Keep your temper, Agnes.

“What’s he still doing here?” Taylor said, jerking his head toward the dock, and she looked back out to where Shane was silhouetted against the last of the sun.

He looked wonderful out there, although it was a little disconcerting that he held his business meetings on her dock at night. Kind of made her wonder what kind of business he was in.

“I don’t like it that he’s living here,” Taylor said.

I do.

“I mean it, Agnes,” Taylor said. “He has to go.”

“He brought me an air conditioner. He can stay forever as far as I’m concerned.” Not to mention he just saved me from another damn dognapper. Agnes turned her back on the window and looked at Taylor in the dim light of the kitchen. He seemed indistinct, fuzzy, and not just because the light was dim. She flipped on the overhead light, and he still seemed not quite there, a little too blond, a little too round at the corners.

Maybe it was because Shane had such sharp edges.

“Well, if you’ve got him out here, I don’t see why you needed me,” Taylor said.

“We need to talk,” Agnes said, trying to decide whether to break the engagement and then tell him that Brenda was swindling them, or tell him she thought they were being conned and then dump him.

“Not now,” Taylor said, opening the flaps on the box. “I’m in a hurry. Look at this.” He pulled out a plate.

Agnes pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and came around the counter to squint at it. It was a plain white plate, cheap pottery with a thin glaze, nothing to make a snob like Taylor get excited. “So?”

“Aren’t they the greatest?”

Agnes looked at him in disbelief. “Taylor, you wouldn’t feed Rhett off this plate. Are you telling me this is what you want to use for the catering here?”

“God, no,” Taylor said, and then recovered. “I thought you could use this as the china for the wedding. Save some money.”

Agnes took it. “It’s not china at all; it’s pottery.” She turned it over. “Incredibly cheap pottery. I can’t believe you’re not spitting on this.”

“I told you, it’s for the wedding.”

“No.” She handed it back. “It’s not. Take it back. Listen, we have a problem.”

He looked floored. “I can’t take it back. Agnes, you’ll save a fortune. Look at it again. Look at the bowls.” He pushed the box toward her. “They’re a nice shape and…”

He kept talking, and Agnes tuned him out and looked in the box and saw the receipt stuck down the side. She reached in and pulled it out to see just how cheap this junk was. If it was more than $ 1.98 for the whole damn box, he’d been ripped off good.

She unfolded the paper and saw scrawled at the bottom of the Visa slip a signature: Brenda Dupres.

“Brenda sent you out here with this,” she said as her throat closed. “What’s going on? Why are you working with Brenda? What is this?”

“Uh,” Taylor said.

Agnes felt herself flush, heat rising with her temper. There was a plan here, Lisa Livia had been right-Brenda was up to something- except that LL had missed that Taylor was part of it and this horrible thin, ugly pottery with a cheap thin grainy glaze was part of it, she was supposed to use this horrible junk instead of the lush creamy china Maria deserved, and Brenda would have made sure somehow that Evie found out, Brenda had asked about the china that morning, and then Brenda would have looked at Evie and said, “The country club has beautiful china…”

Brenda was trying to swindle her out of Two Rivers and Taylor was helping her. Agnes put her hand on the table, furious that he’d lied to her-

Steady, Agnes.

– incredulous that he could be that fucking stupid. “Agnes?”

Agnes took a deep breath, controlling her anger with everything she had.

What was he getting out of it? He was going to lose the house, too, the dimwit. What had Brenda promised him? “Agnes, what’s wrong?”

You fucking moronic lying bastard, you sold us both out. Angry language makes us angrier, Agnes.

Agnes took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “You sold us out to Brenda.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Taylor said, his eyes shifting left.

“You lie.”

Taylor took a step back. “Agnes!”

Physical exercise is often a good way of defusing anger, Agnes, just walk away now.

Agnes gritted her teeth. “I don’t know what promises Brenda made you, you treacherous idiot, but if I lose this house, you lose this house.”

Taylor drew himself up. “There’s no need for insults, Agnes.” Running, Agnes, weight lifting, swimming…

“There’s every need, you dumbass. You’re screwing both of us and you don’t seem to see that!” Bowling, assault, battery…

“Agnes!” He shook his head. “You’re really out of line. Last night, trying to break off our engagement, and now accusing me of betraying you…”

Defenestration, castration…

“I have to tell you, Agnes, I’m not pleased.”

“Shot put,” Agnes snapped, and shoved the hall door open with her shoulder and picked up the plate and slung it into the hall, where it smashed beautifully on the black-and-white-tiled floor.

Shane placed the pistol next to him on the wooden bench and tried to relax, but the sound of breaking dishes back in the house had him on edge. That, plus he knew he was a conspicuous target sitting in the moonlight on the fixed high dock at the end of the wooden walkway, just above the metal gangplank leading down to the floating dock.

A sniper with a thermal or night-vision scope could nail me without breaking a sweat, Shane thought. He glanced back toward Two Rivers as he heard another crash, but he could see the lights glowing in the kitchen windows and Agnes looking just fine through the back door as she threw things into the hall and yelled at that idiot Taylor, and he realized he’d rather be out here chancing a sniper than in there chancing Cranky Agnes in a rage.

Shane turned back toward the water as the darkened silhouette of a boat painted flat black skirted the near bank of the Blood River, a hulking figure behind the center console, a smaller figure sitting erect to the right rear. Shane stood, sliding his pistol into the holster, and walked down the metal gangplank to the floating dock.

He grabbed the line the driver threw him and quickly tied the jet boat off. It was low to the water and when the engine was cut, the sounds of the low country descended once more.

“Carpenter,” Shane acknowledged the driver.

“Shane.” The tall black man dressed in a one-piece camouflage flight suit looked around and smiled. “Nice digs.”

The sound of more china shattering came floating through the night, and Carpenter’s smile disappeared. “Trouble?”

“Not mine.”

Wilson, dressed as always in a well-cut gray suit, climbed up on the floating dock, said “Good evening, Mister Shane,” walked up the gangplank to the high dock, and took a seat, and Shane followed him.

Wilson had a Boston accent, enriched in some Ivy League school and fostered among the good old boy network of the World War II hotshots from the Office of Strategic Services, of which he was just about the last one standing. Shane knew he was in his early eighties, but the man was as spry as someone twenty years younger, and despite the evening’s heat, there wasn’t a drop of sweat on the slightly wrinkled skin on his forehead.

“I’m considering retirement,” Wilson said.

Shane blinked at the unexpected opening.

“I must consider who my replacement would be. My position has special requirements. An absolute devotion to duty without any personal considerations is one of them.”

“That goes without saying,” Shane said.

“You made personal considerations a priority last night This makes me question my inclination to make you my successor.”