Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart

thirteen, if you include your engagement—you’ve stuck Harlan so high upon a pedestal that you made sure he was unreachable. Even by you.”

      “That’s absurd,” Elm spluttered.

      “Oh, yeah? Well, why is it, then, that during the entire course of your marriage I have never once heard you criticize him, or even say a single negative word about him?” Meredith asked, eyes narrowed.

      “I don’t approve of criticizing one’s spouse.” She grimaced at her prissy words.

      “Right.” Meredith sucked in her cheeks and nodded. “Very laudable, I’m sure, but at times I have to say I found it hard to swallow. Hell, I love my Tom but I’m always bitching about him.”

      “That’s different.”

      “In what way?” Meredith quirked an interested brow.

      “I don’t know—” Elm gestured nervously “—it just is.”

      “Bullshit. You made up your mind Harlan was going to be Mr. Perfect, then you stuck to that notion through hell and high water, even though I reckon you knew it wasn’t working out right from the start,” she said shrewdly. “Look, I’m sorry it’s happened this way, Elm, but maybe it’s time to wake up and smell a megadose of double espresso?”

      “It would certainly seem so,” Elm murmured dryly, nervously fiddling with the sunglasses on her lap, the bitter truths she’d denied for the better part of her adult life rising in her throat. “I guess I must be plain stupid not to have seen this coming,” she said finally. “I must need fucking bifocals,” she added, her mouth set in a tight line Meredith had never seen before.

      “Don’t beat up on yourself.” She reached across the desk and touched Elm’s icy fingers. “You did it because of the way you are. I’ve never known you to take on a cause and do a half-assed job. Take the garden project you’re working on right now. I’ll bet nobody shovels more damn earth than you do, nobody plants more seedlings. Or your exhibitions.” She shrugged and smiled. “It’s all the same, Elm. You throw yourself into everything you do, give every ounce of your being. Only, sometimes others don’t meet your expectations and you’re bitterly disappointed. Problem is,” she added, picking up a pen and doodling speculatively, “not everyone—and that includes your hubby—has your high standards or is as dedicated and sincere as you.”

      “Gee, thanks! Knowing I’m an obsessive perfectionist who’s blind to the world makes me feel a hell of a lot better.”

      “Rubbish. You know that isn’t so.”

      “Really? Then how do you explain that Harlan’s gotten away with this affair? And I suppose there must have been others. It’s only that Jennifer is the first one who couldn’t resist the temptation of telling me Harlan’s a great fuck! I suppose I should be grateful to her,” she added grimly, knuckles strained and white from gripping the glasses, as though crushing them might relieve some of her bewildered anger.

      “Not so fast,” Meredith countered. “Let’s go back and review the circumstances. Right from the start, long before you married Harlan, you’d convinced yourself that he was Mr. Right.”

      “He was. At least he seemed—right.” Elm bit her lip and glanced at the porcelain ashtray on the desk, wishing she smoked.

      “For whom?” Meredith’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You or Uncle George?”

      Elm’s head flew up, then she hesitated. She’d been about to protest vehemently, but her friend’s words made her stop. She glanced toward the window. Was it true? Had she wanted Harlan to be perfect because her father was so enchanted with the idea of his prospective son-in-law’s glittering political future? She let out a long sigh, then met Meredith’s eyes straight on. “Both, I guess.”

      “Exactly.” Meredith nodded, satisfied. “Harlan had all the prerequisites of the successful politician—handsome, great charisma, old family. Poor as church mice, of course, but hey, who gives a damn since he’s in some way related to Oglethorpe and the founding of Savannah, right?” She enumerated the qualities, ticking them off one by one. “A truly great candidate. Your father’s dream boy. The son he never had.”

      “There was nothing wrong with that,” Elm replied defensively.

      “No, except that somewhere along the line, having Harlan in the family became more important to him than your own happiness.”

      “That’s not true,” Elm lied. “I truly believed I’d be happy with Harlan, and there was never any question of Daddy—”

      “I know, I know,” Meredith soothed, “he’s the other Mr. Perfect in your life. But let’s face it, Elm, I remember talking when you got engaged. Christ, you had so many dreams, such focused expectations. Remember all the idealism? How convinced you were that being his wife would be a fulfilling path? That together you would achieve all sorts of worthy objectives?”

      “You make it sound all trite and stupid and it wasn’t. I really did believe it.”

      “I know, and I’m sorry.” Meredith smiled apologetically. “I didn’t mean to diminish your dreams. They were very worthwhile. It’s just a pity Harlan never believed in them. Let’s face it, babe,” she said, leaning back and letting her large leather chair swing, “Harlan never expected to make you an active partner in his politics. Twelve years in, you’re still his lackey. Expected to throw great parties and enhance his social status, but shut out of making any significant policy contributions.

      “Not that you aren’t doing great things on your own—your painting exhibitions are phenomenal, you’re becoming known. Hell, that Frenchman—who’s supposed to be an international art specialist—Le Souche—who was in town last month even bought one. And working with abused women to restore the gardens at Oleander Creek is one heck of a worthy cause.”

      “But?”

      “Elm, face it. Harlan’s reneged on his part of the bargain. He’s ignored your input. I mean, has he ever solicited your advice about any aspect of his platform? I didn’t see him asking you about whether that massive waste-processing plant he green-lighted would have any impact on the environment. You’d think that since it’s just up the creek from your plantation, he’d have sought your involvement on that, at least. He’s just been using you—and you’ve let him.”

      “That may be partially true,” Elm admitted grudgingly, regaining some of her poise. “Of course, perhaps if you’d seen fit to tell me all this sooner, I might have avoided some of it,” she threw out reproachfully.

      “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Elm, who are you trying to fool? You know very well you wouldn’t have listened to a word I had to say.”

      “I might have.”

      “Bull crap.”

      Elm swallowed, seriously shaken. All these years she’d carried the load of her inadequate, unsatisfying, empty marriage alone, convinced no one but she knew the truth. Now she felt cheated at her own game. “God, I just wish you’d told me how you really felt,” she repeated, shaking her head, bewildered.

      “Elm, honey, put yourself in my shoes.” Meredith let out a gusty sigh. “How could I, in all fairness, turn around and tell you that Jennifer was bragging to anyone who’d listen that she’s bagged Harlan MacBride, when it was obvious you didn’t want to hear, or want to know, or want to see? Hell, we lunched last week and you were still singing Harlan’s praises. The one and only time,” she said through gritted teeth, “I ever came close to bursting your bubble was a few months ago, when you were recovering from that last IVF treatment and Jennifer was preening about Harlan taking her to the Cloisters for a romantic weekend.”

      “I can’t believe he did that.” Tears of rage and disappointment hurtled to the surface. “How could he?” she uttered suddenly, voice cracking. “How could he have been such a bastard?” She looked away, hiding her face with her hair, as the full implication of Harlan’s