"She doesn't look good, Sam. I'm worried about her."

She felt him grab her hand and turn her around. "Hey, no need for you to eat all that worry alone, okay? I'll be happy to split it with you."

Her face puckered as she regarded him. "Every time I see you, I either want to slap you or give you a hug. Why is that?"

She allowed him to lead her toward the diner. "It's because you've never tried any of the in-between stuff. You just give me a time and place and we can get started."

Facing him to give him a retort, the words died on her tongue.

"Where have you been, Cassandra? I've been waiting for over half an hour."

Andrew stood outside the door of the diner wearing olive linen pants and a dark yellow silk shirt with sweat stains showing under the arms. His annoyed gaze flickered over Sam before turning his full attention back to Cassie.

She'd completely forgotten she was supposed to meet Andrew at the diner for lunch. "Oh, Andrew. Sorry. Took a little longer at Bitsy's than I thought."

He bent to kiss her lips, but she tilted her head so that his lips merely slid across her cheek. Cassie smiled at him as a sickening picture of her squeezed between Sam and Andrew on one side of a booth flickered in her mind.

The bell over the door tinkled as they pushed it open and went inside. Andrew put his arm around Cassie. "Does this place have sushi? I could really go for some sugata rolls."

A pager beeped, and both Sam and Andrew patted their pockets. It was for Sam. "It's the clinic. Sorry I won't be able to join y'all for lunch. Guess I'll see you tonight." He pushed open the glass door. With a slack grin and an accent as thick as lard, he said, "And, Andy, only place you'll get sushi around here is at the bait shop." With a wink, he let the door close behind him.

Cassie stood in the doorway of Andrew's room, watching him in the mirror as he knotted his tie. She recognized it as the Hermes she had given him for his last birthday and wondered if he had ulterior motives for wearing it.

Lunch together had not gone well. He had insisted on sitting on the same side of the booth as she and then rubbing her thigh throughout the meal. She was sure the other customers noticed, and it embarrassed her. These people had known her parents and knew that she had been raised better than that.

Things had further deteriorated when even Brunelle Thompkins, the senator's wife and longtime waitress at the diner, had her perpetually chipper demeanor darkened by Andrew's carping at fat grams and ingredients as he scrutinized the menu. At first, she had simply stood by the side of their booth, pad and pencil poised, as she suggested the chicken fried steak with cheese fries. After ascertaining that the cook didn't use low-fat vegetable oil for frying, he'd eliminated half the items from the menu. Eventually, Cassie took over and ordered them both house salads, minus the fried chicken and bacon bits.

The final straw had come after they'd left the diner and were walking across the town square. Andrew had spied Miss Liberty glowing particularly green in the direct light of the midday sun, her Styrofoam arm and lineman's glove proudly holding the torch aloft.

"Good Lord, what is that?"

Cassie drew herself up tall. "It's a replica of the Statue of Liberty. We're very proud of it."

Andrew's only response was to laugh until the tears sprang to his eyes. When he could finally speak, he gasped out, "That's the stupidest thing I have ever seen in my life. Are you sure it's not a joke?"

Cassie's lower lip quivered. She felt as if her family pride, her honor, her whatever, had been gravely insulted. She wanted to do something with that torch that would make it so Andrew would never think a bad thought about it again.

Instead, she said, "No, Andrew. You're the only joke around here. I'm going home." She turned on her heel, walking quickly in the oppo-site direction.

He had to jog to catch up with her, placing his hand on her arm to make her stop. "Damn it, Cassandra. It's not like it means anything to you. It's just a stupid statue."

She took a deep breath, wondering where her deep-felt indignation was coming from. "No, it's not. It's much more than that. But even if I explained it to you, you still wouldn't understand, so I'm just not going to waste my breath. You're warped, Andrew. If you can't see and recognize the gentle things in life, then living in New York has hardened you." She could tell from his blank expression that nothing she said was sinking in. "Never mind. I need to go home and change for the bridal shower. Just try not to embarrass me in front of my friends and family tonight, all right?"

He snorted. "Right. Like you have to worry about that. Isn't it the other way around?"

She shook her head at him. "You're so stuck-up you'd drown in a rainstorm. Maybe you should try harder to fit in; then we wouldn't have to worry about anybody embarrassing anybody else."

Before he could make her any angrier, she pulled away and walked all the way home, Andrew following doggedly at her heels.

That had been two hours earlier, and she still felt the sting of anger. Pushing it aside, she took a moment longer to scrutinize him without his being aware she was there. His long, tapered fingers-artist's fingers, that's what she'd always called them-jutted in and out of the silk tie as he adjusted it to perfection. Leaning her head against the doorframe, she studied those fingers, wondering if they knew her body better than he knew her mind and soul. And how well did she know him? She knew he had been born and raised in Southern California, the only child of a dentist and a salesclerk at Neiman-Marcus. She had never met them, and Andrew had only been to see them once in the years she had known him.

Andrew loved the ad agency and his work there, and their relationship had evolved around the rise of the agency's success, feeding off it like parasites. They lived the agency; breathed it morning, noon, and night. There was never any time for anything else. But his affection and admiration, coupled with their success, had seemed to be enough. But what had any of that to do with marriage? She realized with a start that she didn't know his favorite color or his life's secret dream or what his grandparents were like. She didn't know the color of the house he had grown up in or the name of his first-grade teacher or his first serious crush. She blinked hard, moving away from the threshold before he could see her.

She had reached the first step before his voice called out, "Cassandra? Are you ready for the big hoedown?"

He stuck his head out of the room, and Cassie looked at him and his carefully groomed hair. "Better stay away from the barbecue pit. That stuff on your hair looks flammable." She gritted her teeth. Oh, Lord. I must be scared, because I'm sure as hell acting mean.

He looked hurt, and Cassie felt a stab of remorse. With great effort, she smiled and offered her hand. "Come on. Lucinda's driving." She grinned, anticipating his reaction to Aunt Lucinda's pink car.

"I hope my car's fixed soon and that Mr. Overalls knows what he's doing. I'd hate to make him pay for any damages."

Cassie's grin faded as she led him to the door.

Cars lined both sides of the street approaching her sister's house. Lucinda pulled into the one open spot in the driveway, claiming it was reserved for the guests of honor. Her gaze met Cassie's in the rearview mirror, and she winked. "Well, y'all. This is it." She didn't drop her gaze, and Cassie couldn't help but wonder if there was double meaning to her words.

They stepped out of the car and headed toward the squeal of children and the hum of adult voices from the backyard.

"I hope to God this thing is inside, because if I have to spend another minute in this heat, I'll melt."

"Have you ever been to an indoor barbecue, Andrew?" She grabbed his hand, feeling it already perspiring, and led him to the gate in the fence surrounding the backyard. Her first stop would be at the drinks table. Hopefully, there would be kudzu punch. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

Lucinda walked past them and into the milieu of people, but Andrew and Cassie stopped. Small children, dressed in their Sunday best, ran around chasing each other, playing a wild game of tag. Cassie recognized the shrieks of one child and turned to see Sarah Frances, a ribbon hanging precariously onto the end of a long braid, chasing a boy her age.

Old Mr. Crandall, the husband of Cassie's fifth-grade math teacher, sat on a stool, a large vat of lemonade in front of him, stirring the lemon-dotted liquid with a broken oar. He tipped the brim of his straw hat as he spotted the couple.

The spicy aroma of barbecue in an open pit teased Cassie's taste buds as she spotted Joe, beer in hand, basting the chicken parts with his secret sauce. Nearby, Joey and several of his friends were spitting watermelon seeds at each other while little girls hung behind them, squealing as each small dart hit its target.

Thelma and Selma Sedgewick, in matching Hawaiian print sundresses and large straw hats, spied Cassie and Andrew and headed toward them, brims nodding, like a couple of parakeets on a mission. It appeared that the whole town was there, standing or sitting around the deck, patio, and backyard. Old people sat in lawn chairs with grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren perched on creaky knees or cradled in wrinkled arms. Miss Lena, the tops of her knee-high stockings peeking out under the hem of her polka-dot dress, sat next to the senator's wife, and Cassie watched in amusement as she took a paperback novel out of her large purse and handed it to the baffled Mrs. Thompkins.

Cassie smiled. It was like looking at an old movie from her childhood. She had been to many such parties as a child. Nothing had changed, not really. Perhaps some of the older folks were no longer here, and some of the town's matrons had progressed to the lawn chairs, the altering faces changing the individual threads of the fabric that made up her hometown. Today Harriet played hostess instead of their moth-er, and the young boys Cassie and her sister used to chase now had receding hairlines, thicker waists, and families of their own. Yes, the threads were different, but the richly woven fabric remained strong. These were her people. No matter how far she would ever roam, that fact would never change.

Sam leaned against a tree and said something that made Joe laugh. Cassie's gaze caught Sam's long enough for him to dip his head in greeting and raise his beer bottle. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the sun, and she found herself winking at him. She turned her head to see Reverend Beasley do his inside-out eyelid trick in front of an enraptured crowd of children. They were probably the third generation of Walton children lucky enough to be privy to such an experience. Cassie breathed in deeply, feeling for the first time in a long while that perhaps lack of change might not be such a bad thing.

She glanced over at Andrew, her smile fading. A bemused frown sat on his face, as if he couldn't quite make out what he was seeing. He shook his head as he looked back at her. "How long do you think we have to stay?"

It was as if a large spotlight had suddenly turned on above, illumi-nating just the two of them. Her first instinct was to flee in the face of the harsh reality, to run away from this huge problem looming on her doorstep. She'd done that once before, after all. Looking away for a moment, her gaze wandered back to the yard's edge. Sam's parents and Harriet, with baby Amanda on her hip, had joined him and Joe. Mr. Parker said something with a laugh, making his gray-haired wife nuzzle into his shoulder like a young girl. Cassie watched as Mrs. Parker's hand snaked behind her husband and pinched him through his overalls.

She caught Sam watching her with a questioning look and realized with surprise that she wore a silly grin. He winked at her, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to go over to that group and be enveloped in the gentle comfort of people who really knew her and loved her, anyway.

Instead, with a deep breath, she faced Andrew again.

"Come on, Andy. We need to talk."

She yanked on his arm and pulled him back through the gate, letting it slam hard behind them.

Fifteen.

Cassie didn't stop walking until she had reached the cool respite of her own porch. Perspiration poured down her face and body from the short walk, making the silk of her dress stick to her skin. Ignoring Andrew, she kicked off her shoes, then reached under her dress and pulled off her pantyhose, throwing them to the ground. She plopped down in the porch swing, breathing heavily. She hadn't said a word, and Andrew hadn't asked any questions. But it was plain on his face that he was annoyed-and very, very hot.

She frowned at him. "You know, you'd be a lot cooler if you wore something that doesn't stick to your skin. Like a nice cotton knit. Or a T-shirt."

He gave her a disdainful look, then wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Cut the bull, Cassandra. What's going on here?"

She tugged at the fourth finger of her left hand, pulling off her ring and grasping it tightly for one last moment. Slowly, she opened her palm, watching as the light played on the large diamond in her hand. "I can't marry you, Andrew."

He blinked. "Why not?"

"We don't belong together. We work well together, but that's not enough to base a marriage on." She looked down at the ring, at its flawless perfection, but saw only a piece of jewelry. It meant nothing to her, and the thought surprised her. She looked up again and met his gaze. "I don't love you, Andrew. At least not enough to marry you."

He took a step toward her, his eyes narrowed. "What? You're walking out on me now? In the middle of the Bank-North campaign?"

She stared at him, incredulous. "I'm not talking about work here, Andrew. I'm talking about you and me and how a marriage between us would never work. Our backgrounds are miles apart. I don't even think I realized that until today. Did you know that we have never even talked about having children? Or where we want to live when we retire? Gosh, Andrew, we never take a vacation because we never find the time to discuss whether we want to go to the beach or go skiing." Her voice shook. This was probably the most honest conversation she had ever had with him, and she wanted to make sure she got her point across. "There's more to life than work, Andrew. And that's all we've got between us."

She stood, the swing swaying drunkenly behind her. Her voice quieted. "I've never even met your parents. And that's probably the saddest testament as to why I can't marry you."

She stopped talking, her breath coming hard and deep. Wide-eyed, she waited for his response, half-hoping he'd defend himself and call to mind why she had agreed to marry him in the first place.

He leaned closer. "It's that Sam guy, isn't it? Are you sleeping with him?"

Cassie blinked once. Then, without a word, she pulled her arm back and threw the ring at him, hitting him right between the eyes. It landed on the floorboards, bounced once, then came to rest near the welcome mat.

Andrew stared down at it but didn't make a move to pick it up. His voice was harsh when he spoke. "You won't even try to deny it, will you? What happened? You get lonely? Or did he make the moves on you first?"

Her anger bubbled up into her head to a point where she thought smoke might emerge from her ears. "You think this has to do with Sam? After everything I've just said, you think I'm breaking our engagement because I'm sleeping with another man?" She shook her head. "You're cracked, Andrew. You're just completely clueless. Seek help-but I won't be there to hold your hand during therapy. Maybe Cynthia Moore would be happy to do it instead."

He looked at her as if she had just sprouted horns. Almost under his breath, he said, "I knew better than to let you come down here. These people have changed you. You need to come back to New York and see how real people live."

She felt the reassuring pressure of the swing against the back of her legs. "These people are real, Andrew. It's taken me fifteen years to realize it, but they're my people, and I love them. If I've had to change to see that, then so be it." She reached up with her right hand to grasp the gold charms on her necklace.

"Does that mean you're going to stay down here?"

"No!" The response was automatic, emitted without thought. "Of course not. I love my career. I'm good at it, I enjoy my success, and I've worked too hard to leave it all behind. And I hope . . . that we can still work together. That's one thing that I know we do well."

He wiped his hands over his face. "Don't do this, Cassandra. We had something great going between us. We just need to get away from this nightmare of a town and get back to New York. You'll see things differently then."

With a violent jerk of the swing, Cassie stepped toward him. "You just don't get it, do you? I am seeing things differently, for the first time in years." Her fingers gripped the railing as she stared out at her mother's magnolia. "Did you ever play tag as a kid-you know, where there was one place called base where nobody could tag you? Well, you were my base. I clung to you to keep all that hurt and humiliation away from me, knowing that as long as I had you and my career, they could never touch me."

She faced him, feeling the warmth of the dying sun on her cheeks. "I don't need a base anymore. I'm okay with my past. I even feel like I want to visit here often. But I don't want to marry you."

He stood before her, his balled fists on his hips. "Is that it, then? You don't want to marry me?"

She nodded, her voice too tangled with conflicting emotions.

His lips formed a thin line. "Fine. Then I'd better get packing." He turned away from her and yanked open the screen door. "Cynthia Moore needs me at the office."

The screen door slammed, leaving Cassie staring after him. She called out at his retreating back, "You forgot the ring!"

She waited a few seconds before the door swung open again and Andrew reappeared. He got down on his hands and knees and looked for the ring until he found it, nestled between two floorboards. Prying it out, he tucked it inside his shirt pocket and stood.

"You'll regret this decision, Cassandra. All that fried food has turned your brain to mush. But maybe when you're back in New York and you need somebody intelligent to talk to and straighten you out, call me. I just might still be available to knock some sense into you."

He left her on the porch, his footsteps disappearing inside the house.

Weakly, she shouted at him through the door, "And don't call me Cassandra. My name's Cassie!"

She sat back down on the swing and waited for the big, crushing blow of disappointment and sorrow to swallow her. But it never came. Asmall breeze teased the hair at her temples, and a little smile played on her lips. Kicking her shoes out of the way, she jumped down the porch steps and began running, feeling the soft grass under her feet and a freedom she hadn't felt in years. Hiking up her dress, she turned a cartwheel, landing solidly on her backside. Lying in the grass, she looked up at the brilliant blue sky, a hint of stars glowing dully behind the sun's glare, and grinned to herself.

Cassie scraped the remains of the potato salad into a large Tupperware bowl and sealed the lid over it. She remained motionless in Harriet's kitchen for a moment, her eyes squeezed shut, recalling the moment she had reappeared at the shower to tell everybody about the broken engagement.

Instead of the shocked looks of disappointment, she had been surprised to recognize looks of relief on the faces of the party-goers. Even Harriet, appearing completely wiped out from the effort of organizing the shower, had a bright smile on her face. She had squeezed Cassie's hand, then looked pointedly at Sam before turning her attention back to Miss Lena's detailed summary of her current novel.

Sticking her finger in the remaining salad still left on the plate, Cassie licked it off with childish enthusiasm.

"I saw that."

Startled, she swung around and found Sam standing in the kitchen doorway.

Guiltily, she lowered her hand. "I missed so much of the party, but I refuse to miss any of Mrs. Crandall's potato salad. It might pack one thousand calories per spoonful, but it's worth every one."

He leaned against the counter and casually crossed his legs at the ankles. "Where's Andy?"

Cassie let the dirty bowl slide under the warm soapy water in the sink, keeping her back to Sam. "He's packing."

"Leaving so soon?"

She shrugged, squeezing another dollop of dishwashing liquid into the sink. "No reason for him to stay, I guess." She began scrubbing the soggy salad out of the bowl.

"I'm sorry."

She scratched her chin on her shoulder. "No you're not. You think he's a jerk."

"Yeah, that's true. But I'm sorry if you're hurting."

Cassie lifted the bowl and rinsed it under the tap, finally turning around to face him as she stuck it in the dish drain on top of the pile of clean dishes. "Actually, I'm feeling pretty good. It was almost a relief."