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Adele woke up to the blue-jays’ sweet music calling to her from the cherry blossom tree outside her second-story window. She pushed the silk nightshades off her forehead and stretched her arms up towards the gauzy canopy above her bedposts. A dainty yawn escaped her lips and she flung her feet onto the floor. She stumbled over a $450 satin gown from the cotillion the night before, now crumpled on the floor. No matter, she thought. She had been sneaking wine from the waiters all night long, and had spurted a mouthful onto her dress when Hank, a particularly handsy serviceman, had suddenly squeezed her waist. She would have Gretchen, her personal maid and lifelong confidant clean it before Daddy had the chance to reprimand her. After throwing on a light cotton dress, Adele skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Gretchen was serving her father breakfast. Her father commented on how much Adele was beginning to resemble her mother, just like he did every morning. Their wavy brown hair, the green eyes, the upturned little nose. The semblance went further than their appearance, much to her father’s anguish. He saw, more and more each day, the same sense of boredom with her surroundings, the same burning desire to break free from her cage, spread her wings, and leave her poor Daddy waiting at the door. It was the same look he saw in his wife’s eyes seventeen years before when, with a two-week-old child at her breast, Adele’s mother had announced her plans to divorce her father and move to Italy, then France, then Austria, and then possibly Ireland. No matter the place, as long as she was free to roam, without being tied down by a screaming baby, an aging husband, and a 600-acre farm in the middle of Blue Ridge, Georgia. So, to placate Adele’s roaming eye, her father showered her with affection and love, both from the heart and from the wallet. She had her own debit account at Bloomingdale’s by her eleventh birthday. By the age of fourteen, she owned more jewelry than most grown women who attended her birthday gala. He loved her so. At the breakfast table, Adele kissed her father on his graying temple as she got up to leave. Before traipsing out the door, she turned over her shoulder and smiled at him. Despite her most rebellious intentions, she loved him too. Approaching the horse stables, Adele breathed in the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and the river, just 100 yards from the edge of their property. No matter how many corsages or pearl necklaces or boxes of chocolates her father flung at her, her most beloved possession was her land, the land she would come to inherit someday. The land her mother had once called home. Sighing, Adele reflected on the unique relationship her mother and her shared. A few precious artifacts were all she had to cling to. A wooden comb from India, a glass kangaroo from Australia, a child's kimono from Japan. Sent with love every other birthday or Christmas, depending on how busy her mother's social life happened to be that season. So glamorous, so chic, so worldly. Who wouldn't want a mother like that? She ran her hand along the rough wooden side of the barn where the horses slept, and was immediately hit with memories of three summers before. His breath was heavy and hot as he breathed against her neck. The buttons on her pale yellow dress popped off and rolled under the hay that littered the floor. There were splinters in her thighs as he pressed her against the aged, wooden slat. He moved closer and she snapped her eyes shut. Adele opened her eyes and forced herself out of her daydream. Shaking her head, she smoothed her slip under the hem of her dress. It was time for Sunday school. She set off down the dirt road into town. 