All for the Love of a Lady: A Col. Primrose Mystery

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Leslie Ford. All for the Love of a Lady: A Col. Primrose Mystery

ALL FOR THE. LOVE OF A LADY

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LESLIE FORD

The fact that it was July and not January may have had no effect on the end of the Crane-Durbin business, but it had plenty on the beginning. If Molly Crane had been busy thawing out the drain-pipes of their small house in Georgetown, and Courtney Durbin had spent her time at the telephone, as she swore she did, trying to get an extra teacupful of oil from the ration board to heat their large house on Massachusetts Avenue, neither of them would have been at the Abbotts’ pool on that Wednesday night. Of course, better men than I—especially since I’m Grace Latham and a woman . . . widow, actually, on what a kind friend once said was the glamorous side of forty—better men than I have said that “if” is the most bootless word in any language. It’s only a point on the circumference of a vicious circle, or at best the starting place of an endless chain stretching nowhere. If Courtney Durbin had married Cass Crane, as everybody expected her to for years, she wouldn’t have married that singular but very rich newcomer to Washington with the war, Mr. D. J. Durbin. If she’d married Cass, Cass wouldn’t have married Molly. And Molly might have married Randy Fleming, who’d always adored her. And it would have saved a lot of trouble.

.....

“Now, who was that, dear?”

“That’s Grace Latham.”

.....