So far away, she thought. “I’d love to. If I’m here next month.”

“Where might you be?”

“Hopefully L.A. Or wherever I get a job.”

He nodded his head but didn’t reply.

“Or I may be here for months,” she tossed into the mix. “I don’t know.”

“I see.” He opened the door but she reached out to grab his arm, stalling him.

“Don’t get out. It’s raining. I’ll just jump out.” She offered a parting smile, but inside, she was cringing. She couldn’t wait to flee the interior of the jeep and the guilt trip she’d just taken. “Thanks again.”

“Bye,” he said, and smiled, but his face appeared crestfallen.

The house felt strangely dark and empty. She heard the tinny voices from a television coming from Mamaw’s room. The kitchen was tidy but the scents of a fish dinner lingered. She looked at the fridge and thoughts of a glass of chilled white wine caused a physical ache in her body. She opened the door and peered inside. It was with a mixture of relief and regret that she saw that Lucille had been true to her word and had scoured the house to dispose of all alcohol. Damn her efficiency. Carson stood in front of the open fridge and just stared in, hungry but not knowing what for. She was beyond tired and her eyes felt gritty; she wondered if she wasn’t coming down with something. She reached for the filtered water and poured herself a glass.

Her sandy heels slapped on the wood floors as she made her way down the narrow hall to the west wing of the house. As she approached the bedrooms she heard soft music and the sound of fingers tapping a keyboard. Peering in, she saw Harper sitting on a twin bed, head bent over a computer. Delighted her sister was home, Carson pushed open the door.

“Harper?” she exclaimed, bursting into the room.

Harper swung her head around and her face lit up with genuine happiness at seeing her sister. “Carson!”

They leaped into each other’s arms, Carson spilling water from her glass. She set the glass on a dresser and they commenced hugging and laughing, then moving to the bed to curl their legs close and bubble over with news.

“How’s the battle of the booze going?” Harper asked.

“Pretty well, actually. Still resisting.”

“Really?” Harper asked, instantly intrigued. “The bet was to give up booze for a week.”

“I know, but I’ve managed to push on. I’m kind of testing my will. I can’t say I still don’t want a glass of wine or a margarita, but I can resist. Good to know.”

“Maybe then you’re not an alcoholic after all?”

“Maybe. And just maybe the slower pace and my general sense of well-being doesn’t demand the alcohol the way my life—and my lifestyle—in L.A. did.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m proud of you. Really. And by the way, you won the bet. I drank my weight in wine dealing with my mother in New York.”

The girls erupted in laughter.

Down the hall, Mamaw heard the commotion and crept on slippered feet from her room toward the west wing. Her hand rested on the wall and she leaned forward, tilting her head so her ear was closer to the noise. Mamaw heard the high-pitched voices rise and fall in conversation, punctuated with laughter. Her face softened as images from the past flitted across her mind. She didn’t mean to pry but she couldn’t help lingering a little while longer. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She wasn’t able to comprehend the words but listened to the cadence of the sweet music of reconciliation and reconnection. Mamaw’s lips curved in a smile of deep satisfaction.

Carson was roused from a restless sleep by the ding of her telephone, signaling that a message had been received. She stirred and reached out to the bedside table to retrieve her phone, blinking to adjust her vision. The text was from Blake.

Dinner tonight?

Carson fell back against her pillow and looked out the plantation shutters to the first gray light of dawn. Of course he’d already be awake . . . She lifted her phone and punched in her reply.

Yes.

“Want to go to Dunleavy’s?” Blake asked later that evening.

Carson winced. “No, let’s not.”

Blake grinned. “How does barbecue sound?”

“I never say no to a good barbecue.”

They were lucky to find a parking space in front of the restaurant. People of all ages overflowed from the restaurants, filling the night with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional piercing laugh.

The Home Team restaurant had tables outside under the awning that were open. Blake hustled to claim one. The waitress was a perky young woman with enormous blue eyes and red hair that made Carson think of Harper. They’d spent hours the night before talking, mixing giggles with tears. Her sister had turned out be a deeply emotional girl. This surprised her. As a woman, Harper struck Carson as the kind of person who preferred to keep her distance. A watcher instead of a player. Her style of dress enhanced that impression. She was as sleek and refined as a Siamese cat. There was almost a tangible chill around her that kept others from invading her space. Other than when she drank, Carson remembered with a smile. Then it was as if she let down her barriers and became a girly girl.

Last night, however, there had been no alcohol. She’d been animated and forthcoming, and funny as hell. Who knew the girl had such a wit? And she was observant. When they talked about their childhood summers together, Harper remembered so many more vivid, telling details than Carson did. She had the memory of a scribe.

The waitress came up and whipped out her pencil and pad. “What would you like to drink?”

“Iced tea,” Carson ordered. “Unsweetened.”

“Make that two,” Blake said. “And we can put in our order, too. Two pulled-pork sandwiches, sides of sweet potato fries, fried tomatoes, coleslaw, and collards. And don’t take all night; this lady’s always starving.”

The waitress laughed and collected their menus.

“Well played,” Carson told him.

The waitress was quick to deliver the drinks, along with a basket of hush puppies.

“On the house,” she told them, taking an extra-long look at Blake.

Carson and Blake reached for the hush puppies simultaneously.

“Oh God,” Carson groaned as she bit into a soft, hot fried ball of corn bread. “I don’t know if these aren’t the best hush puppies I’ve ever eaten.”