hell before she would admit that her budget was strained to
breaking--and that solving her transportation problems was going to mean
robbing Peter to pay Paul for the next several months. "The extra money
comes in handy, and I'm good at waitressing."
"I know you are. You could work down at the cafe, have day hours."
Patiently, Grace rinsed out her dishcloth and hung it over the divider
of the double sink to dry. "Mama, you know that isn't possible. Daddy
doesn't want me working for him."
"He never said that. Besides, you help out with picking crabs when we're
shorthanded."
"I help you out," Grace specified as she turned. "And I'm happy to do it
when I can. But we both know I can't work at the cafe."
Her daughter was as stubborn as two mules pulling in opposite
directions, Carol thought. It was what made her her father's daughter.
"You know you could soften him up if you tried."
"I don't want to soften him up. He made it plain how he feels about me.
Let it be, Mama," she murmured when she saw her mother preparing to
protest. "I don't want to argue with you, and I don't want to put you in
the position ever again of having to defend one of us against the other.
It's not right."
Carol threw up her hands. She loved them both, husband and daughter. But
she'd be damned if she could understand them. "No one can talk to either
of you once you get that look on your face. Don't know why I waste
breath trying."
Grace smiled. "Me, either." Grace stepped close, bent down and kissed
her mother's cheek. Carol was six inches shorter than Grace's five feet
eight. "Thanks, Mama."
Carol softened, as she always did, and combed a hand through her short,
curly hair. It had once been as blond by nature as her daughter's and
granddaughter's. But nature being what it was, she now gave it a quiet
boost with Miss Clairol.
Her cheeks were round and rosy, her skin surprisingly smooth, given her
love of the sun. But then, she didn't neglect it. There wasn't a single
night she climbed into bed without carefully applying a layer of Oil of
Olay.
Being female wasn't just an act of fate, in Carol Monroe's mind. It was
a duty. She prided herself that though she was coming uncomfortably
close to her forty-fifth birthday, she still managed to resemble the
china doll her husband had once called her.
They'd been courting then, and he'd taken some trouble to be poetic.
He usually forgot such things these days.
But he was a good man, she thought. A good provider, a faithful husband,
and a fair man in business. His problem, she knew, was a soft heart too
easily bruised. Grace had bruised it badly simply by not being the
perfect daughter he'd expected her to be.
These thoughts came and went as she helped Grace gather up what Aubrey
would need for an afternoon visit. Seemed to her children needed so much
more these days. Time was, she would stick Grace on her hip, toss a few
diapers into a bag, and off they'd go.
Now her baby was grown, with a baby of her own. Grace was a good mother,