The Beach House. Mary Monroe Alice

the old neighborhood,” Cara explained.

      “Well, come on in and welcome. The children are like jumping beans.” Julia was tiny and slender in her lovely floral summer dress that matched exactly her pale-blue eyes. Cara hadn’t seen her in years and thought her sister-in-law had traded her youthful perkiness for a mature elegance that flattered her. Yet behind Julia’s bright smile she spotted a new hardness, especially around the eyes where fine lines accentuated the strain. She’d cut her long blond hair to a sporty, cropped look that exposed the large topaz-and-diamond earrings at her ears. Her makeup was expertly applied. Cara knew that if she ran into her sister-in-law at the grocery store she would look as well turned out.

      It seemed to her that Julia was a bit presumptuous in welcoming Lovie as a guest in her own home, but she reasoned that it was only natural for a Southern woman to do anything she could to make everyone feel welcome. In contrast, Toy was being mulish, shuffling her feet and barely muttering a halfhearted hello. Cara knew her well enough now to know that this was a mask for her insecurities.

      Julia did not take offense. Laughing at something Lovie said, she guided them all through the foyer to the veranda. Cara stayed indoors to wander. The house had the look and feel of one of Charleston’s grand historic houses with high ceilings, heavy amounts of wood trim, elaborate fireplaces and glossy heart pine flooring. Yet she found a difference now that was not so much in a change of furnishings as in mood. The stuffy wallpaper she remembered had been replaced by bright and cheerful colors: raspberry red in the dining room, sage green in the front sitting room, cool teal in the study. The heavy brocades and velvets on the windows were now gorgeous silk that seemed to float from the ten-foot ceilings to the floor. The brilliant colors drew attention to the antiques that had been in Cara’s family for generations.

      “You look like you expect to see a ghost to materialize,” Palmer said, bringing her a gin and tonic. He’d changed from his boating clothes to trousers and a silk polo shirt.

      Cara turned her head and broke into a wide grin at seeing him. She gratefully accepted the drink. “You mean Daddy?”

      Palmer’s gaze went to the large painted portrait of Stratton Rutledge prominent over the staircase landing. “He’s still here, floating around. I never could escape the son of a bitch.”

      “You could have.”

      Palmer shook his head and forced a laugh, but his eyes appeared haunted. “I run the company now. I live in his house. I carry the name. Hey, what can I say? I gave up running from my destiny.”

      She looked her brother in the eye. “We each make our destiny.”

      “If you believe that, darlin’, I’ve got some swamp land I’d love to sell you.” He raised his glass for a drink of his bourbon but his eyes gleamed over his drink. Again, she felt the age-old connection they’d shared as children. “It sure is good to see you again,” he said. “You’re as beautiful as ever.” He skipped a beat. “And as tall.”

      At five foot ten, Cara could almost look her brother in the eye. Growing up it had been a sore point between them that, though younger, she was taller than him. Then he hit a delayed growth spurt and beat her, but only by an inch.

      “I’ve still got you beat,” he added.

      “It looks like you’ve beat me in the girth department, too.”

      He patted his belly with jovial pride. “Yes ma’am, marriage does that to a man. Not that you’d know about that.”

      Cara remained unfazed. “I’ve managed to escape so far.”

      “Woman, where’d you get all those crazy ideas? Not in the South, that’s for sure and certain. If you’d stayed here you’d have a strapping husband and a whole slew of babies running around right this minute. Oh, no, look out. Her back is up.”

      “If you only knew the third degree I was getting from Mama. I’m worn out.”

      He chuckled in understanding and swirled his drink. “So, how long are you staying this time?”

      “Don’t know, exactly. Mama wants me to stay longer but, to be honest, I’m getting a little antsy already. There’s nothing for me to do here.”

      “Cara, Cara,” he said shaking his head. “You just can’t wait to leave this paradise and get back to that cold city. I’ll never understand you.” He inclined his head in interest. “You said Mama wrote you a letter?”

      She nodded and took a sip of her drink, turning more serious. “That’s right. Our usual status of a polite truce has worked well enough for us both over the years, but I sense things have changed for her since Daddy died. I like to think she’s missed me. More likely she just wants me to help sort through all the stuff now that he’s gone.”

      Palmer’s face sharpened, barely perceptibly, but enough that she knew she’d hit a tender spot.

      “What kind of sorting?”

      “Again, I don’t know. I imagine all the clutter stored up in the attic, and dividing things up from this house now that she’s living at the beach house. I suppose she wants to sell this house. Hasn’t she talked to you about this?”

      His face clouded and he studied her with a question in his eyes that she couldn’t make out. “No,” he replied slowly. “No, she hasn’t.”

      “I believe she—”

      “So how do you like the place?” he asked, interrupting her and extending his arm toward the living room.

      Cara was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject but she went along with it, concluding that Palmer was upset that he’d not been consulted.

      “The place looks quite different,” she replied, following him into the sunroom. “It looks much, I don’t know…younger. Cheerful, even. The decorator was brilliant.”

      He beamed. “Julia gets all the credit and it’d be real nice if you said something to her about it. She slaved over every detail. And I don’t mind telling you I thought I’d go cross-eyed looking at all the fabric swatches she brought home for curtains or bedspreads or cushions—you name it. And the fringe! You never saw so damn much fringe in all your life.”

      “I’ll tell her. She did a marvelous job.” Then looking at her drink she asked, “And Mama didn’t mind the changes?”

      He looked at her queerly. “Mind? Hell no, why should she mind?”

      “I don’t know. She lived in the house for so long….”

      “No, no, she loves it,” he said with boisterous confidence. “And Julia loves fixing it up. And I don’t care one way or the other, so everybody’s happy. But I don’t figure this traditional stuff is your style. You prefer that modern, spare look, I hear.”

      Cara’s gaze swept the gracious rooms and she wondered if that was still true. “Perhaps,” she replied, then caught his eye and smiled wickedly. “But it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

      “Well, you haven’t changed your mind about Frogmore Stew, I hope. Man, oh, man—I’ve a big pot out back with your name on it. Should just about be ready. Julia!” he called out.

      She poked her head around the corner. “Yes, honey?”

      “Get my sister something to nibble on while I tend to the stew. I’ll be ready to serve in a few minutes.” He turned to face Cara with a wink. “Made it special for you.”

      Cara felt a flush of pleasure that he’d remembered it was her favorite after all and went to join Julia in the kitchen to help serve the feast.

      They sat together in the raspberry-colored dining room while tall white candles glimmered around them and the ornate crystal chandelier glowed like the moon above. They spoke of old times. Or, for the most part, Palmer talked and she sat back and listened to him at the head of the long,