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her. There had been times when that alone had kept her from crumbling.
    It surprised her to find the house quiet. It was nearly ten, she noted, as she stepped inside. She’d expected to find her grandmother in her garden, or fussing around inside the house.
    The living room was cluttered, as always, with furniture, knickknacks, books. And, Tory noted, a vase holding a dozen red roses that made her tulips look like poor relations. She set aside her suitcase, her purse, then turning toward the hallway called out.
    “Gran? Are you home?” Carrying the flowers, she started back toward the bedrooms, then lifted her eyebrows when she heard the movement behind her grandmother’s closed door.
    “Tory? Honey-pot, I’ll be right out. Go on back and … get yourself some iced tea.”
    With a shrug, Tory kept walking toward the kitchen, glancing back once when she heard what sounded like a muffled giggle.
    She laid the flowers on the counter, then opened the refrigerator. The pitcher of tea was waiting, made as she enjoyed it most, with slices of lemon and sprigs of mint. Gran never forgot anything, Tory thought, and felt tears of sentiment and fatigue sting her eyes.
    She blinked them back when she heard Gran’s quick steps. “Goodness, you’re early! I didn’t expect you until after noon, if that.” Small, slim and agile, Iris Mooney swept into the room and caught Tory in a hard hug.
    “I got an early start, and just kept going. Did I wake you? Aren’t you feeling well?”
    “What?”
    “You’re still in your robe.”
    “Oh. Ha.” After one last squeeze, Iris drew back. “I’m just as fine as rain. Let me look at you. Aw, honey, you’re wore out.”
    “Just a little tired. But you. You look wonderful.”
    It was inevitably true. Sixty-seven years of living had lined her face, but it hadn’t dulled the magnolia skin or dimmed the deep gray of her eyes. Her hair had been red in her youth, and she saw that it remained that way. If God had meant a woman to be gray, Iris liked to say, he wouldn’t have invented Miss Clairol. She took care of herself, and pampered her looks.
    Which, she thought now, was more than she could say about her granddaughter.
    “You sit down right here. I’m going to fix you some breakfast.”
    “Don’t trouble, Gran.”
    “You know better than to argue with me, don’t you? Now, sit.” She pointed to a chair at the little ice cream parlor table. “Oh, look at these. Aren’t they pretty!” She swept up the tulips, her delight in them sparkling in her eyes. “You’re the sweetest thing, my Tory.”
    “I’ve missed you, Gran. I’m sorry I haven’t visited.”
    “You’ve got your own life, which is what I always wanted for you. Now, you just relax and when you’ve got your feet back under you, you can tell me all about your trip.”
    “It was worth every mile. I found some wonderful pieces.”
    “Got my eye for pretty things.” She winked, turning just in time to see her granddaughter gape at the man who had stepped into the kitchen doorway.
    He was tall as an oak with a chest wide as a Buick. His grizzled hank of hair was the color and texture of steel wool. His eyes were the burnished brown of acorns and drooped like a basset hound’s. His leathered face was tanned to match. He cleared his throat with an exaggerated flourish, then nodded at Tory.
    “Morning,” he began in an upcountry drawl. “Ah… Miz Mooney, I got that drain cleared for you.”
    “Cecil, stop being a moron, you don’t even have your toolbox with you.” Iris set aside a carton of eggs. “No need to blush,” she told him. “My granddaughter’s not going to faint at the notion her grandma’s got herself a beau. Tory, this is Cecil Axton, the reason I’m not dressed at ten this morning.”
    “Iris.” The blush rose up to his cheeks like fire under cordwood. “I’m pleased to meet you, Tory. Your gran’s been looking forward to seeing you.”
    “How do you do,” Tory said, for lack of