unforgiving Georgia sun, surrounded paned windows of old, watery glass. And the shrubbery was no longer manicured, but overgrown and rambling despite the work of a year-round gardener. Where once there had been parties and laughter and gaiety, there now was silence and shadow, ghosts and wraiths, tragedy and lies.
Only Berneda, Caitlyn’s mother, and her sister Hannah continued to live here. There were a handful of servants, of course, and fortunately Lucille Vasquez had remained. Caitlyn understood why her mother stayed on—this was the only home she’d known in over forty years—but she couldn’t fathom why her youngest sister elected to stay in this tomb of a plantation. At twenty-six, Hannah should have been out with people her age, living on her own, not holed up in this huge, decaying reminder of the Old South. But then, Hannah had always been a little off, out of step, and even out of touch.
Like you?
Caitlyn ignored the nagging voice in her mind and followed the driveway to the side of the house. Her heart sank. Troy’s black Range Rover was already parked in the lengthening shadows behind her mother’s Cadillac. So he’d beaten her to the punch. Great. Troy had probably hightailed it here the minute his important appointment had ended. So much for breaking the news herself.
She climbed out of her Lexus.
Hushed conversation and a hint of cigarette smoke drifted on the breeze.
“ . . always trouble . . . since the accident . . . hasn’t been herself . . .”Her mother’s soft, dulcet tones floated over a honeysuckle-scented breeze and Caitlyn tensed. So she was the topic of conversation. Again. Today, she supposed, it made sense. Other times she wasn’t so sure.
“She needs help,” Troy said over the sound of clinking ice cubes. “Serious help.”
“I thought she was seeing someone . . . after Jamie passed on . . . Oh, Lord, trouble just never stops, does it . . . the twins were always . . .”
Caitlyn’s spine stiffened, and her mother’s voice was more muted, as if she’d turned her head away.
“. . . I just never knew what to do . . . so fragile, not strong like the rest of you . . . sometimes it’s difficult to be a mother.”
Give me that strength. Caitlyn was tired of everyone handling her with kid gloves. Yes, she’d been frail and had fallen apart after the accident and then again when her baby had died, but who wouldn’thave? She ducked through a clematis-draped arbor and hurried up two brick steps to the back porch.
Conversation dwindled. Her mother turned to look over her shoulder as she sat, back to the stairs at a glass-topped table. Sipping iced tea, she fanned herself with the fingers of her free hand. She was dressed as if for a social tea—a long gauzy skirt and print top, polished pumps on her feet, a string of pearls around her throat.
Troy was standing, smoking a cigarette, one hip propped against the railing, his expression as grim as that of an undertaker as he watched a hummingbird flit through the fragrant honeysuckle blossoms. Through the partially opened window, Caitlyn caught a glimpse of Lucille, her mother’s private maid. With the pretense of folding napkins, Lucille hovered close enough to eavesdrop.
It was little wonder Lucille knew everything about the family. She had raised her daughter, Marta, here. Sometimes Marta, Kelly and Caitlyn had played together long ago.
“Caitlyn!” Troy greeted her in an obvious effort to quickly change the subject and warn his mother that her difficult child had arrived.
“I thought you had an important meeting,” Caitlyn told Troy.
“I did. Important but short.”
“Right.”
Berneda’s pale cheeks colored a bit. “Oh, Caitlyn, I’m so sorry about Josh,” she said, swallowing as tears suddenly glistened in her eyes. “I know you loved him.”
“Once,” Caitlyn admitted, determined not to break down.
“It’s difficult.” She patted Caitlyn’s hand as Caitlyn brushed a kiss against her wan, bony
Only Berneda, Caitlyn’s mother, and her sister Hannah continued to live here. There were a handful of servants, of course, and fortunately Lucille Vasquez had remained. Caitlyn understood why her mother stayed on—this was the only home she’d known in over forty years—but she couldn’t fathom why her youngest sister elected to stay in this tomb of a plantation. At twenty-six, Hannah should have been out with people her age, living on her own, not holed up in this huge, decaying reminder of the Old South. But then, Hannah had always been a little off, out of step, and even out of touch.
Like you?
Caitlyn ignored the nagging voice in her mind and followed the driveway to the side of the house. Her heart sank. Troy’s black Range Rover was already parked in the lengthening shadows behind her mother’s Cadillac. So he’d beaten her to the punch. Great. Troy had probably hightailed it here the minute his important appointment had ended. So much for breaking the news herself.
She climbed out of her Lexus.
Hushed conversation and a hint of cigarette smoke drifted on the breeze.
“ . . always trouble . . . since the accident . . . hasn’t been herself . . .”Her mother’s soft, dulcet tones floated over a honeysuckle-scented breeze and Caitlyn tensed. So she was the topic of conversation. Again. Today, she supposed, it made sense. Other times she wasn’t so sure.
“She needs help,” Troy said over the sound of clinking ice cubes. “Serious help.”
“I thought she was seeing someone . . . after Jamie passed on . . . Oh, Lord, trouble just never stops, does it . . . the twins were always . . .”
Caitlyn’s spine stiffened, and her mother’s voice was more muted, as if she’d turned her head away.
“. . . I just never knew what to do . . . so fragile, not strong like the rest of you . . . sometimes it’s difficult to be a mother.”
Give me that strength. Caitlyn was tired of everyone handling her with kid gloves. Yes, she’d been frail and had fallen apart after the accident and then again when her baby had died, but who wouldn’thave? She ducked through a clematis-draped arbor and hurried up two brick steps to the back porch.
Conversation dwindled. Her mother turned to look over her shoulder as she sat, back to the stairs at a glass-topped table. Sipping iced tea, she fanned herself with the fingers of her free hand. She was dressed as if for a social tea—a long gauzy skirt and print top, polished pumps on her feet, a string of pearls around her throat.
Troy was standing, smoking a cigarette, one hip propped against the railing, his expression as grim as that of an undertaker as he watched a hummingbird flit through the fragrant honeysuckle blossoms. Through the partially opened window, Caitlyn caught a glimpse of Lucille, her mother’s private maid. With the pretense of folding napkins, Lucille hovered close enough to eavesdrop.
It was little wonder Lucille knew everything about the family. She had raised her daughter, Marta, here. Sometimes Marta, Kelly and Caitlyn had played together long ago.
“Caitlyn!” Troy greeted her in an obvious effort to quickly change the subject and warn his mother that her difficult child had arrived.
“I thought you had an important meeting,” Caitlyn told Troy.
“I did. Important but short.”
“Right.”
Berneda’s pale cheeks colored a bit. “Oh, Caitlyn, I’m so sorry about Josh,” she said, swallowing as tears suddenly glistened in her eyes. “I know you loved him.”
“Once,” Caitlyn admitted, determined not to break down.
“It’s difficult.” She patted Caitlyn’s hand as Caitlyn brushed a kiss against her wan, bony
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