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away piece
by piece like a thief.
    His
father bellowed, “Pearlie Mae, fetch Mrs. Hartwell’s tonic.” He cut a mean eye
toward his son. “Your mother is in no condition to plan a party or a wedding.
I’m afraid this announcement of yours might be the boulder that pushes her over
the edge.”
    “I’m
sorry. I never meant to—” Tossing the linen napkin to the table, Tripp pushed
from the chair. “Under the circumstances, perhaps we should cancel our golf
game.”
    Likewise,
his father tossed his napkin to the table. “I’ll call the doctor.” As he left
the room, he glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll save this discussion until
later.”
    “No
we won’t, Dad. There’s nothing to discuss. I fully intend to marry Honey Belle
Garrett.”
    Neither
one of them moved as they faced each other. Tripp’s muscles seemed frozen.
Logic told him it wasn’t anything he’d said that had caused his mother to drift
away. Nonetheless, guilt flooded over him. “I’ll help Mother to her room and
sit with her until Dr. Weston arrives.”
    For
a long time all they could do was stare at each other, until his father
relinquished. Tripp denied an inner stab of pain. “I didn’t create this
situation, Dad. We have to both come to terms with the facts...we’re losing
Mother.”
    The
Judge scrubbed a hand across his face. The deep furrowed frown on his brow
suddenly ironed out. He drew a shuddering breath that seemed to come from
hidden depths. “We’ll deal with all these issues next week, when you return
home from Massachusetts. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
    “No,
Dad, you’re the standing judge in the Ferrell murder case. The trial starts the
same day I leave.”
    The
Judge’s eyes grew shadowed. “Then we’ll agree to disagree.”
    Obviously
unaware of the tension between father and son, the maid said, “Sorry to
interrupt, Mr. Tripp, but I need help with your mama.”
    The
Judge waved Tripp toward the landing. “Go. I’ll call the doctor.”
    And
Tripp took the stairs.
    Two
by two.

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
Nine
     
    Over
the next few days, Honey Belle managed to tuck away the doubts her mother had
heaped on her. She decided not to tell Tripp about her mother’s nasty
accusations. Doing so might prompt questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
    On
Sunday, she dressed with care. Without a word to her mother, she left the house
and drove to the gas station. She pulled behind the station’s garage and parked
in the usual place. She’d allowed herself enough time to walk the two miles
without working up a sweat.
    In
front of the Barrington Street house, she stood under the elm tree and waited.
    ****
    Tripp
had misgivings as he pointed the car down Barrington Street. He wanted to hope
and believe in happy endings. Since meeting Honey Belle, his life had become a
series of emotional highs and lows. His entire life had been shaped and molded
by family tradition. In college, he’d played the field, never allowing any one
woman to get close to him. Now he’d fallen in love. Sure, he’d been intimate,
more than once, but he knew the difference between infatuation and the real
thing.
    Now
he needed to steer a straight course in between foolish passion and love, reminding
himself that a little distance for a short period of time would do them both
good.
    He
pulled alongside the curb and, leaving the engine running, he shifted the gear
stick into park. He opened the door and stepped out. “I believe I owe you
dinner.”
    “I’d
like that,” Honey Belle said. And then there was his mouth searching for hers.
    At
last he drew a breath. “Shall we go?” he said, burning her with a hot glance.
    His
eyes promised more than dinner.
    ****
    “Will
you excuse me, Tripp? I need to powder my nose.”
    “Shall
I order you a glass of wine?”
    Honey
Belle sent him a dazzling smile. “Yes.”
    Moments
later, he was lifting the glass of chardonnay to his mouth when his eyes caught
a movement. He lowered the glass