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mean, Bryce Davies?” I laughed. “Amory and that little baby are the only parade I want to be a part of.”
    She was shaking her head even before I got the words out. “For now, maybe, but you’ll see. Pretty soon whatever thrill you find in it is going to wear pretty thin. And stuck out here, too far from civilizationto even know what the fashions are! It’s a crime to do it to a woman, especially a city gal like you.”
    “But Bryce, I’m the happiest woman in the world,” I said.
    Our babies, Horace and Taylor, were asleep upstairs, and Bryce and I were on the front porch with a lemonade as the sun settled into midafternoon over distant western trees. It was the end of September. The air was warm and dry. Amory had come back from Baton Rouge a month earlier, and since then it was like I’d never imagined it could be. The house was our cocoon. I’d get up to feed Horace at two o’clock, three o’clock, and Amory would get up too, to throw a blanket over my feet and warm some milk for me on the stove. Then I’d rock Horace back to sleep, and Amory and I would go to bed, and as many times as not he’d kiss me and stroke me, in and out of my dreams. He would get up for work before the sun rose, and before he left he’d lean over and whisper that he loved me. He’d whisper my new name.
    “We were that way too for a while,” said Bryce. “It gets old fast. Just you wait. He’ll get a bee in his bonnet about something, something’ll go wrong at work, and then all you’re good for is getting the food on his plate when he wants it, and maybe some fun late at night. If you’re lucky.”
    I smiled, thinking of the night before. “That won’t happen.”
    Bryce gave a dry laugh and smoothed the front of her silk dress, lily-pad green. “I said the same thing. Frank was like a honeymooner for a whole year. Then we got the mortgage to pay, and Taylor comes along and he’s working two shifts and dog-tired and yapping at me like I’m to blame.”
    “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” I said. “That man loves you to death.”
    “Maybe.” Her expression grew serious. “But love gets coated over, you know? Love and marriage are like water and oil.”
    Her mouth twisted and she looked down, brushing imaginary crumbs off her dress in jerky motions, and then she put her face in her hands and started to cry. I went over and put my arm across her shoulders and squeezed.
    “Lord, Connie, I’m just not meant for this. I didn’t know it was going to be this way. How could I? I was a poor farm kid, and he was throwing a lot of money around back then. I thought we’d always be dancing till dawn.” She hit the porch rail with the palm of her hand. “Jeez, and now I’m stuck here. I hate this place to death, and everybody”—she choked back a sob—“everybody in it.”
    “Oh, Bryce, it’s not that bad. We have a good time, don’t we?”
    “Bridge teas,” she sniffed.
    “You’ve got friends and family who love you,” I said.
    She pulled a comb and a mother-of-pearl pin out of her bun and let her black hair fall down around her shoulders, running the comb through it to smooth it. “There’s that word again. Love.” She made a face like the word tasted bitter. “I tell you, it doesn’t mean anything.”
    “Taylor?”
    “Well, of course, but that’s different. She can’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway.” Bryce stood up, bent her head and shook it, then flung her hair back. It was thick and wild. Her eyelashes were dark and shining with tears. “It’s quicksand, Connie. We’ll never get out. It makes me want to do something crazy.” She leaned against the railing, looking out over the hills sloping down from the house. She seemed like a small, isolated ball of fire, burning up with its own heat while everything around it went on as usual. I felt sorry for her, but I didn’t really know what to say. I liked my life fine.
    “Well, Bryce,” I said finally. “The Lord put you here for a reason.