Tangled Memories. Marta Perry

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      By the time she’d finished breakfast the next morning, Corrie had decided on her course of action. There was nothing useful she could do. Accusing anyone would only lead to a fruitless quarrel.

      She walked out into the garden, relieved that the air seemed to have cleared a bit. A faint breeze rustled the palmettos and sent a shower of withered magnolia blossoms down on her.

      Who had it been? Lucas? He could have seen her linger in the garden and taken the opportunity, although he couldn’t have known how quickly she might have gone into the house. Deidre or Ainsley? They’d both come to dinner well after she’d arrived. That would have given them time. Even Eulalie could have done it, although she had trouble imagining Eulalie rushing out the front door as she went out the back.

      It didn’t really matter. The notes that had been taken proved nothing, except that she had been briefed before she arrived in Savannah. She couldn’t even imagine what that unknown someone expected to prove by taking them.

      She rounded a bend in the path and found herself face-to-face with Ainsley. He looked up, startled, hand arrested on a sketch pad.

      “C-Corrie. Good morning.” The shy stammer was charming, as was the faint flush that rose under his tan at the sight of her. But she hadn’t forgotten his incisive voice on the phone.

      “Good morning.” She moved a little closer, hoping for a glance at the sketch. “What are you drawing?”

      “Nothing.” He slapped the pad closed and planted his hands on top of it.

      “Someone mentioned that you’re very artistic. I’d love to see your work sometime.”

      “It’s nothing but a hobby.” His tone was just short of rude, and he shot off the bench where he’d been sitting. “I have to get to work.”

      He darted off as if she’d been chasing him, disappearing into the shrubbery. She didn’t have a chance to point out that since today was Saturday, it was unlikely he had to go to work.

      “Corrie.” She turned at the sound of her name, to find Lydia standing near the fountain, waving. “I didn’t expect to find you out this early. Would you care to come and see my house?”

      Her house. Well, Lydia had a right to think of it that way. It hadn’t been Gracie and Trey’s house in a long time.

      “Thanks.” She crossed the garden quickly. “I’d like to.”

      There were faint shadows under Lydia’s eyes, as if she hadn’t had a restful night, and the lines in her face were more pronounced in the sunlight, but she still moved as lightly as a girl.

      “Come in. I was taking my morning look at the garden.”

      “I can see why you’d want to. It’s beautiful.” Corrie followed her through the garden-level door. Inside, the space that was a sort of family room in Baxter’s house was an efficient-looking office here.

      “My work area.” Lydia waved dismissively at a computer station and filing cabinets. “I’m on far too many boards and committees not to stay organized.”

      Corrie stopped at a cabinet filled with trophies—sailing, riding, shooting, tennis—apparently whatever Lydia did, she did well. “You’re obviously quite a sportswoman.”

      “Don’t believe that image of Southern women as belles who languish on the veranda, drinking mint juleps.”

      “I’m learning not to, but I have to confess, until I came here, I didn’t know anything about Savannah except the clichés.”

      “You’ll learn. Although I don’t suppose you’ll be here that long.” She was already heading up the stairs, so apparently the comment didn’t require an answer.

      Corrie followed, wondering where Lydia stood in all this. She could be a disinterested party. Lucas had called her a family friend, but which member of the family had her loyalty?

      “Did you know Trey very well?” she asked as they came out into the center hallway—smaller than the one in Baxter’s house, but beautifully proportioned.

      “My dear, Trey and I were close from the diaper stage on.” Lydia smiled, but her mind seemed focused elsewhere. “Our mothers were best friends. Supposedly Trey kissed me in the sandbox at age two, and I boxed his ears.”

      “You must have been surprised when he married so suddenly.”

      Lydia considered, her head tilted to one side. “Not surprised that he rebelled against his father, no. Just a bit surprised that his rebellion took that form.”

      Corrie blinked. “My aunt said—” She stopped, not sure she wanted to repeat what Aunt Ella had said—that Trey had taken one look at Gracie and fallen head over heels in love.

      “There he is.” Lydia nodded to the wall above the staircase, and Corrie realized she meant the portrait that hung there. “Trey Manning, painted on his eighteenth birthday.”

      This wasn’t the laughing, jeans-clad figure of her faded photograph. This was a golden boy, someone who had the world in the palm of his hand and the confidence that went with it. He stood erect, hand placed carelessly on the back of a chair, staring at the artist with something she could only call arrogance. She thought she preferred the photo.

      She had to say something. “I’m surprised it’s here, rather than in Baxter’s house.”

      Lydia was turned toward the portrait, so Corrie couldn’t see her face. “It very nearly wasn’t anywhere. Baxter told Mrs. Andrews to burn it.”

      “Burn it!” How could any father want to burn his son’s portrait? “Why?”

      “Anger. Sheer, unadulterated anger at Trey for disappointing him. Luckily Mrs. Andrews had sense enough to tell Eulalie, who came to me. I rescued it. I thought someday he’d want it back, but he never has.”