But she couldn’t be seen to be involved. And she couldn’t trust anyone except Colleton. He had to agree to take the job, she had to make him agree. She put her small hand on his arm. It looked very delicate in its tight kid glove. “Mr. Colleton, it’ll break my heart if you say no to me. I need somebody very special to help me.” She looked at him with appealing helplessness in her eyes. Too bad he wasn’t taller. It was hard to be a frail little lady with somebody your own size. Still, it was often these banty rooster little men who were most protective of women. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you turn me down.”

Colleton’s arm stiffened. “Mrs. Butler, you sold me green lumber once, after you told me it was cured. I don’t do business twice with somebody that cheats me once.”

“That must have been a mistake, Mr. Colleton. I was green myself, just learning the lumber business. You remember how it was those days. The Yankees were breathing down our necks every waking minute. I was scared to death all the time.” Her eyes swam in unshed tears, and her very lightly rouged lips trembled. She was a small forlorn figure. “My husband, Mr. Kennedy, was killed when the Yankees broke up a Klan meeting.”

Colleton’s direct, knowing gaze was disconcerting. His eyes were on a level with hers, and they were as hard as marble. Scarlett took her hand off his sleeve. What was she going to do? She couldn’t fail, not in this. He had to take the job. “I made a deathbed promise to my dearest friend, Mr. Colleton.” Her tears were unplanned now. “Mrs. Wilkes asked me to help, and now I’m asking you.” The whole story tumbled out—how Melanie had always sheltered Ashley . . . Ashley’s ineptness as a businessman . . . his attempt to bury himself with his wife . . . the stacks of unsold lumber . . . the need for secrecy . . .

Colleton held up his hand to stop her. “All right, Mrs. Butler. If it’s for Mrs. Wilkes, I’ll take the job.” His hand dropped, extended. “I’ll shake on it, you’ll get the best-built houses with the best materials in them.”

Scarlett put her hand in his. “Thank you,” she said. She felt as if she’d scored the triumph of her life.

It was only some hours later that she remembered that she hadn’t intended to use the best of everything, only the best lumber. The miserable houses were going to cost her a fortune, and out of her own hard-earned money, too. She wouldn’t get any credit for helping Ashley, either. Everybody would still slam their doors in her face.

Not really everybody. I’ve got plenty of my own friends, and they’re a lot more fun than those frumpy old Atlanta people.

Scarlett put aside the sketch Joe Colleton had made on a paper sack for her to study and approve. She’d be a lot more interested when he gave her the numbers for his estimate; what difference did it make what the houses looked like or where he put the stairs?

She took her velvet-covered visiting book from a drawer and again to make a list. She was going to give a party. A big one, with musicians and rivers of champagne and huge amounts of the best, most expensive food. Now that she was done with deep mourning, it was time to let her friends know that she could be invited to their parties, and the best way to do it was to invite them to a party of her own.

Her eye skimmed quickly past the names of Atlanta’s old families. They all think I should be in deep mourning for Melly, no sense asking them. And there’s no need to wrap myself in crape, either. She wasn’t my sister, only my sister-in-law, and I’m not even sure that counts since Charles Hamilton was my first husband and there’ve been two since him.

Scarlett’s shoulders slumped. Charles Hamilton had nothing to do with anything, nor did wearing crape. She was in the truest kind of mourning for Melanie; it was a perpetual weight and worry in her heart. She missed the gentle, loving friend who had been so much more important to her than she had ever realized; the world was colder and darker without Melanie. And so lonely. Scarlett had been back from the country for only two days, but she had known enough loneliness in the two nights to strike fear deep into her heart.

She could have told Melanie about Rhett leaving; Melanie was the only person she could ever confide in about such a disgraceful thing. Melly would have told her what she needed to hear, too. “Of course he’ll be back,” she would have said, “he loves you so.” Those were her very words, right before she died. “Be kind to Captain Butler, he loves you so.”

Just the thought of Melanie’s words made Scarlett feel better. If Melly said that Rhett loved her, then he did, it wasn’t only her own wishful thinking. Scarlett shook off her gloominess, straightened her spine. She didn’t have to be lonely at all. And it didn’t matter if Atlanta’s Old Guard never spoke to her again ever. She had plenty of friends. Why, the party list was already two pages long, and she was only up to letter L in her book.

The friends Scarlett was planning to entertain were the most flamboyant and most successful of the horde of scavengers that had descended on Georgia in the days of the Reconstruction government. Many of the original group had left when the government was ousted in 1871, but a large number stayed, to enjoy their big houses and the tremendous fortunes they had made picking the bones of the dead Confederacy. They had no temptation to go “home.” Their origins were better forgotten.

Rhett had always despised them. He dubbed them “the dregs” and left the house when Scarlett gave her lavish parties. Scarlett thought he was silly, and told him so. “Rich people are ever so much more fun than poor people. Their clothes and carriages and jewels are better, and they give you better things to eat and drink when you go to their houses.”

But nothing at the houses of any of her friends was nearly as elegant as the refreshments at Scarlett’s parties. This one, she was determined, would be the best reception of all. She started a second list headed “Things to Remember” with a note to order ice swans for the cold foods and ten new cases of champagne. A new gown, too. She’d have to go to her dressmaker’s place immediately after she left the order for the invitations at the engraver’s.


Scarlett tilted her head to admire the crisp white ruffles of the Mary Stuart style cap. The point on the forehead was really very becoming. It emphasized the black arch of her eyebrows and the shining green of her eyes. Her hair looked like black silk where it tumbled in curls on each side of the ruffles. Who would ever have thought that mourning garb could be so flattering?

She turned from side to side, looking over her shoulders at her reflection in the pier glass. The jet bead trim and tassels on her black gown glittered in a very satisfactory way.

“Ordinary” mourning wasn’t awful like deep mourning, there was plenty of leeway in it if you had magnolia-white skin to show in a low-cut black gown.

She walked quickly to her dressing table and touched her shoulders and throat with perfume. She’d better hurry, her guests would be arriving any minute. She could hear the musicians tuning up downstairs. Her eyes feasted on the disorderly pile of thick white cards among her silver-backed brushes and hand mirrors. Invitations had started pouring in as soon as her friends knew that she was reentering the social whirl; she was going to be busy for weeks and weeks to come. And then there’d be more invitations, and then she’d give another reception. Or maybe a dance during the Christmas season. Yes, things were going to be just fine. She was as excited as a girl who’d never been to a party before. Well, it was no wonder. It had been more than seven months since she’d been to one.

Except for Tony Fontaine’s coming-home. She smiled, remembering. Darling Tony, with his shy-heeled boots and silver saddle. She wished he could be at her party tonight. Wouldn’t people’s eyes pop right out of their heads if he did his trick of twirling his six-shooters!

She had to go—the musicians were playing in tune, it must be late.

Scarlett hurried down the red-carpeted stairs, sniffing appreciatively when she reached the scent of the hot-house flowers that filled huge vases in every room. Her eyes glowed with pleasure when she moved from room to room to check that everything was ready. All was perfection. Thank heaven Pansy was back from Tara. She was very good at making the other servants do their jobs, much better than the new butler hired to replace Pork. Scarlett took a glass of champagne from the tray the new man held out to her. At least he was good at serving, quite stylish in fact, and Scarlett did so like for things to be stylish.

Just then the doorbell sounded. She startled the manservant by smiling happily, then she moved towards the entrance hall to greet her friends.

They arrived in a steady stream for almost an hour and the house filled with the sound of loud voices, the overpowering smell of perfume and powder, the brilliant colors of silks and satins, rubies and sapphires.

Scarlett moved through the melée smiling and laughing, flirting idly with the men, accepting the fulsome compliments of the women. They were so happy to see her again, they’d missed her so much, no one’s parties were as exciting as hers, no one’s home as beautiful, no one’s gown as fashionable, no one’s hair as glossy, no one’s figure as youthful, no one’s complexion so perfect and creamy.

I’m having a good time. It’s a wonderful party.

She glanced over the silver dishes and trays on the long polished table to see that the servants were keeping them all replenished. Quantities of food—excesses of food—were important to her, for she would never forget completely what it had been like to come so near to starvation at the end of the War. Her friend Mamie Bart caught her eye and smiled. A streak of buttery sauce from the half-eaten oyster patty in Mamie’s hand had dribbled from the corner of her mouth down onto the diamond necklace around her fat neck. Scarlett turned away in disgust. Mamie was going to be big as an elephant one of these days. Thank goodness, I can eat all I want and never gain a pound.