At one point he, in his worldliness of two college semesters, got her alone and explained his understanding of her sense of repression. She’d laughed so hard she’d had to set down her upholstery tacks and wipe her eyes.

“Honey,” she’d said, “there’s not a single bone of repression in my entire body. I love color and texture and patterns and flavors. And oh, just all sorts of things. I get to use this house as my studio, my science project, my laboratory, and my showroom. I get to be the director, the designer, the set builder, and the star of the whole show. Now, why would I want to go out and get a job or a career-since we don’t need the money-and have somebody else tell me what to do and when to do it?”

She’d crooked her finger so he leaned down to her. And she’d laid a hand on his cheek. “You’re such a sweetheart, Caleb. You’re going to find out that not everybody wants what society-in whatever its current mood or mode might be-tells them they should want. I consider myself lucky, even privileged, that I was able to make the choice to stay home and raise my children. And I’m lucky to be able to be married to a man who doesn’t mind if I use my talents-and I’m damned talented-to disrupt his quiet home with paint samples and fabric swatches every time he turns around. I’m happy. And I love knowing you worried I might not be.”

He’d come to see she was exactly right. She did just as she liked, and was terrific at what she did. And, he’d come to see that when it came down to the core, she was the power in the house. His father brought in the money, but his mother handled the finances. His father ran his business, his mother ran the home.

And that was exactly the way they liked it.

So he didn’t bother telling her not to fuss over Sunday dinner-just as he hadn’t attempted to talk her out of extending the invitation to Quinn, Layla, and Fox. She lived to fuss, and enjoyed putting on elaborate meals for people, even if she didn’t know them.

Since Fox volunteered to swing into town and pick up the women, Cal went directly to his parents’ house, and went early. It seemed wise to give them some sort of groundwork-and hopefully a few basic tips on how to deal with a woman who intended to write a book on the Hollow, since the town included people, and those people included his family.

Frannie stood at the stove, checking the temperature of her pork tenderloin. Obviously satisfied with that, she crossed to the counter to continue the layers of her famous antipasto squares.

“So, Mom,” Cal began as he opened the refrigerator.

“I’m serving wine with dinner, so don’t go hunting up any beer.”

Chastised, he shut the refrigerator door. “Okay. I just wanted to mention that you shouldn’t forget that Quinn’s writing a book.”

“Have you noticed me forgetting things?”

“No.” The woman forgot nothing, which could be a little daunting. “What I mean is, we should all be aware that things we say and do may end up in a book.”

“Hmm.” Frannie layered pepperoni over provolone. “Do you expect me or your father to say or do something embarrassing over appetizers? Or maybe we’ll wait until dessert. Which is apple pie, by the way.”

“No, I-You made apple pie?”

She spared him a glance, and a knowing smile. “It’s your favorite, isn’t it, my baby?”

“Yeah, but maybe you’ve lost your knack. I should sample a piece before company gets here. Save you any embarrassment if it’s lousy pie.”

“That didn’t work when you were twelve.”

“I know, but you always pounded the whole if-you don’t-succeed chestnut into my head.”

“You just keep trying, sweetie. Now, why are you worried about this girl, who I’m told you’ve been seen out and about with a few times, coming around for dinner?”

“It’s not like that.” He wasn’t sure what it was like. “It’s about why she’s here at all. We can’t forget that, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I never forget. How could I? We have to live our lives, peel potatoes, get the mail, sneeze, buy new shoes, in spite of it all, maybe because of it all.” There was a hint of fierceness in her voice he recognized as sorrow. “And that living includes being able to have a nice company meal on a Sunday.”

“I wish it were different.”

“I know you do, but it’s not.” She kept layering, but her eyes lifted to his. “And, Cal, my handsome boy, you can’t do more than you do. If anything, there are times I wish you could do less. But…Tell me, do you like this girl? Quinn Black?”

“Sure.” Like to get a taste of that top-heavy mouth again, he mused. Then broke off that train of thought quickly since he knew his mother’s skill at reading her children’s minds.

“Then I intend to give her and the others a comfortable evening and an excellent meal. And, Cal, if you didn’t want her here, didn’t want her to speak with me or your dad, you wouldn’t let her in the door. I wouldn’t be able, though my powers are fierce, to shove you aside and open it myself.”

He looked at her. Sometimes when he did, it surprised him that this pretty woman with her short, streaked blond hair, her slim build and creative mind could have given birth to him, could have raised him to be a man. He could look and think she was delicate, and then remember she was almost terrifyingly strong.

“I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

“Back at you, doubled. Now get out of my kitchen. I need to finish up the appetizers.”

He’d have offered to lend her a hand, but would have earned one of her pitying stares. Not that she didn’t allow kitchen help. His father was not only allowed to grill, but encouraged to. And any and all could and were called in as line chefs from time to time.

But when his mother was in full-out company-coming mode, she wanted the kitchen to herself.

He passed through the dining room where, naturally, the table was already set. She’d used festive plates, which meant she wasn’t going for elegant or drop-in casual. Tented linen napkins, tea lights in cobalt rounds, inside a centerpiece of winter berries.

Even during the worst time, even during the Seven, he could come here and there would be fresh flowers artfully arranged, furniture free of dust and gleaming with polish, and intriguing little soaps in the dish in the downstairs powder room.

Even hell didn’t cause Frannie Hawkins to break stride.

Maybe, Cal thought as he wandered into the living room, that was part of the reason-even the most important reason-he got through it himself. Because whatever else happened, his mother would be maintaining her own brand of order and sanity.

Just as his father would be. They’d given him that, Cal thought. That rock-solid foundation. Nothing, not even a demon from hell had ever shaken it.

He started to go upstairs, hunt down his father who, he suspected, would be in his home office. But saw Fox’s truck pull in when he glanced out the window.

He stood where he was, watched Quinn jump out first, cradling a bouquet wrapped in green florist paper. Layla slid out next, holding what looked to be a wine gift bag. His mother, Cal thought, would approve of the offerings. She herself had shelves and bins in her ruthlessly organized workroom that held carefully selected emergency hostess gifts, gift bags, colored tissue paper, and an assortment of bows and ribbons.

When Cal opened the door, Quinn strode straight in. “Hi. I love the house and the yard! Shows where you came by your eye for landscaping. What a great space. Layla, look at these walls. Like an Italian villa.”

“It’s their latest incarnation,” Cal commented.

“It looks like home, but with a kick of style. Like you could curl up on that fabulous sofa and take a snooze, but you’d probably read Southern Homes first.”

“Thank you.” Frannie stepped out. “That’s a lovely compliment. Cal, take everyone’s coats, will you? I’m Frannie Hawkins.”

“It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Quinn. Thanks so much for having us. I hope you like mixed bouquets. I have a hard time deciding on one type of mostly anything.”