She'd never love Frank, she knew this for a fact. But if he'd just stop calling her "Sugar" and maybe develop something of a spine, she could possibly tolerate him. At least for a little while, and then perhaps things wouldn't be too bad.

But then Scarlett would see her marriage to Frank stretching out in front of her for what may as well be an eternity. No war to ship him off to, with the possibility of his never returning, no particular ailments, no way out except death, in a future so distant Scarlett couldn't even fathom it. On the days when she couldn't prevent self-introspection, and her thoughts were unwillingly punctured by the reality of her life, she could feel tears well up in her eyes, which she angrily shook away before anyone could notice.

But Frank did notice.

And it was because of Scarlett's rare flashes of vulnerability that he kept trying, and kept hope that one day she'd eventually let her guard down enough, let him help her, and let herself stop fighting. Frank Kennedy may have been slightly dense, but he wasn't a complete fool. The realization that Scarlett only married him for his money, and lied about Suellen's feelings had left a bitter taste in his mouth. But the marriage was a done deal, and he resolved to let go of his anger and betrayal and make the best of the years he'd have with Scarlett. And on days when her green eyes stood out, surrounded by hastily shed tears, he was determined to help her get rid of her own feelings of bitterness, disappointment and heartache as well. He knew if she'd only let herself, together they could move past all the destruction wrought by the War, and have bright, if unplanned, future together.


Frank well remembered the first night he truly believed there was a chance for him and his new wife. Scarlet had spent another ridiculously long day at work, dividing her time between the mills and the store. She'd been typically cross with him and, as was becoming habit, quickly retired to her study to pour over her precious ledgers. Finally resigning himself to another evening alone, Frank went to bed. However, that night he couldn't sleep and instead of remaining in his cold bed in a futile attempt to find peace, he wandered downstairs to the library.

Seating himself at the old upright pianoforte he absently plunked out a few random notes. Without even realizing it he began playing song after song; forgotten melodies that had been locked in the back of his memory, which over the years had been replaced by more pressing thoughts of survival. All these old songs came rushing back to him, and with them a sense of peace and comfort he hadn't felt since before the war. The music drowned out memories and images of bloody battles, and horses screaming in pain, and too young boys beating on drums, urging men to commit horrendous acts, no longer fighting for their country, but merely for their survival.

It was a long while before he noticed the shadow cast on the opposite wall. Not daring to risk a look, but knowing instinctively that it was Scarlett who was perched on the steps, clinging to the darkness, and silently listening to him play. Wishing to prolong the moment as long as possible, wondering if it was bringing her the same serenity it brought him, he kept playing. But all too soon his fingers tires, struck the wrong chord, and stopped, hovering uncertainly over the keys.

Scarlett's shadow was gone.