“Yeah, but that’s easy.”

Winnie fished a piece of eggshell from the bowl, a distant expression on her face. “Gigi would say that I gave up my power.”

“You’re doing one heck of a job getting it back.”

Winnie smiled. “Ryan asked me out to dinner tonight.”

“Just because a boy buys you a steak doesn’t mean you have to put out for him.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Gordon began to bark as Gigi arrived. This time she wore jeans and an Ole Miss T-shirt. “Dad’s really mad at Sugar Beth again. He didn’t want me to come down here. What’d you do?”

“Come see what I’ve got in the salad,” Winnie said before Sugar Beth could reply.

Gigi patted Gordon, who was worshiping at her feet, then walked over to examine the salad. “Orzo! That’s so cool. And avocado. Don’t put any chicken in, okay.” She plucked out a piece of tomato with dog-slobber fingers and nearly gave Winnie apoplexy.

Sugar Beth rinsed out her coffee mug. “I’ll leave the two of you to your own devices.”

“Don’t go,” Gigi said.

“I have things to do.” She was trying to give them some time alone together, but Winnie got her snippy look.

“Now you can see exactly how inconsiderate your aunt really is, Gigi. I’ve made a nice lunch for us, but does she care? No, she doesn’t.”

Sugar Beth didn’t want Winnie to guess how good it felt to be included. “Okay, but I’m going to switch plates at the last minute, so don’t try any funny stuff with food poisoning.”

“You guys act so weird.”

Ten minutes later they were settled at the drop-leaf cherry table in the living room with the salad, rolls, and Tallulah’s pressed-glass tumblers filled with sweet tea.

“Did you decide what you’re going to wear on your date tonight?” Gigi asked her mother.

“It’s not a date. Your father and I are having dinner together, that’s all.”

“I think you should borrow something from Sugar Beth.”

“I’m not meeting your father in Sugar Beth’s clothes!”

“Just a blouse or something. He won’t know. Hers are sexier than yours.”

“Good idea,” Sugar Beth said. “I’ll trade you a slinky little number I bought at Target last winter for that Neiman’s cashmere sweater set I saw you in last week.”

“She’s trying to get you upset again, Mom.”

Sugar Beth hid a smile. “If you keep spoiling my fun, kid, you’re out of here.”

Gigi leaned closer. “He’s picking her up at seven. Do her makeup, Sugar Beth.”

“I’ll do my own makeup,” Winnie retorted.

“Sugar Beth does better eyes.”

“That’s true. I do know my eyes.” She gazed at Gigi. “Hair, too. What do you say I even up your new do a little?”

“I guess.”

Their conversation moved on to other things, and without planning it, Sugar Beth found herself telling them about Delilah, leaving out only the financial troubles her stepdaughter was causing.

Gigi wrinkled her nose. “It’s sort of gross, isn’t it? Having a stepdaughter that old?”

Winnie smiled and touched the back of her daughter’s hand. “Love’s a strange thing, Gigi. You never quite know exactly when it’s going to hit or how hard it’ll strike.”

On this, at least, Sugar Beth and her evil half sister were in total agreement.

Colin sat with his back to the wall of the lobby bar of the Peabody Memphis Hotel, trying to stave off his guilt by going about the business of getting seriously drunk. Southerners said that the Mississippi delta began in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, but the place was best known for its ducks. For more than seventy-five years, a small group of mallards had marched along a red carpet at eleven o’clock every morning to the sound of Sousa’s “King Cotton March” and spent the day splashing in the lobby’s travertine marble fountain. But it was evening now. The ducks had retired for the night, and the subdued lighting cast a sepia glow over the grandeur of the Italian Renaissance lobby with its marble floors, stained glass ceiling, and elegant, Old World furnishings. Driving sixty-five miles for the sole purpose of getting drunk wasn’t something he’d normally do, but he’d always loved the Peabody, and after he’d spent a frustrating afternoon laying stone instead of writing, this had seemed as good a destination as any, so he’d packed an overnight bag and left Frenchman’s Bride behind.

“Colin?”

He’d been so preoccupied with his self-loathing that he hadn’t noticed the attractive redhead approaching. Carolyn Bradmond was one of those high-powered, low-maintenance women whose company he should most enjoy. She was intelligent, sophisticated, and too involved in her career to be emotionally demanding. Colin Byrne’s ideal woman . . . So why hadn’t she crossed his mind since he’d last seen her five months ago?

He rose to greet her. “Hello, Carolyn. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better. How’s the new book coming along?”

It was one of the two questions people most frequently asked writers, and if he invited her to join him, it wouldn’t take her long to get around to the other one. “I’ve always wanted to know, Colin. Where do you authors get your ideas?”

We steal them.

From extraterrestrials.

There’s a warehouse outside Tulsa . . .

He had no energy for such a conversation, so he stayed on his feet and chatted with her until she took the hint and left. As the pianist at the bar’s baby grand switched to Gershwin, he finished his third whiskey and ordered a fourth. Before Sugar Beth had come banging on his front door, he’d taken pride in the way he’d confined his romantic inclinations to the printed page. But how did a man distance himself from a woman like her?

He couldn’t let her leave Parrish. Not yet. Not until they’d had a chance to work through this bloody train wreck of a relationship. They needed time, but she didn’t want to give it to them. Instead, she’d made up her mind to run as soon as she got the chance. And it was wrong.

He remembered her wistful expression as she’d gazed around at the depot and talked about making it into a children’s bookstore. She belonged in Parrish. She was part of this town. Part of him.

His guilt settled in deeper. The pianist abandoned Gershwin for Hoagy Carmichael. Colin finished his drink, but the alcohol didn’t offer the absolution he craved.

Today, he’d found Sugar Beth’s painting, and he hadn’t said a word.

Ryan had never been more attentive. He asked Winnie a dozen questions about the shop and seemed genuinely interested in her responses. He complimented her on her hair, on her posture, on her jewelry, on her teeth, for goodness’ sakes. He didn’t compliment her on her clothes, which interested her, since she was wearing Sugar Beth’s trashy black stretch lace crisscross top and a midnight blue skirt that—in a moment of madness—she’d chopped off and hemmed to midthigh. There was a certain novelty in looking like a hooker, but she didn’t necessarily want to look like this again, and she was glad he seemed just the slightest bit displeased with her plunging neckline and short skirt.

Considering his attentiveness, she should probably have been happier with the evening, but she wasn’t, because the elephant still sat at the table between them, that beast created by her deceit and his resentment. Ryan ignored the animal, acting as if the angry, pent-up words he’d assaulted her with last week at the shop had never been spoken. And she was tired of always being their emotional archaeologist, so she didn’t bring it up.

“Are your scallops good?” he asked.

“Delicious.”

After what he’d said to Sugar Beth last night, she wanted emotion from him, passion, but he chatted with the waiter, waved to Bob Vorhees across the room, remarked on the wine, and talked to her about everything that didn’t matter. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be struck by any of those stunning little volts of sexual electricity that had begun plaguing her at the most unexpected times—when she heard his voice on the phone or caught sight of him behind the wheel of his car, or at church this morning when his arm had brushed hers during the doxology. And what should she make of that shocking, limb-melting rush of desire that had overcome her last night when he’d rejected Sugar Beth’s enticement?