Summer in the South by Cathy Holton

long sofa, deep in conversation with Clara. One fair, one dark, they were a striking contrast; yet there was something similar in their profiles, something kindred in their height and bearing and grace. Ava had been curious about Clara from that first night at Woodburn Hall, pelting Will with questions. But in that teasing manner he had with her, slightly amused, mildly offended, he’d told her just enough to make her more curious. Clara lived on the block behind the aunts. Her parents had worked for the family when Josephine and Fanny were girls. She had grown up with the Woodburn girls as a sister might. “As part of the family,” Will had told her.
    “Only she didn’t go to Vanderbilt,” Ava had remarked innocently.
    “No,” Will said, his smile fading. “She didn’t go to Vanderbilt.”
    Sunlight fell in large bands across the library’s faded Oriental carpet. The sofas, seen in the bright slanting light, seemed somewhat threadbare and worn, although the room was scrupulously clean, the woodwork newly painted and gleaming.
    Beside her Fraser droned on about Poe in his soft little singsong voice. Will, noting that Ava’s attention had wandered, lifted his glass and motioned for Fraser to join him and Maitland.
    “Excuse me, I’m being summoned,” Fraser said breathlessly. He put one small hand lightly on Ava’s arm. “I’m so looking forward to Mother’s barbecue. It’ll be such fun to introduce you around because I can assure you” (and here he leaned toward her, glancing around the room) “we’re not all this stodgy!” He giggled and walked off in that odd, straight-backed manner he had, like a tiny soldier on parade.
    “Ava, come sit with us,” Clara called, patting the sofa between her and Josephine. Ava sat down, smiling at Clara, who squeezed her hand gently, then let it go. There was something warm about Clara, something so welcoming that you couldn’t help but feel comfortable in her presence. Fanny, too, made her feel instantly at home, and Maitland was like a charming, overindulgent grandfather. Josephine, on the other hand, seemed cordial but distant. There was something of Miss Havisham in Josephine. You had the feeling that beneath her polished exterior beat the heart of a woman capable of anything.
    Alice was loudly telling a joke. “How many Episcopalians does it take to change a lightbulb? Ten. One to change the bulb and nine to say how much they liked the old one.”
    The room exploded in laughter but they were all Episcopalians and you could see that they were proud of it.
    “You know what they say,” Maitland said, lifting his glass. “For every four Episcopalians you’ll find a fifth.”
    Fraser whooped with laughter, then stopped and checked his appearance in the heavy gilt-framed mirror above the sideboard. Beside him, Will stood smiling at Ava, his back to the glass.
    Josephine said, “He’s a handsome young man, isn’t he?”
    “Yes,” Ava said. She finished her wine.
    “I see something of my father in him, although he’s dark like all the Frasers.” Josephine was quiet for a moment, her eyes fixed fondly on Will. As if guessing that they were talking about him, he excused himself to Fraser and Maitland and came across the room to join them. “My father was stern, but he was very loving,” Josephine continued. “Unusual in a man of those times.”
    “He was a good man,” Clara said. Will stopped in front of them, smiling.
    “He loved my mother, and when she died, soon after Celia’s birth, he never remarried. And he could have, if he’d wanted to! He was the most eligible widower in town, young, handsome, a man of property.” She stopped abruptly, looking down at her glass. “Well, he had everything, and many were the women who set their caps for him and tried to catch him.”
    “But he was too wary for that,” Will said. He had obviously heard this story many times before.
    “People who’ve been wounded in love are often wary,” Josephine said,