When Scarlett stopped by Ennis King's office the next day she had already received a telegram from Rhett's solicitor asking for her attorney's contact information so he could forward the amended deed post-haste.

"So it looks like I can move ahead?" she asked him, practically rocking back and forth on her toes, vibrating with anticipation. She was nearly beside herself with excitement. So much to do!

Ennis couldn't help laughing out loud. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Her eyes danced and her lips tilted up. Such a beautiful woman, and in her prime. She looked so happy at the news, joyful really, like she hadn't had any good news in a long, long time.

"You could start some preliminary planning. Lining up funding and whatnot. Of course, I wouldn't break any ground until I had the deed in my hand," he ended firmly.

He handed her the calling card of an architect, also new in town. A man from England by the name of Hunter Tate.

"He's highly recommended. Works quite a bit in the South, bringing back structures from ruin."

Well, my house would certainly qualify for that, Scarlett thought. Although it was her marriage that ruined it, not Sherman. But no bitterness today! Today is a good day, she would make sure of it!

"There's another man in town right now working with Mr. Tate, you might want to speak with. A hotelier from New Orleans, consulting on various renovations as well. He could potentially be very interested in your project, and I could arrange an introduction. Name's Leif Erickson. Big Norwegian fellow. Perhaps a supper business meeting? They are both rather busy during the day."

A business dinner at a local establishment with two men from out of town would certainly put some tongues to wagging, but Scarlett squared her shoulders. She was a businesswoman, and she would be working. She would have Pork wait in the carriage outside. Atlanta could get over it. She'd vowed to stop being chained to her reputation, and had done so much outside of societal norms, and would continue to do so much - why, they'd really have a hard time keeping up with it all. Besides, these men weren't scallawags.

"Yes, please tell them both that I would like to invite them to dinner at the National, one night this week at their convenience. Oh, I do hope they will come!"

Ennis assured her that they would, and offered to come along as her legal counsel, which she accepted gladly and went on her merry way. She stopped and picked up a notebook at Kennedy's and then, on a whim, took a stroll down to Inman Park to stop and take notes. She had so many plans!

The name and concept of the hotel were things she had struggled with on sleepless nights when she was trying not to think about her troubles and her past. Certainly, the happiest times of her life after the war had been her honeymoon in New Orleans. The sights and sounds, the food and gaiety, and the architecture. If somehow the Peachtree house could be renovated to look like one of the ones in New Orleans - well, that would be something. And she could hire a French chef, perhaps a New Orleans chef. Play music, that wonderful, lively music! There was nothing like that in Atlanta. Scarlett's mind whirled. If she liked New Orleans so much, the people in town here would, too.

And the name. Butler was out of the question. Hamilton and Kennedy, meh. O'Hara was so obviously Irish. But, mmm. What about Robillard? The Robillard. It sounded right and it was French. Scarlett smiled as she wrote it down. There was the matter of funding, but Scarlett was not without means or ways to obtain what she might need. She'd have to work out the figures before she knew exactly how to go about paying for the renovations, but she was sure she could find a way.

She really needed to wait until she talked to the consultants before she went any further. She put down her notebook and glanced around Inman Park. It was a nice area, full of Victorian houses, most a good bit bigger than Pitty Pat's, but not too big. It would be a big step down as far as luxury was concerned, but she found she just didn't care.

Scarlett wandered around until she found one that looked unoccupied. In fabulous shape, it had only recently been vacated, she figured. Mint green with a wraparound porch, classical Victorian features, with a small carriage house and servants' quarters around back. It appeared to be solidly built of quality materials. She wanted something that didn't need much renovation. She would have to add a modern bath, of course, couldn't live without that. Something else to check in with Mr. King about.

The house was definitely for sale though, there was a discreet sign in the front window indicating such. She could purchase it with her leftover mill money. A proper way to spend that, housing her family without help from her third husband. Frank would have liked it.

Excited in spite of herself, about a more simple home. Her home. Rhett would need a room for all his things if he planned to ever stay. It had not escaped her notice that he hadn't addressed her visitation requests in his telegram, but perhaps he needed time to think about that one. She decided to worry about that later.

And she'd have to pack up Bonnie's clothes and toys. A moment of deep sadness clouded the otherwise fine day. She could farm out some of the toys and clothes, but not anything Rhett might find sentimental. She decided to put it all into storage until he came home. Or whatever he would call the new house.

Scarlett felt like a trespasser as she tiptoed around the house, looking in windows and surveying the garden. A classic structure, perfect. Untouched by the war, and it had character. It also had an uplifting air, happy. She wished she could remember who had lived there before. It was still partially furnished from what she could see, and tastefully so, and she found that she was fine with the current décor. She could change it later, she decided. Right now, she had another house to deconstruct and a hotel to build.

The children seemed cautiously excited when she told them of her plans at supper that night. She let her eyes linger on their faces. Wade's earnest, heartfelt eyes that always made her think of Melly too much, and Ella's sweet little face that had a beauty all of her own, when Scarlett took time to see her, really see her. Their lessons together were improving their relationship, and Scarlett resolved quietly not to let her new project interfere with her time with the children. She had done that in the past and lost too much.

When she went to bed that night she couldn't sleep for all her anticipation. She read through Wade's Shakespeare assignment so she could discuss it with him on the morrow, and practiced a bit of Ella's French lesson (which might really come in handy with her new endeavors!) but she found she couldn't concentrate. It was going to take ten years to work through that tome of Shakespeare. The French though—that had some practical potential.

But as usual, as the hours dragged on, her mind went to him. She hated that. Hated it with a passion. Thinking of Rhett made her so sad and regretful and guilty and … mournful, really. So much had gone wrong. His fault, her fault, and misfortune. Isn't that what he had called her love for him? Misfortune. An apt phrase at this particular juncture in time.

A thought came to her, and she grinned malevolently at its brilliance—if she focused on his physical faults it would help her forget what it felt like when he had once smiled at her and took her hand. When he held her; that is, when he used to hold her, years ago. It would help her forget how he smelled, tasted. What that voice did to her when it became warm and husky. And how it sliced her apart when it grew cold and cutting.

Scarlett laid on her back and folded her hands across her stomach as she contemplated this new exercise to exorcise her ex. He'd always seemed so perfect to her, other than his mean and caddish ways, and she had believed nearly every word he had ever uttered - at least when she was aware it wasn't said in jest. He'd never hesitated to point out each and every one of her shortcomings, however.

Here was something else she needed to deconstruct. Firstly she decided that Rhett had a ridiculous mustache; too long, too thin, too clipped, and too - Rhett. And his feet were rather small and elegant compared to the rest of his body. His large, comforting, masculine, beautiful body.

Also, his manner of dress was sometimes just a bit over the top. Too perfect. Annoyingly so, really.

Oh, this was fun! She decided to do this every night, when she missed him at night, right before she went to sleep, and again, first thing in the morning, right when she woke up, she could focus on these things. She worked on it some more and after a while, his image had become cartoonish in her mind, the mustache pencil-thin and stretching across his face, his fine eyes beady, his shirt a mass of ruffles and bows, his feet tiny and pointed in silly shoes and barely supporting his huge frame.

When this cartoon opened its mouth a litany of nonsense burst forwards, riddles and Latin and lines from poetry, laced with sarcasm and cryptic, hateful things, cushioned and encased by a softening of his expression here, a hardening there. A few (so very few!) sweet words in between. She let her (poor, in his opinion) imagination contort his voice and run the words together until they were a cacophony of noise; useless, senseless noise.

So it was only in the very last moments before she lost consciousness for the night that she saw him in her mind's eye as he really had been, laughing beside her, talking and holding and doing something that in retrospect, and far too late, seemed very much like loving.

It was progress, she told her cold, hurting heart. A baby step.

ooooOOOOooooOOOOoooo

As he retired that same night Rhett found that thinking about his upcoming trip to Nassau had somehow lost its charm. Even the thought of the women did not appeal to him. Must be the louse ghosts haunting him, he tried to reason. He also remembered how his hotel, the finest in the city, had still somehow stunk of burnt cabbage the entire last time he'd been there, and the air had also felt stagnant all over the island. There had been no peace or charm, to say the least. He wasn't looking forward to it at all, not since his talk at Coddington's. Something unnamed about that conversation had managed to sour his former anticipation as he replayed it in his mind over the course of the evening.

And the more he thought about Scarlett's letter, the more out of sorts he felt. He knew that woman, knew her to her bones. She was up to something.

He had commitments to some long-time sailing and fishing companions, so the trip would go on, and he would probably enjoy it, for the sake of the scenery change if nothing else. But he resolved as he watched the end of his cigar burn, to make a quick trip to Atlanta upon his return. A surprise visit, with Bahamian gifts for Wade and Ella. He did miss their sweet faces, after all.

And he had no intention of sending a message ahead of time. He'd show up unannounced as usual. Scarlett's request be damned.

ooooOOOOooooOOOO

Thank you all so much for the reviews and support! They show up in my email but not on ff dot net. Some issue that happens often, and should be resolved soon.

As a side note I'd like to explain that although I try to stay true to the times, I don't go in for the more flowery language of the 1870s. In short, it gets on my nerves and slows me down. My muse is running hot right now and I can't afford to muck her up with it. Hope it doesn't pull you out of the story too much.

Also, I don't completely hate Rhett. I just think he's a humongous ass on many occasions who wasn't as mature as one might expect a man 17 years older than his 22-year-old bride to be. He has the potential to grow just as much as she does. That's all I will say for now.

Peace!

misscyn