Seeing the improvements was bittersweet. She’d always dreamed of restoring the house—a new coat of paint, some cheery wallpaper, new fabric for the furniture, even flashy new appliances. She had manila folders overflowing with clippings from magazines. But Cal had told her there was no money to update the plumbing or appliances. Now, at last, the work she’d begged Cal for years to get done was finally under way—and she wouldn’t get to enjoy any of it.

The lawyers had made it clear the house was to be sold as soon as possible. She had to pack up and move.

Dora suddenly felt as if the hot and humid house were closing in on her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She stripped off the constricting suit jacket, then rushed from kitchen to dining room to living room opening windows, since only a few windows in the kitchen had been cracked open. The wood was swollen with the humidity, but an inner rage that had been building in her chest while she’d sat helplessly in the lawyer’s office fueled her strength. Dora groaned, sweat, and swore, pounding the window frames with the palm of her hand until, at last, the stubborn windows yielded. She opened every last one of them wide.

She stood for a moment breathing in the fresh air, letting her heart rate slow. Turning, she surveyed the mayhem of her house. The afternoon at the lawyer’s had shaken her. She felt rather like this old house, she thought, leaning against the wall. Beneath her ever-present smile, she was crumbling.

Dora had been raised to believe if she followed the rules of behavior for a Southern belle—a well-brought-up Southern woman, especially one with a pedigree—she could expect the fairy tale. Her life would be a smooth continuation of the one her mother had led, and her mother before her. These rules were not written but passed down by example and reprimand from mother to daughter to granddaughter, from generation to generation.

So Dora had lived by the rules. She’d been a good girl. She went to cotillion, dutifully wrote thank-you notes, debuted in white at the St. Cecilia ball, and married an upstanding man from a fine Southern family. As a bride she supported her husband’s career and volunteered in her community and church. And, after years of trying, she’d at last produced a son. Dora had believed the perfect life was spread before her for the taking.

Such a fool, she cursed herself, her hands covering her face. All her expectations were nothing more than illusions. And the supposed rules . . . She dropped her hands with a grimace. What a farce! Was she supposed to write a thank-you note to Cal for the pittance he’d offered?

She gazed at the collection of antiques clustered under plastic in the living room. Yes, this house might be falling down around her ears. And yes, the furniture needed reupholstering. But this furniture, her china and silver—these were all treasured objects that held deep significance. They represented a continuance of family from one generation to the next. Why should she give them up now, when she needed them the most?

And besides, she wasn’t the one ending the marriage in the first place!

Emotional, my ass, she thought as she angrily walked to the kitchen. She grabbed the bag of takeout chicken she’d brought home and tore it open. The steamy, greasy deliciousness wafted into the air and made her mouth water. A wave of guilt swept over her as she pulled out a fried drumstick. Harper and Carson would have a fit if they saw her eating this. Dora shook the vision of their scolding faces from her head. Let them be angry. And damn the diet and her figure. She deserved a treat tonight. Closing her eyes, she bit into the high-calorie food and swallowed hard. Taking another bite, she didn’t enjoy the taste. Dora knew the food might fill her up for now, but it wouldn’t touch the real hunger gnawing inside of her.

She was only a few bites into her meal when the doorbell rang. Dora swung her head toward the front door and debated whether to answer it. With a yearning look at the side of mac and cheese, she put the drumstick on her plate with a resigned sigh. Dora never was one to let a doorbell or phone go unanswered. Dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin, she hurried to the door.

The last person she expected to see was Cal.

Dora’s heart immediately commenced pounding and her hand unconsciously went to her hair. Cal had removed the bow tie and seersucker jacket he’d worn at the lawyer’s office. He stood in a relaxed pose in a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a bottle of wine in his hand and a sheepish half smile on his face.

“Cal! What on earth are you doing here?”

“I just thought I’d stop by. See how you were doing. After today, well . . . I thought we could talk a bit,” he said, hoisting the wine bottle as a peace offering.

Dora surveyed him coolly, despite her still-jackhammering heart. “You don’t think we talked enough this morning?”

Cal shook his head. “The lawyers did all the talking today. I thought maybe we deserved a chance, too.”

Dora could hardly believe her ears. Could she have misread him? She remained hesitant, her hand clenching the door handle.

“I don’t know if we should talk without our lawyers present,” she hedged.

“That’s what they tell us, while they charge us by the hour to let them do the talking for us. Dora, we both know it was plain ugly today.”

Dora only nodded.

“For all the ups and downs,” Cal continued, “we’ve always tried to be fair and sensible. Why stop now? Let’s you and me try to cut through the chaff and reach a meeting of the minds.” He laughed in a self-deprecating manner. “And save thousands of dollars in fees in the process. Besides,” he added, his smile slowly widening, “it’s been a long time since we talked.” When she still didn’t respond he added, “At least we can try. What do you say?”

Dora looked long and hard at her husband. Calhoun Tupper wasn’t a handsome man when she’d married him, but his once gawky appearance was aging well. Some men were lucky that way. His undeniable Southern charm was what had first caught her fancy. And he was working that charm now.

“I can’t help but wonder where we’d be now if you’d made that offer a year ago,” she said in a softer voice. “Even six months ago, instead of walking out this door.”

Cal had the grace to appear shamefaced. “Maybe you’re right.”

Dora studied the man standing before her. He appeared to be offering an olive branch and she wished she could believe him. He was still her husband, the father of her child. He was saying all the right words. But she’d been served a dish of humble pie at the lawyer’s office that was hard to swallow. Now her practical nature reared up and she kept up her guard. She swung wide the door and coolly ushered him into her house. Their house, she amended—at least until the judge deemed otherwise.