Scarlett saw Ennis King waiting outside when her carriage pulled up to the hotel. As a matter of course he helped her out and she took his arm as they approached the entrance. Oh, it felt nice, to be going somewhere out, with a handsome man, even if he was her attorney and obligated to do so. She thought of Rhett again, her treacherous thoughts always at work, and what lady he might be dining with this evening, somewhere far away. Most likely he was in a bawdy house with a harlot draped across his lap, she told herself. She didn't like that thought, either.

But she wasn't going to let it ruin her night.

As they were shown to their table in a private corner, she noticed the two other guests had already arrived. A man of average height with light brown hair and eyes and otherwise pleasant features introduced himself with a decidedly British accent as Mr. Tate, the architect, although he insisted she call him Tate. Then Ennis introduced the hotelier from New Orleans, Mr. Leif Erickson, a very tall - she guessed to be around 6'4" - Scandinavian-looking gentleman, with shoulder-length blond hair pulled back with a leather tie, and sporting a massive build. All the men were dressed stylishly in expensive, tailored suits. Scarlett couldn't help but notice Mr. Erickson's distinctly northern European aquiline features, high cheekbones, and full, sculpted lips. When he turned his face turned toward her and fixed her with his deep blue eyes she all but caught her breath.

'Why, he might be prettier than I am,' Scarlett thought. 'I don't know quite how I feel about that.'

As soon as they were seated Scarlett found herself to be the center of attention, and she was in her element. This is a place where she possessed supreme confidence. Oh, it had been a long time, indeed.

'Half of Atlanta is in this dining room,' she observed to herself, 'the prosperous half, at least.' Some Yankees, more Southerners. Tate quickly established himself as the comic relief for the evening, sharing sparkling anecdotes to break the ice, and Scarlett gave herself up to the delightful conversation. Tate possessed that quirky British humor and both Ennis and Mr. Erickson had that dry wit she enjoyed. Entertaining construction mishaps appeared to be the theme of the conversation, as well as the legal mishaps such events produced, and she couldn't help but be amused at the antics described by these three intelligent and accomplished persons, all of them fairly near her age and easy on the eyes.

Although he didn't speak overmuch, Scarlett felt Mr. Erickson's eyes on her quite often, although once or twice when she caught him looking he only gave her a quick, flashing grin. Halfway through the dinner, he asked her to call him Leif, which put her on a first-name basis with everyone present, although they all still referred to her as Mrs. Butler, she noted. Leif appeared quite learned and traveled. He also somehow seemed to exert both an understated power and an engaging joie de vivre at the same time. It was simultaneously thrilling and discomposing. She had to concentrate not to stare.

But as the discourse continued Scarlett minded her best manners and enjoyed the company. As the night went on, it was hard to miss their table, especially with Scarlett holding court. All eyes were turned in their direction at one point or another. Let them look, she told herself. Just let them look. If they think I don't miss my daughter, my best friend, and my husband, they should drop by my bedroom every night and watch me cry myself to sleep.

Tate was just a hoot, a British version of some of the boys she grew up with, and for a few moments, Scarlett found herself awash with nostalgia. Then she remembered that the best thing about her current dinner companions was that they were from somewhere other than Atlanta, and seemed to accept her less-than-completely-ladylike opinions and pursuits much more easily. She found herself looking forward to spending more time in the presence of all of them.

As coffee and dessert were served the conversation got down to brass tacks.

"Erickson here and I stopped by your home today to call and perhaps look around but you weren't in," Tate said. Oh yes, Pork had mentioned it. "Your man wouldn't let us past the foyer." Scarlett's tinkling laugh made them all smile.

"Oh I know it's awful, you don't have to tell me. My husband hates it. Calls it the mausoleum." Well, she didn't mean to share quite that much. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I was a new bride, and there was this new style of house in a magazine, and, well," she trailed off, embarrassed. "It's very important that the decor is tastefully done this time around," she added. "I was younger and made numerous mistakes with it when I decorated it before." She glanced away.

Tate looked at her, a small frown wrinkling his brow.

"Your house isn't that bad," he said gently. "That style was all the rage a few years back, as I recall. The furniture is quality. We could have much of it reupholstered in more hotel-appropriate fabrics very easily. The curtains and carpets will have to go," he said carefully, "and you won't need all those mirrors." Scarlett nodded, her face still flushed slightly.

"We'll have to take out that staircase," he continued almost apologetically. "It takes up too much room in what will be the lobby and reception area. A smaller-scale marble one along the right wall is what I think would work better.

"Plus that staircase needs more landings, it's terrible how it was designed. Why, someone could break their neck on it if they fell from the top."

Scarlett caught her breath. Her face temporarily lost color and all the men at the table stared for a moment.

"Yes," she said finally, picking up her wine glass. "Yes, a new staircase is definitely in order."

Leif regarded her for a moment with a slight smile before he spoke.

"Are you familiar with the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans?"

She thought for a moment; yes, she did remember it. Quite a beautiful place. "Yes, I haven't stayed there, but my husband and I did have dinner in the restaurant on our honeymoon."

"Tate and I have been talking, and it wouldn't be that much of a stretch to somewhat model your structure after that. It is ornate already, and the Swiss-style could be converted to French architecture fairly easily.

"You need a formal bar area, a large dining room. Yes, we could expand that, plenty of room. The bar could be incorporated in the lobby now that the staircase would be out of the way. Ten bedrooms upstairs, with five baths and a water closet each. Of course the ballroom on the third floor for parties.

Tate nodded. "And really, for the first step, we could start outside almost immediately. White stucco and either black wrought iron or gold filigree would go a long way to get that New Orleans effect. It will be most cost-effective to stucco the front of the mansion and paint the rest of the bricks white."

He drew out some sketchings from a satchel under the table at the same time Scarlett removed her notes from her reticule.

Scarlett looked over the sketchings. She approved - it was fantastic. He had drawn the front of the house as it was now and how it would look with the stucco facade and a few additions and alterations. It would be a brand new look, so very different, and exactly what she wanted.

Although she did experience a moment of panic when she realized the scale of what both Tate and Leif had suggested. It would be more new construction than she had imagined, and much more expensive. She refused to ask Rhett for any money, or borrow it from his bank. The panic was over but financial dealings were somewhat still restricted. She was not without resources, but they might be strained if she tried to cover the entire costs of remodeling herself. She had no doubt she could recoup the investments as exciting as all the prospects would be.

She could tell she had impressed her audience with her well-thought-out questions and quick responses. It did her pride good. Her business acumen had rarely been an issue, and she reveled in that knowledge.

Leif's eyes followed her from across the table as he spoke mostly of the business part of the hotel.

"Would your husband be involved in this project?" he asked.

Ennis started to speak at the same time she did.

"No," They both said. "No," she said, looking Leif straight on.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell a well-rehearsed lie, a platitude - that he traveled on business most of the time, that his mother was getting on in years, all the things she had been saying for the last eighteen months. She sat up straight. No. No. She wasn't going to pretend and lie and try to guess where he was or if he was out of the country. She doesn't know where he is. He doesn't live with her. Because he doesn't love her anymore. She could almost feel the cords of her heart shrivel.

Open it, she told herself. Go past the barnacles. Slide a knife in between the shell and twist it, let the pain wash over and out. Crack it open like an oyster. There's something soft and wet inside. Something that can feel again.

The table regarded her expectantly.

She caught Ennis's eye and he nodded. 'Courage,' her heart whispered. 'Courage.'

"We lost a very beloved child - our only child together - less than two years ago. The tragedy hit Mr. Butler particularly hard, and he has elected to spend most of his time both in Charleston with his family and traveling now. He won't be a part of this project. Although he does return to Atlanta from time to time, our financial endeavors are separate.

"It is my venture alone." She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. There. That's her story. If she repeats it enough, to enough people, perhaps the questions will stop.

She'd conducted her own business for years, and she was more than competent. She would, however, miss the discussions with her cigar-smoking former confidante.

And this was so new to her, this kind of a venture. But she could do it. Rhett wasn't the only person in the world she could talk to; he was just the one she preferred over all others.

I will set myself free, she told herself. I will set myself free from it all.

No one said anything. The din of the dining room began to intrude on their former camaraderie.

Lord, deliver me from this uncomfortable pause. Amen.

"I might be interested in coming on board as an investor, should you be interested," Leif finally spoke, as if he had read her thoughts. "I actually am part of a group of investors across the southern states, if you would like to explore that option. Your concept has a great deal of growth potential. The money will be on the entertainment side. Altanta could use some new quality restaurants and entertainment venues."

He smiled again, and unexpectedly, reached over and patted her on her arm, not patronizingly, but like a friend, and Scarlett found it oddly comforting. As well as electric. "I think you should come to New Orleans, where my office is; you said you have only been the one time. Perhaps stay at the Monteleone. It's a boutique on a larger scale than what you would be doing.

Well, she knew she might want to visit New Orleans again. She would need more ideas, for decorating, and menus, and, well, everything. Perhaps after the move was completed? She got excited just thinking about a trip.

Scarlett started to respond just as a hush fell over the room. An entourage had newly entered. She heard the murmuring of his name travel like a wave across the tables and quickly spied the cause; former Confederate Army General Wade Hampton had just entered the National's dining room. He appeared to be making a beeline for their table.

Oh my lord. Scarlett squished a coquettish urge to fan herself as the murmuring grew louder. General Wade Hampton III was a legend in his own time. Once the richest man in the South, he was now one of the most beloved, right up there with General Lee.

The Hamiltons had been thrilled when Charles was assigned to his regiment. He was known as generous, loyal, and unquestioning in his dedication to Southern society. A consummate gentleman and soldier. Rumor had it he would run for governor of South Carolina in the next election. His family still owned massive land holdings in Mississippi, Louisiana, and South Carolina.

Scarlett remembered her mother speaking of him. People said that in his twenties his legs were so muscular he could make a horse groan by squeezing his thighs together. Which made Scarlett squeeze her thighs when she thought about it. Ahem. it had been a while. He still possessed a commanding figure in his mid-50s, after all. She noted the black band on his arm and remembered reading about his wife passing not long ago.

"Hamp!" Tate stood up immediately, followed by the rest of the table. After a series of back-slapping and forceful greetings it became apparent he knew her companions from mutual construction dealings. Scarlett listened as they recounted a recent project in Louisiana.

Scarlett looked around a bit. Everyone in the dining room was surely staring at their table now.

"And who would this lovely lady be dining with a passel of rascals such as yourselves," the general asked.

"Oh no be careful there," Tate joked. "This is Mrs. Scarlett O'Hara Butler. She looks like a goddess but she thinks just like a man." Ennis and Leif laughed in agreement.

"The shrewdest and most determined businesswoman you'll ever meet," Ennis added.

Ever poised in public, Scarlett smiled and extended her hand. "General Hampton," she said, for that is how true Southerners would address him forever, "It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. My first husband, Charles Hamilton, served under you at the very first of the war."

"Charlie Hamilton's widow! Well, this is a surprise," he said jovially as he took her hand and a large glass of port from the attending waiter's tray.

"He was such a fine young man, and a promising soldier," the general continued. "Very sharp and studious. I had plans for him before he passed so quickly." His expressive eyes conveyed a deep-seated sorrow. This gentleman, this prodigal son, had seen too much suffering.

"Yes," Scarlett replied, very much aware that General Wade Hampton III still held her hand. "His son is so like him – and named after you, much as half the South!" she gave that tinkling laugh and smiled at him sideways, showing those famous dimples.

The general smiled. He had – twinkly eyes – she decided. "I should like to meet Mr. Hamilton's son and my namesake while I am in town. Perhaps I could call on you both sometime in the next week? I plan to be in Atlanta for a while."

"Of course!" Scarlett replied. "Wade will be delighted." He'll be beside himself, she thought with satisfaction, and all his schoolmates, too. The Old Guard would be decidedly pea green. If she cared about those types of things anymore.

"Please do me the honor of calling me Hamp," he said. "We wouldn't want to confuse the boy."

Hamp! She couldn't call this man Hamp! He reluctantly released her hand. "Mrs. Butler, did you say? Captain Butler's wife?" Something flickered in his eyes.

"Yes, yes, one and the same." It took an effort to keep her tone light, but she did it. Never going to get away from that man's misdeeds, she thought. And there's no telling what General Hampton's opinion of her checkered husband's past might be.

He nodded, regarding her in a measuring manner.

If Scarlett thought she could keep her new address a secret when the better half of Atlanta just heard General Wade Hampton III would be calling, she would only be fooling herself.

She smiled despite that sobering thought. Wait until she told Prissy about her evening!

OOOOOoooooOOOOOoooo

A/N It's raining men … . Still more lots ahead, stay with me!

Fact of the day: Get Down to Brass Tacks - Etymology[edit]

Unknown.[1] Earliest attestation in 1863 US, specifically Texas.[1] One theory is that it comes from the brass tacks in the counter of a hardware store or draper's shop used to measure cloth in precise units (rather than holding one end to the nose and stretching out the arm to approximately one yard). Another possibility is the 19th-century American practice of using brass tacks to spell out the initials of the deceased on the top of their coffin. Yet another theory is that the phrase arose from the practice of adorning one's gunstock with brass tacks, as was common in the early American West. Brass was frequently used because it could be easily polished and didn't rust. According to author Stanley Vestal, "Brass tacks hammered into the stock of the rifle marked the tally of the mountain man's victims. Brass tacks."[2]