Rhett Butler was a complicated man.

And a very difficult client when he was displeased. Although he generated a good bit of business for his Charleston solicitor, and paid every bill on time, early even.

Tom Coddington stood in the entrance of his Meeting Street office and stared at the letter with the lilting, perfect handwriting. He turned it over to read the return address. 'O'Hara, Peachtree St, Atlanta, Georgia,' it read.

He waved down a bicycle courier and sent the letter down to the house on the Battery. Butler always wanted to know immediately when his wife sent a correspondence; and it never failed to put him in a foul mood. Coddington frowned himself as he thought of Rhett's facial expressions at such times. His eyes would narrow and his face would take on a reptilian quality at the mere mention of her name.

"I might want to be out of the office this afternoon," he told his secretary, feeling just a tad guilty. The man had just stopped, over the last several months, being absolutely inconsolably miserable over the death of his daughter. But he couldn't help but want to avoid the inevitable scene. Butler always sucked all the energy out of the room when he was angry, and particularly when it involved his wife. Wherever the thin line between love and hate may have been when it involved his spouse, Butler seemed to have crossed it a while back.

"What the hell is this?" Rhett snarled as he walked to his study. It had been a perfectly pleasant morning until the courier dropped over Scarlett's latest missile. His mother and sister had already left the breakfast table, escaping his poor humor. Although Eleanor had been secretly a little pleased. There was nothing quicker to rid her son's face of its dead-eyed look than the mention of her mercurial daughter-in-law. Even if he was angry. She preferred it over the alternative.

He ripped the letter open, reading through the first time before sitting down to interpret whatever sneaky double meanings Scarlett had most likely unwittingly snuck in.

She wanted the house. She had plans for it. Fine. He never wanted to see it again anyway. She could redecorate it all she wanted; it would always be a heartless, frozen tomb of hell as far as he was concerned.

Then there were the manipulative, spiteful paragraphs concerning Wade and Ella. He could feel his blood pressure rise. He had been visiting them as he saw fit and he saw no reason to change that. She was fortunate he came at all, and she was lucky he could stand to be in the same house as her. She was just trying to get him to come more often, so she could throw herself at him again.

But then, those last two paragraphs. Said she would be far away when he came so he wouldn't have to see her. Wanted to avoid him. She could be lying to lull him into the false hope that he would never have to lay eyes on her again. Could be. Or perhaps not.

Inquired after his health, said that his welfare was important. Did not mention love. She did mention perhaps moving her household.

And she referenced divorce, even though it was an 'if'. Without him bringing it up.

She signed it 'Sincerely Yours'. The return address read 'O'Hara'.

Rhett scrubbed his hands over his face. Damn that woman. Damn her to hell. He stood up and grabbed his coat and hat before heading to Meeting Street.

Tom Coddington whistled as he made his way back to his office late that afternoon, stopping short as he spied Butler across the street, nursing a whiskey in front of a saloon and smoking a cheroot. He swore under his breath.

"I suppose you know why I'm here," Rhett said as he tossed away his cigar and approached the office.

"Let me guess," Tom drawled as he opened the door and led the way to his study.

Rhett removed his hat and tossed it on a chair before seating himself. "She wants the house deeded in her name. Give it to her, as soon as you can. "

Tom nodded.

"I would like to discuss the possibility of divorce."

Tom spoke carefully. "Marriages often suffer after the loss of a child. I am sorry for your pain. But you might want to reconsider. Give it a little more time."

Rhett gave him that impenetrable stare.

"Your emotions still seem a bit raw."

Silence.

Tom sighed.

"What grounds?" Rhett did not hesitate.

"Infidelity."

"Do you have proof?"

"She was in love with another man when I met her. And admitted it again when I proposed."

On the day of her husband's funeral. When she was drunk and I didn't let her refuse.

"How long ago was this?"

"Twelve, thirteen years since I first met her."

"So you were, what, thirty-two, thirty-three years old? How old was she?"

"I think she was around sixteen when I met her. About twenty-two when we married, and I was thirty-nine."

Tom raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"And she had relations with this man? While she was married to you?"

"Well, she visited him at his work. He managed her business and that was the excuse, plus he was married to her sister in law."

"Did she sleep with him?"

"I don't think so. They were caught hugging once. And she looked at him often, and got a dreamy look on her face whenever his name was mentioned."

She sighed once after making love on our honeymoon. I left her alone all night and came back drunk the next morning. Rhett shifted in his seat. It had been a terribly ill-timed sigh, after all.

"Hugging? Naked? In bed?"

Rhett shifted in his seat again. "No."

His answers were getting shorter.

"Were they kissing?"

"No."

"How did she explain it?"

I didn't actually let her explain it.

Rhett blinked. "She said it was innocent." He sat up straighter.

"And she wouldn't sleep with me. For years. She refused me my marital rights."

"Did she give a reason?"

"She said she didn't want any more children. She didn't want a child every year."

"Which one was it? No more children, or not one every year?"

I didn't give her a chance to clarify.

Rhett strongly suspected Ashley was also behind the refusal, but had no proof for that, either.

"She told me she didn't want any more children and said 'you know what I mean.' "

"So I told her I would sleep with other women. And I did."

Mr. Coddington wrinkled his brow.

"We got in a fight and she slammed the door in my face," Rhett said. Surely that justified his actions.

Tom did not respond.

"She said she would lock her door."

"Did she?"

"I don't know. She started leaving it cracked open after a while."

Good God, it sounded so juvenile out loud. Rhett became more irritated. He had accused Scarlett of not having a sense of humor and now this all sounded like a comedy of errors when recounted to another man.

"And you never attempted relations again?"

"Well, once."

"Did she refuse?"

"No."

Well, not entirely. At first, but perhaps not later, during that insane night. He wasn't sure. He'd been very drunk but there had to have been bruises. And during their first post-coital conversation, he had threatened her with a buggy whip.

His head dropped, almost imperceptibly, yet Tom caught it.

As far as emotions go, Rhett particularly abhorred shame.

"Look, Tom. She's a selfish, manipulative harpy. And a bad mother."

Tom's eyes lit up a bit. He was an attorney, after all. "Does she abuse the children? Hit them? Neglect them?"

Rhett pressed his lips together. He had no idea why his normal eloquence was failing him so dismally.

"She doesn't pay much attention to them. She makes sure they are cared for by others. They are fed and dressed. She's just short-tempered with them. They are nervous around her. And she works too much."

Always has.

"Don't get annoyed, Rhett. These are just the questions her attorney will ask you in court. I'm not saying you don't have an argument. I'm sure there's more to it. But it looks like right now she might have more of a case."

Rhett opened his mouth to argue but Tom cut him off.

"I've known you for years, Rhett, and news does travel from Atlanta. Your wide-spread infidelities are well-known. Even in this town. Actual, physical, repeated infidelity with multiple other women. And you left her. She didn't leave you, and she did give you a child."

Almost two.

"Many marriages were irrevocably damaged during the war and its aftermath. The war was very hard on people, Rhett, and times are still hard. Did your wife suffer unduly during the war and after?"

You have no idea.

Tom regarded Rhett with a speculative look. Butler made him nervous. Too smart for his own good. Born to quality, yet more streetwise than a lifelong thug. And a shrewd, stone-cold killer, if he had to hazard a guess. The buggy incident and subsequent duel had been 25 years ago. Lots of muddy water under this man's bridge.

He suddenly felt sympathetic for the young Mrs. Butler.

"You'll have to work on your statement before we can file a complaint, see what else you can recall. She may be working on her own. My advice is to let her file the divorce, if divorce is what you want. It will have a better chance of being granted without a long, painful, drawn-out fight. In the meantime, is there anything you want from her?"

Rhett considered this for a moment. He could take the children; he did care for them. But taking Bonnie away from her mother had been disastrous. And it would cut into his freedom.

He suddenly felt very sober. And very old. Also, fairly stupid. He hated that most of all.

"I don't need anything right now. Give her the house. That should give her something to occupy her mind for a while. I'll work on my statement on my trip to the Caribbean next week," he bid Tom good day and walked out.

He stood in the street for a moment, his hat in his hand. Slowly he started walking toward the Battery. Whiskey would be a good thing right about now. His thoughts were uncomfortable, chafing at him like a too-starched collar on a sweltering hot day.

Tom walked to the window and watched Butler as his step picked up halfway down the block. He made a mental note to buy his wife flowers on the way home.

Rhett decided that he needed sand and sun and certainly a bronzed native beauty or two to while away his time and to get Scarlett out of his head. Although he should be a little more discerning this trip. That last case of pubic lice he'd contracted overseas, during the drunken, careless autumn after Bonnie died, had been a nasty business. Belle nearly scalped his genitals over it.