Magnolia by Diana Palmer

reenlist after you were mustered out, when you decided to go to Harvard.”
    â€œColonel Wayne?”
    Chayce nodded. “He was an exceptional commander. He knows more than I ever will have time to learn about frontline skirmishes.” He shrugged. “But he likes his Montana ranch and has no interest in moving East.”
    â€œHow are you going to tolerate Charleston after Arizona?” John asked.
    Chayce grimaced. “About as well as Geronimo and his Chiricahua Apache liked being marooned in St. Augustine, I expect. Desert dwellers don’t cotton to damp rot.”
    â€œCharleston has its good points. I lived there for several years and loved it,” John recalled.
    â€œYou loved the sea,” Chayce reminded him. “I remember hearing you talk about all the sailing you used to do with your father and brothers as a boy. But I hate it.”
    â€œYou’ll have plenty of years to learn to love it.”
    Chayce sighed. “I hope not.”
    â€œGive it time. You’ll work your way back into favor one day.”
    Chayce shrugged. “So they say.”
    He stayed only a little longer and then declared that he had to be on his way, so that he didn’t miss his train.
    â€œIt’s been swell seeing you again,” he told John as they shook hands out on the sidewalk where a carriage had been summoned and was waiting for Chayce. “Take care of your wife. She’s a treasure.”
    â€œThank you, Colonel,” Claire replied, with a smile. “It was a pleasure to have met you. Do stop by the next time you come this way.”
    â€œPerhaps by then you’ll have a proper house and a yardful of children,” Chayce remarked, but he was looking at John, not Claire, when he said it. “Please thank Mrs. Dobbs for the delicious cake, Claire, and keep well. So long.”
    John pulled his pocket watch out and glanced at it. “I’ll share your carriage. I have to get back to the bank,” he said. He glanced at Claire. “I’ll be late. Don’t wait supper.”
    He climbed in beside Chayce. The door closed. The carriage took off down the street. Claire stood on the sidewalk looking after it. She’d learned something new about her husband, but it would do her no good at all. If he’d cared for her, she’d have learned those things from him, and not had to find them out from his old friend Chayce.
    Amazingly, the next day John actually took her riding. He left his office just after noon and hired a carriage with a driver.
    â€œI thought it might be nice for you to get out of the house for a bit,” he explained when she appeared shocked by his suggestion.
    â€œWe—we never go anywhere together,” she stammered.
    â€œWhat about the bank social Saturday night?” he asked.
    She smiled. “Well, there’s that.”
    He handed her into the carriage and climbed in beside her, his eyes approving of her black suit with its natty white trim and her matching hat. She had incredible dress sense—when she wasn’t working on that silly automobile or riding that cursed wheel. She only rode it around the property, but she often fell off, and it was a high one. He felt guilty about puncturing one of her tires and then lying about having no time to get it patched for her. She wouldn’t know that he was concerned for her welfare. More and more, the idea of Claire being hurt in any way, physically or emotionally, was disturbing to him.
    They talked about Atlanta and its tempestuous past, talking about more recent events like the unusual house on Peachtree Street, the “house that Jack built,” and the famous Tally-ho wagon of the Driving Club that a retired military man used to carry pretty debutantes and visiting dignitaries racing along the streets. The coach was pulled by white horses and regal in its livery, and a silver trumpet sounded its approach.
    â€œWhat a fabulous city this is,”