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along the hem. Last came a sleeveless, scoop-necked, short-waisted white blouse that looked like something Ralph Lauren might create for spring.
She went back to the washstand and studied herself in the mirror, turning this way and that. The pretty white fabric belled and swirled. She felt incredibly feminine and beautiful.
Satisfied, she left the bedroom and went into the kitchen. After another quick check on the supper, she called for the girls.
Savannah and Katie came running out of the bedroom. The moment Savannah saw Tess, she stopped in her tracks. Katie rammed into her sister's backside and giggled loudly.
Tess frowned. "What's the matter?"
Savannah shot a nervous glance at the door, as if she was afraid Jack would come through any minute. "You're wearing your ... unmentionables."
Tess glanced down, surprised. "Really? This is underwear? All of it?"
Savannah nodded.
Tess laughed. "What a hoot. Well, this should get old Jack's attention, don't you think?"
Savannah started to say something else. Then she noticed the kitchen table. Her eyes bulged.
"Now what's wrong?" Tess asked.
"That's the good Sunday tablecloth. We ain't used it since Reverend Weekes came for dinner last year."
Tess winced at the word "ain't" and made a mental note to start grammar lessons tomorrow. "What day is it?" "Thursday."
"Close enough. Now, wash up. Your daddy will be here soon."
* * *
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Jack pushed the battered gray Stetson higher on his head and backhanded the sweat from his brow. Squinting against the fading purple twilight, he glanced down the row of fence-line he'd built today.
God, he loved it out here. Alone, working his land like in the old days. Here he wasn't afraid or lonely or filled with regret. No one expected anything of him or looked at him through hurt- or hate-filled eyes. He was just plain old Jack Rafferty, San Juan Island sheep rancher. Not Jackson Beauregard Rafferty III, disowned, cowardly son of the wealthiest planter in Georgia.
Not for the first time, he felt an almost suffocating wave of regret. They could have had a good life here. If only Amarylis had given the island-?given him?a chance. But, of course, she hadn't. Within ten seconds of landing in Garrison Bay, she'd dismissed the island and all its residents with an airy sweep of her pale hand. No one, she declared, but poor white trash would live in such a backwater place. And Amarylis Rafferty refused to have anything to do with trash. Jack had seen Savannah wince at her mother's words, seen the lonely pain creep into his daughter's eyes. A pain that had been born on that day and grown every day since, until now Jack couldn't remember what she looked like without it.
He stood there for a long time, watching wind scurry through the gilded grass and ripple across the water far below. The slow-moving breeze rustled softly through the leaves overhead, then died away, leaving in its wake an almost preternatural silence.
With a last swipe at the sweat on his forehead, he headed in for supper. As he rounded the barn, the house came into view, and his rare good mood fled. His stomach twisted into a coil.
He crossed the yard and ascended the stairs slowly. Each step reverberated up his stiffened spine. After the
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bathing debacle this afternoon, he felt like a man walking on an emotional tightrope. One misstep and years' worth of hard work would be wrenched away.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.
"Hi, Jack," his wife drawled. "Welcome home."
He was too stunned to hide his reaction. "You're wearing your ..."
"Unmentionables. I know. Savannah told me." Humor? honest-to-God humor?twinkled in her brown eyes. "C'est la vie."
"Say la what?"
"It means?roughly?such is life. Anyway, my boo?" She glanced over at the children, and amended her sentence. "My breasts are covered, so who cares?"
