Fall From Grace. KRISTI GOLD

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      Weary of the hypocrisy, Delia slid her chair from beneath the table and dismissed herself with a polite smile aimed at the dozen or so Pink Ladies, who regarded her with mild shock. Delia Cooper was never late to a luncheon, and she never left a meeting in the middle of a speaker’s address. Today she had done both.

      Let them think what they would about her departure, be it due to incontinence or the apocalypse; Delia didn’t care. She had to get out of here fast before she gave in to the urge to grab a berry and lob it at the administrator’s forehead the next time he mentioned commitment. But she was the consummate Southern lady, or had been since she’d crossed over into the realm of acceptable society from her youthful beginnings as a free spirit. That Delia of nearly forty years ago would not have hesitated to hurl a fruity missile at the speaker. Today that Delia no longer existed, at least superficially.

      She slipped soundlessly from the room until she reached the double doors that creaked open like worn-out joints in winter. The doors closed behind her, but that did little to shut out Crabtree’s booming oration. She made her way to the windows immediately across the hall and looked out over the crowded parking lot. Arms folded beneath her breasts, she shivered despite the fact that the temperature inside was comfortable enough. Outside was another story. The downpour that had begun early that morning hadn’t let up, fueling her gray mood. She felt restless, disturbed on a soul-deep level, as if something ominous was about to happen. Her mother had labeled the intuition a gift. Delia considered it a curse.

      Right now she wanted to be someplace balmy, kicked back on a sun-warmed beach, with a gimlet in one hand and a cigarette in the other—something she hadn’t craved in at least three decades. No use wishing for what could never be. She was locked into a life of her own making, a comfortable life that included good friends and, most important, her only child and grandchild. A life that was safe, secure, necessary—and totally uneventful. Except for Anne’s divorce.

      If only Delia had been able to prevent it. If only she could somehow have convinced her daughter that she was making a terrible mistake. From the first time she’d seen Anne and Jack interacting on a day much like today, she’d known they were destined to be together, even if she had been the only one who’d acknowledged it at the time.

      

      “He’s good for her, Bryce.”

      As always, Delia had to wait an interminable amount of time for her husband to comment. Profile to her, Bryce continued to stare out the front window, a glass of Scotch in his hand, worry etched on his still-handsome face. A face Delia had enjoyed waking up with for much of her adult life, even though the demands of his career had infringed on a good many of their mornings.

      Following a long sip, he finally said, “He doesn’t have the sense to bring her in out of the rain, for God’s sake.”

      Delia moved to his side and slid her arm around his waist. Jack and Anne were still playing a game of football in the front yard, soaked from head to toe from the downpour that had ruined the Sunday barbecue, and not seeming to mind at all. “They’re young, Bryce. And in love.”

      “He told me they’re just friends, so get your head out of the romantic clouds.”

      “Friendship is a wonderful place to start,” she said. “We started as friends.”

      “I’m still not sure he’s good enough for her.”

      “You said yourself he’s gifted. ‘Destined for greatness’ is how you put it. Maybe your standards are just a tad high?”

      “But that’s the problem, Dee. Anne’s always resented my absence from her life. She’s not going to settle for anything less than all his time, and that’s not possible. Not if he’s going to be all he’s meant to be.”

      “I managed fine, dear heart. Anne will, too. She’s tough. And I suspect she’ll learn that some sacrifices are simply worth it.”

      Bryce draped an arm around her shoulder. “She’s her mother’s daughter.”

      “She’s your daughter, honey. Headstrong. Determined. She knows her heart, so we’re going to have to trust her. And if she’s lucky, she’ll have what we have.”

      He shifted to face her and braced his palms on her shoulders, even deeper disquiet showing in his expression. “If anything happened to me, would you find someone else?”

      “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

      “But if it does, you should find someone else,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to be alone. I’m serious about this, Dee.”

      Delia didn’t care to consider a life without her husband. “If, God forbid, I do outlive you, I can’t imagine finding anyone who’d have such a dearth of sense that he’d be willing to put up with me.”

      He smiled the smile that Delia had come to know so well, had come to cherish as much as she cherished him. She wished for Anne the blessings of that kind of a smile, the contentment of recognizing where you belonged and who you belonged with, the love of a good man. Anne deserved Jack’s love. They deserved each other. And regardless of what the future might hold, Delia realized that she herself would never find anyone to replace her husband—

      “You look real nice in pink.”

      Startled, Delia turned her attention from the window and the memory to the voice and its owner, who was standing a few feet away. With a full head of silver hair and first-class features, the man might have been labeled debonair had it not been for his tie resting loose and askew against his burgundy shirt. His navy suit was neat and nicely pressed, but definitely not Armani. More like outlet. She would guess him to be mid-fifties, and he appeared rather tall, but compared with Delia, everyone was.

      Once Delia had established that he was in fact speaking to her, she sent him a tentative smile and told him, “Thank you,” when she dearly wanted to mention that about thirty other women in the adjacent room were dressed in the same color smock. But good grace dictated she be kind. Besides, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had paid her a compliment.

      He forked a hand through his hair and returned her smile. “Hope you didn’t take offense at what I said.” His voice reflected the drawl many native Texans favored, a throwback to when Dallas hadn’t been such a cultural melting pot.

      “No offense taken, Mr.—?”

      “Gabe Burks.”

      Delia lightly clasped the hand that he offered for a shake. It felt warm and dry, slightly calloused but pleasantly masculine. “I’m Mrs. Delia Cooper, Mr. Burks.”

      “It’s just ‘Gabe,’ Delia.”

      Had she been alive, Delia’s mother would have lectured the stranger for calling a lady by her first name without so much as an invitation. Delia found it refreshing.

      “So you’re married, huh?” Gabe asked.

      “Actually, I’m widowed.”

      His expression brightened. “Yeah? Me, too. How long?”

      “Almost eight years.”

      “Three for me. Cancer?”

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