecue recipe?”
    “Don’t knock it, babe. No self-respecting southern male doesn’t have a good recipe for sauce.”
    The valet took his keys, uttering, “Cool truck!” Bud put hishand on the small of Carolina’s back and guided her inside. He’d give the boy a tip that made him feel as good as that comment did him.
    The moment he stepped into the country club, he felt his skin crawl. The boldly colored walls seemed out of sync with the reproduction American furniture and the oriental porcelain that filled dark wood breakfronts. Carolina slipped her arm through his and led him across the black-and-white-tiled foyer toward the main dining room. The club was bustling with activity. Couples in evening dress talked to others dressed in golf shirts who had finished their games and were looking to have a quick drink or two at the bar before heading home. Bud tried to compare it to a night at the Crab Shack back home, then chuckled. Where were the clouds of cigarette smoke and the Jim Beam?
    “Carolina!”
    “Mama!”
    Carolina released his arm and he followed her across the foyer to a tiny woman with blond bouffant hair. She stood trim and erect in a blue silk pantsuit with hefty pearls at her ears and neck. When Carolina stepped back, Mrs. Brailsford’s eyes darted to Bud. He noticed they were the same blue as Carolina’s, but while Carolina’s eyes were as warm as the embers of a fire, her mother’s were like chips of ice.
    “Mama, this is Bud Morrison. Bud, my mother, Allison Brailsford.”
    She offered a