"I'll sort through your father's things," Vivian said to Laurel. "Never mind that it could send me into a tailspin. I'll donate to the church, but I'll die before I see no-account trash walking around Bayou Breaux in Jefferson 's silk suits. They're going to Lafayette, and Ridilia Montrose can go to blazes."

Laurel scooted off the seat of the blue velvet armchair before the maid could bury her alive. She didn't like this at all. Seeing all of Daddy's things pulled out of his neat closet and strewn around his room caused a hollow, churning feeling in her tummy. She had played in his closet more times than she could count, sneaking in there with her Barbie dolls, pretending his big shoes were cars or boats or space ships. It had been her secret place for when she wanted to be all alone. It smelled of leather and cedar and Daddy. She had sat cross-legged on the floor and felt the legs of his neatly hung pants brush across the top of her head, and pretended they were vines and that she was inside a secret cave in the jungle and that his belts were snakes. Now it was all being torn apart to be given to strangers in another town.

Chewing on a thumbnail, she sidled along the big mahogany bureau, her eyes on her mother. Vivian didn't look bothered at all by what she was doing, unless being cross counted. Laurel didn't think it did. It only meant that her mother would rather have been doing something else, not that this job made her sad. She said it might give her a spell, though, and that was a million times worse than just plain sad. It scared Laurel something terrible when her mother went into one of her blue spells-crying all the time, hardly ever getting out of her nightclothes, shutting herself up in her rooms-the way she had done when Daddy died.

Laurel secretly feared she was going to have the same kind of spells. She had felt that bad when Daddy died. She hadn't wanted to see anybody. And she had cried and cried. She had cried so hard, she thought she might just turn herself inside out the way Daddy had always teased her she would. She and Savannah had cried together. She had slipped into her sister's room through the door in the closet because Mama had told her more than once that she was a big girl now and had to sleep alone. She and Savannah had hid under the covers and cried in their pillows until they almost choked.

Ties came out of the closet next, a whole long rack of them that had hung on the clothes pole. The ties drooped down off the rack, nearly to Tansy's feet. The maid struggled to hold it up high, skinny arms over her head so as to give her employer a good look at the strips of silk. Laurel spotted the blue one with the big bug-eyed bass painted on it and almost giggled as she remembered her father wearing it. His lucky poker playing tie, he had always said with a wink and a grin. Vivian snatched it off the rack and threw it on the Lafayette pile.

"But Mama," Laurel said, her heart sinking abruptly, "that was Daddy's favorite!"

"I've always hated the sight of that tie," Vivian grumbled, talking more to herself than to Laurel. "I thought I'd die of embarrassment every time Jefferson put it on. To think of a man in his position going around in a necktie the likes of that!"

Laurel stepped alongside the bed and reached a hand out to brush her fingertips over the painted bass. "But Mama-"

" Laurel, leave that be," she snapped. "Don't you have schoolwork?"

"No, Mama," she murmured, inching back from the bed, staring longingly after the bass tie as her mother tossed three more on top of it.

"Can't you see I'm busy here?"

"Yes, Mama."

She backed into the corner by the dresser again and pretended to be invisible for a while. She didn't want to be sent to her room. She wanted to be in here with Daddy's things-only she didn't want Mama and dumb old moony-eyed Tansy here rooting through everything.

She wiggled one foot over on its side and back, over and back, over and back, the way Mama always scolded her for on account of it would scuff up her shoes. Laurel didn't care. Mama was too busy throwing out Daddy's things to notice. Laurel wouldn't have cared anyway, because tears were filling up her eyes and she needed something to concentrate on so she wouldn't start to cry and get scolded for that. So she twisted her foot over and back, over and back, and chewed on her thumbnail even though there wasn't much left to chew on.

The fingers of her left hand moved along the top of the bureau, brushing against the edge of Daddy's jewelry case. Because it made her tummy hurt to watch Mama and Tansy, she turned and looked at the heavy wooden box with its fancy inlaid top and shiny brass latch. She stroked her small hand over its smooth surface and thought of Daddy, so big, so strong, always with a smile for her and a stick of Juicy Fruit gum in his pocket.

One big, fat tear teetered over the edge of her eyelashes and rolled down her cheek to splash on the polished bureau. Another followed. She couldn't think of Daddy's being gone forever. She missed him so much already. He was strength and safety and love. He didn't care if she scuffed up her shoes, and he always hugged her when she cried. Laurel couldn't bear the idea of losing him. She didn't want him gone to heaven with the angels the way Reverend Monroe had told her. Maybe that was selfish, and she felt bad about that, but not bad enough to give up her daddy.

Her small fingers fumbled with the latch, and she lifted the lid on the jewelry box. The box was lined with red velvet and filled with man things. Daddy's money clip, the two big chunky rings he never wore, his tie tacks and cuff links and some Indian-head pennies.

Laurel reached in and lifted out the red crawfish tie pin she had given him for Father's Day when she was seven. It wasn't worth much. Savannah had helped her buy it for three dollars at the crawfish festival in Breaux Bridge. But Daddy had smiled when he opened the box, and told her it would be one of his favorites. He had worn it to the father-daughter dinner at school that year, and Laurel had been so happy and proud, she could have burst.

"Laurel," Vivian snapped, "what are you into now? Oh, that jewelry box. I'd nearly forgotten."

She shooed Laurel aside and made a hasty pass through the box, setting aside a pair of diamond cuff links, a signet ring, a diamond tie pin. Then she ordered Tansy to bring a shoe box and dumped the rest of the contents into it. Laurel watched in horror, tears streaming down her cheeks, the crawfish pin sticking her hand as she tightened her fist around it.

Vivian shot her a suspicious look. "What have you got there?"

Laurel sniffed and tightened her fingers. "Nothin'."

"Don't you lie to me, missy," Vivian said sharply. "Good little girls don't tell lies. Open your hand."

Be a good girl, Laurel thought, always be a good girl, or Mama gets cross. She bit her lip to keep from crying as she held out her hand and opened her fist.

Vivian rolled her eyes as she picked up the tie pin, pinching it between thumb and forefinger and holding it up as if it were a live bug. "Oh, for pity's sake! What do you want with this piece of trash?"

Laurel flinched as if the word had struck her. Daddy hadn't called it trash, even if it was. "But Mama-"

Her mother turned away from her, dropping the pin in the shoe box Tansy held.

"B-but Mama," Laurel said, her breath hitching in her throat around a huge lump. "C-couldn't I keep it j-just 'cause it was D-Daddy's?"

Vivian wheeled on her, her face pinched, eyes narrowed like a snake's. "Your father is dead and buried," she said harshly. "There's no use being sentimental about his things. Do you hear me?"

Laurel backed away from her, feeling sick and hurt and dizzy. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and a hollow ache throbbed inside her heart.

"You're just being a nuisance in here," Vivian went on, working herself into a fine lather. "Here I am, doing my best to finish an awful job, a migraine bearing down on me, and pressures like no one knows. We have guests coming for dinner, and you're underfoot…"

The rest of what she had to say sounded like nothing to Laurel but blah blah blah. Her ears were pounding, and her head felt as though it might explode if she couldn't start crying hard real soon. Then Savannah was behind her, putting her hands on Laurel 's shoulders.

"Come on, Baby," she whispered, drawing her out the bedroom door. "We'll go in my room and look at pictures."

They went to Savannah 's room and sat on the rug next to the bed, looking at a photo album full of pictures of Daddy Savannah had stolen from the parlor the day of Daddy's funeral. She kept it under her mattress and had told Tansy if she ever tried to take it out or tell Vivian about it, she would have a voodoo woman put a curse on her that would give her warts all over her face and hands. Tansy left it be and had taken to wearing a dime on a string around her neck to protect her from gris-gris.

They sat on the rug and looked at their father in the only way they would ever be able to see him again, and felt alone in all the world, like two little flowers pulled up by the roots.

That night Ross Leighton came to dinner.

Savannah sat with her back to her dressing table, one foot pulled up on the seat of the chair, one arm wrapped around her leg, the other hand toying with the pendant she never took off. Lost in thought, she ran the gold heart back and forth on its fine chain. Through the French doors that led onto the balcony she could just see Laurel leaning against a column down the way. Poor Baby. The Case had taken everything out of her-her pride, her fight, her self-confidence, her independence. Everything that had taken her away from here had been taken away from her, and now she was back. Poor lost lamb, weak and sorely in need of comfort and love. Just like old times. Just like after Daddy died and Vivian had offered as much solace as a jagged piece of granite.

Funny how time had run in a circle. All during their growing-up years Savannah had mothered and nurtured and protected, and Laurel had grown stronger and brighter and burned with ambition, reaching higher and going further, eventually leaving Savannah in the dust. But now she was back, in need of mothering and nurturing again.

She turned and looked at herself in the beveled mirror above her dressing table, taking in the tousled hair, the bee-stung lips she pumped with collagen at regular intervals. Her robe had slipped off one shoulder, baring creamy skin and the thin strap of her chemise. Her breasts were barely contained by the lacy cups, their natural shape augmented by silicone implants she'd had put in years ago in New Orleans. She traced a fingertip across her lower lip, then along the scalloped edge of lace, her nipple twitching at the slight contact, a response that triggered a quick, automatic fluttering between her legs.