There was a demure little mouth,
Who at night was a terrible south,
She drank all the whiskey
It made her quite frisky,
And she frolicked all over the houth.
“Oh, Charles,” said Chloe. “What would your father say?”
“The old bastard is dead now,” said Charles, pouring himself a glass of bourbon from the drinks trolly Carter had brought out to the porch.
“But what will they do? How will they cope?” asked Chloe. The broad porch faced west, and the sky promised a gentle, bronzed sunset.
“That will be entirely their decision,” said Charles. “That’s actually the concept of ‘freedom’.”
“Don’t condescend,” Chloe said. She turned to the young woman who sat on a short stool beside her, embroidering Chloe’s initials onto a fine cotton handkerchief, with scarlet thread. “Fetch me a glass of lemonade, won’t you, Tammy?”
“I’ve got it,” said Charles, and he poured cold lemonade from a pitcher on the trolley into a tall glass. He handed the glass to his wife, who nodded in appreciation.
Tammy resumed her sewing, in silence.