That couldn't be Rhett.

But of course it could be him. She knew from Aunt Pauline's letters that he had more or less taken up a permanent residence in Charleston in the years since she had seen him last. Yet she had not allowed herself to think she might see him, had not prepared herself to see him. She still thought of him as he had been in those first months of their separation, unable to stay anywhere for very long. His visits to Atlanta had been as painful as they were brief, their only mercy. She had convinced herself that even if Charleston was nominally his home now, he could hardly be expected to be found there.

Scarlett was drawn out of her brief reverie by a light touch on her arm. The waiter had pulled out her chair and was trying to reclaim her attention. She sat heavily, too tired for grace, the strain of the day and the shock of Rhett's presence dragging her down. The waiter left her with menu in hand, and she was shocked back to alertness by the blurring of tears in the corners of her eyes. She would not cry here in the restaurant of the Mills House. Scarlett skimmed the menu quickly, hoping that food might stir her appetite. It had been almost nonexistent in that first year after Rhett had left her, and though taste had come back, she had not recovered her former exuberant delight in gluttony. Tonight, she was eating only because she knew she must, because if today had been hard, tomorrow would be worse.

Aunt Eulalie's funeral would take place in the morning, followed by the burial, and she would need all her strength to get through them both. Aunt Pauline was old and useless in her own grief, Suellen too busy dealing with her boisterous offspring. The Benteen brood had entirely overrun the old, cramped house on the Battery where the sisters had lived. Scarlett was glad for the brief respite of the hotel. She tried to be glad as well, that she had only Wade and Ella to bother with, and they were both old enough now to be nearly no trouble at all. But her heart shrank from such gratitude, with an unarticulated feeling that somehow such a thought was a betrayal of her other children.

Worse than even Pauline's inutility and Sue's bitter preoccupation was the unending support of Eleanor Butler. Eleanor's and Eulalie's friendship had never wavered, and now Scarlett had had to face the woman who was still her mother-in-law, when she had not seen mother nor son - her own husband! - in years. And face her knowing that Eleanor knew she and Rhett were beyond estranged; how could she not, when he lived in his mother's house? Eleanor knew more of Rhett's whereabouts and activities than Scarlett did, a thought which prompted the brief suspicion that Eleanor would have known both that Scarlett would be returning to her hotel and that Rhett would be there as well. Scarlett thrust the paranoia aside. Eleanor's kindness, her steady support as Scarlett once again stepped in to do the work no one else could, was nearly unbearable. And she would have to face her again in the morning.

Scarlett ordered her meal by habit more than taste. She chose the ham because she knew she liked ham, but without any real interest in any of the dishes. When the waiter left her alone again, she found herself helpless to resist the pull of Rhett's presence.

There was no doubt it was her estranged husband. His table was at a slight angle to her own, so though his back was to her, the quarter turn offered an occasional glimpse of his profile. There was no mistaking him; the broad shoulders under a perfectly fitted jacket, so well-tailored, the fine fabric almost lustrous in the filmy gaslight of the dining room. His presence was as overpowering as ever, the sheer size and power of his body physically striking even from a distance.

Rhett appeared to be in animated conversation with his companion, a man Scarlett did not recognize, and why would she. Every so often one large, brown hand would raise in an emphatic gesture. Scarlett's eyes followed his hand, captivated by the evident strength that made an incongruous picture with the elegance of his movements; the blunt nails, the black hair that spread beyond the hems of his sleeves. Watching him only made her feel more hollow, her stomach so uncomfortably empty that the thought of food threatened to make her nauseous. When it arrived, she pushed it around on her plate, knowing she was behaving like a sullen child but unable to force herself to take more than a few bites.

The food did not stimulate her appetite, but the wine flowed far too easily. She was lifting her third glass to her lips when she realized Rhett was no longer seated. Swallowing hurriedly, Scarlett set her glass down and raised her eyes again in time to see her husband and the stranger walk past her table. For one all too brief moment, their eyes met - then he was gone. His steps had not even slowed as he passed her. Had his eyes widened, just a little? It had all happened so quickly - she had barely been able to look at him, and now, he was gone.

It might be years again before she saw him. She would leave Charleston before the end of the week. It was more time than he had spent in Atlanta in years - even when he had still been spending time in Atlanta. Spending time with her.

Scarlett pushed her plate back. She was done. She would go to bed, get what sleep she could to fortify herself for the long day ahead. Rhett's presence in Charleston did not affect her at all. It wouldn't change anything. She would still have to get up in the morning and bury her aunt, while carrying the grief of the family on her shoulders as well as her own. She snatched her napkin from her lap and tossed it down on the table.

"Scarlett." The voice was smooth and familiar. Scarlett's hand clutched at the edge of the table and she swallowed painfully hard. He didn't offer her a greeting, no polite sidestepping. His voice was as blank as his face had been when he had first seen her. "I shouldn't be surprised to see you; my mother told me about your aunt Eulalie. But what are you doing in the hotel? I expected you would be staying in your aunts' home."

Scarlett's tongue felt overly large and thick in her mouth. She shouldn't be staying at the hotel or at the family home. She should be staying with her husband. Squaring her shoulders, she looked Rhett in the eye.

"Oh, well, the house is too busy - too much."

How strange, to step into the middle of a conversation with a husband you hadn't seen in years.

"Is the meal not to your liking?"

Scarlett glanced at the plate of food, now gone cold. The gravy was congealing unpleasantly. "No, I suppose it's not. What do you want, Rhett?"

"May I sit down?"

"If you must."

Rhett stiffened. "I see.".

He almost sounded hurt! That must be a joke her ears were playing. If the years of her marriage had taught her anything in retrospect, it was that she could not trust her own senses when it came to Rhett. Why should Rhett be hurt! She was the one who had been left - she was the one in mourning again. He had no right to be hurt.

She sighed. "I'm just tired, Rhett. It's been a long day."

How strange - and yet, how easy. Despite the lump in her throat and the squeezing pressure on her heart, it was still so easy to talk to him. It was just also painful as well.

"Of course. Well," Rhett said, shoving his hands in his pockets. Scarlett studied him with slightly narrowed eyes. Now she couldn't be mistaken, he seemed nervous or at least unsure of himself. He seemed - very much not like Rhett. "Do you need anything?" he asked abruptly.

Scarlett nearly laughed out loud. Instead, she made a fist, digging her nails into her palm. She rose, drawing herself up to appear as tall as she possibly could.

She still felt dwarfed by his presence.

"Isn't it a little late to ask?" Scarlett said, the snap in her voice faltering before the end.

Scarlett left the dining room without waiting for Rhett to answer, but she could not resist turning her head for one last look at him. If she hadn't seen him in three years, who knew when she might see him again? His physique was restored to the fitness he had maintained before their daughter's death, and though his face was a little more lined, his hair beginning to grey, he was still undeniably handsome.

If it was hard to read his expressions up close, it was even more difficult from a distance. Impossible to tell what was in his eyes, much less his heart.

In the end, she knew him no better than she ever had.

Just when I'd stopped

Opening doors,

Finally knowing

The one that I wanted was yours

- A Little Night Music, Stephen Sondheim

A/N: Hello. I'm still writing! As of the last post I made in August, I bought a condo and moved and my derby season started back up and I've just been really short on time. Unpacking is going very slowly (still not done and it's been over a month), which means when I have free time at home I have to prioritize that over writing. I haven't been able to get back into my main WIP. I've been trying to squeeze in work on a couple things that I thought would be small and relatively quick to write, so I'd have something to post in the meantime, but S&R are not cooperating. I havebeen sitting on a completed story inspired by A Little Night Music. As I was lucky to see a small production of another Sondheim show, Company, last Friday, I've decided to post this instead. It's short, perhaps a little abrupt, but I had an idea and they were reasonably cooperative so here we are. I should perhaps also disclose that although I am starting this out in a T rating, it's going to have to drop behind the "M wall" by the third installment. ~K