AFTER LUNCH, EADIE SHOWERED AND WENT OUT INTO the garden to do yoga and try to meditate. The rain had washed the air and left it cool and clean and damp. Sunshine filtered through the branches of the live oaks and pooled in brilliant puddles across the bricked patio and the lush green lawn. She tried to imagine herself floating on a white cloud. She tried to concentrate on her breathing, but it was no use. Her mind jumped about from subject to subject. What was it the Buddhists called it? Monkey mind? Her monkey mind was loose and it was horny as hell. There was no use denying it. The scenes Eadie was conjuring in her mind had less to do with white fluffy clouds and more to do with the Kama Sutra. Being in love with her husband wasn't working out.

Being in love with Trevor Boone, the next literary golden boy, wasn't what she had expected. It was only a matter of time before fame found him and then she would lose him completely to an adoring public who would listen with rapt attention while he gave his opinion on everything from literary symbolism to the effects of global warming on emerging weather patterns. It wasn't too hard to imagine. He would travel the country on publicity tours and he would, of course, offer to take her with him. But she wouldn't go, because what could be more depressing than watching Trevor fulfill a lifetime dream while she hadn't been able to work in over a year? When it was all she could do just to drag herself out of bed every morning? How pathetic and sad would that be?

Eadie wrenched her Monkey Mind back to the present. She tried not to think about loneliness and the delights of the flesh. On the sidewalk beyond the wrought-iron fence young mothers pushed baby strollers on their way to the park, and groups of Catholic school children in plaid uniforms straggled by on their way home from school. The distant streetcars whirred along St. Charles, clanging their warning bells at every block. Eadie closed her eyes and tried again to concentrate on her breathing. She had only recently taken up meditation and like so much else in her life, it just wasn't working out. It was too slow and sedate for Eadie, too introspective. And she didn't like the way her mind would suddenly veer off into strange dimensions, traveling down dark pathways she had long ago ceased to visit, and didn't want to revisit now.

She opened her eyes. Blinked. Dappled sunlight filled the garden. Above her the old live oaks spread their branches protectively, pushing their massive roots up through the bricked sidewalk, ancient veterans of hurricanes and floods and civil war.

She closed her eyes again and tried to concentrate on her breathing. In, out. In, out. But it was hard to do when hungry. She should eat something, she decided, something good, something healthy, but she wasn't sure what. Maybe some fish. Maybe a po' boy sandwich. She could walk down to the po' boy restaurant on the corner of Magazine and Valmont.

But walking down to the corner restaurant would have less to do with a po' boy sandwich, she knew, and more to do with the twenty-two-year-old art student who worked behind the counter.

His name was Richard Arcenaux, and Eadie had met him six months ago when she wandered in off the street. He called her “Ea-die,” putting the emphasis on the second syllable, in that soft, sexy New Orleans accent that made her feel like she was walking across the deck of a rolling ship.

Eadie sighed and opened her eyes. Monkey Mind had gotten the best of her. There was no use denying it. Somewhere in the house her phone was chirping again. She got up and went inside, finding it finally beneath a pillow on the library sofa. The house phone began to ring incessantly but Eadie ignored it, too, checking the voice mail on her cell. Trevor had called for a third time but he hadn't left a message, which meant he was definitely going to be delayed in New York.

Fine. If he wasn't here, she'd use the next best thing. She'd do whatever she had to do, given the circumstances. Meditation sure as hell wasn't working. She stuffed the cell phone back under the sofa cushions and went upstairs to find her vibrator. She had named it Milton, which probably wasn't a healthy thing, she knew, but over the years, during two trial separations from Trevor, she had grown quite fond of the little machine. She rummaged around in the bathroom drawers for a while before finally locating it behind a stack of towels in the linen closet. Since she and Trevor had reconciled and moved to New Orleans, she hadn't had much need for Milton. It lay in its little box, patient and gleaming and ready for love.

Eadie lay down in her big empty bed and thought about Richard Arcenaux. She thought about his dark eyes and his full lower lip. She closed her eyes and imagined his arms around her. She imagined kissing his mouth. Ea-die. Do you want a po' boy?

Too bad meditation wasn't this easy.

She had just switched Milton on when she heard a sound deep within the house. The ghosts were back. She kept her eyes closed and imagined Richard climbing the stairs, two at a time, young and strong and eager. She heard a soft sliding sound but she refused to open her eyes, afraid she might see something otherworldly shimmering in the doorway.

“Eadie. What in the hell are you doing?”

Trevor stood in the doorway, looking tall and blond and handsome. His hair had grown shaggy around his ears and there was several days' growth of beard on his face. That's what the Vikings looked like stepping off the long boats, Eadie thought, shivering and pressing her knees together. She turned the vibrator off and sat up on her elbows.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” she said. “I'm pleasuring myself with Milton.”

“I thought I told you to get rid of that damn thing,” he said.

“You can't honestly tell me you're jealous of a mechanical object,” she said, but he was already striding across the room and before she could react, he had taken Milton and unceremoniously tossed it out one of the opened French doors. They heard a distant clattering sound as Milton landed on the bricked patio.

Eadie recovered quickly after that. She flung a pillow at his head, followed by a picture frame, an alarm clock, and a magazine. Each time he ducked and advanced closer to the bed, grinning.

“I've been trying to reach you for six hours,” he said. “Why don't you answer your cell phone? Or the house phone, for that matter?”

She looked around, trying to figure out what else she could throw. “I thought you were calling to tell me you weren't coming home.”

“Well, actually, sweetheart, I was calling to see if you wanted to go out to dinner tonight. But I can see you have other plans for this evening.”

“You flatter yourself.”

He grinned. “I don't think so,” he said.

“I've been alone for four days, peckerhead,” she said. “Shut up in this big old house while you were off doing God knows what.”

“Is a Georgia Homecoming Queen allowed to call her husband a peckerhead? Because I'm thinking, no. I'm thinking that might be grounds for impeachment or crown recall or whatever it is they do to bad homecoming queens.” He pulled his shirt over his head and stepped out of his shoes.

“And I don't much like what you did to Milton,” Eadie said. She leaned over on her stomach to reach for another picture frame, but Trevor, taking advantage of a lull in the action, grabbed her by the feet and pulled her toward him.

“Did you miss me?” he said.

She flipped over on her back and aimed another kick at his head but he caught her feet easily and held them with one hand while he deftly pulled her yoga pants over her hips with the other. Eadie, who was ticklish, giggled.

“I'm going to take that as a yes,” he said. He stood up and unbuckled his belt. Eadie, released, scrambled up against the headboard. “Don't think it's going to be that easy,” she said, trying to sound bored. She wasn't fooling anyone. Looking at her husband, she could see why women threw themselves at him at cocktail parties.

“It's a good thing I got home when I did,” he said, shaking his head like a doctor diagnosing a serious condition. “It looks like I got here just in time.”

“Just in time for what?” she said, and aimed another kick at his head.

“Just in time for this.” He grinned and grabbed her ankles and pulled her toward him. He said, “You know I can do things Milton can't.”

Of course he was right. After awhile there was no denying the truth of this statement. Eadie didn't even try.

————

FOUR DAYS BEFORE HER WEDDING, NITA ARRIVED HOME TO FIND Jimmy Lee and Whitney in the yard playing ball with Otis, the black Labrador. Jimmy Lee was holding the ball over his head and Whitney was leaning against his chest, trying to take it from him. Otis bounced around their feet, barking. Nita was amazed at how much Whitney had grown. She was tall for twelve. Almost as tall as Jimmy Lee. A few more inches and she wouldn't have any trouble taking the ball away from him.

He saw Nita and waved, flinging the ball toward the lake. Otis dutifully went after it. Whitney glanced over her shoulder and, seeing her mother, frowned and punched Jimmy Lee in the shoulder with her fist. Nita tried not to read too much into the disappointment she saw on her daughter's face. Her relationship with Whitney had grown prickly over the past year, but surely that was normal. Nita and her own mother had never had an adversarial relationship, but Nita had read enough books on child-rearing to know that sullen teenage girls were as common as ticks on a hound dog.

Whitney thumped Jimmy Lee on the head, and he began tickling her. It was an old game of theirs. Nita climbed slowly out of the car. She had left them in charge of stringing the wires the Japanese lanterns would hang from, but she could only see one lone wire running from the porch soffit to a distant pine tree. “I thought I told y'all to get those strung up,” she said, pointing.

“We're taking a break,” Whitney screeched, in between her giggles.

“Don't sass your mother,” Jimmy Lee said. He let go of her and walked toward Nita, smiling. A slight breeze ruffled his dark hair. He wore faded blue jeans and a T-shirt that read Motes Construction across the front. Whitney thumped him between his broad shoulder blades, trying to draw his attention, but he ignored her. He picked Nita up in his arms and spun her around.

“Are you ready to take the plunge, Miss James?” He never used her married name. It was as if he wanted to forget that part of her life had ever happened. He didn't mind that she had children, he just didn't like thinking about her being married to another man.

“I guess I am, Mr. Motes,” she said, kissing him lightly, thinking she must be one of the luckiest brides alive to have a husband as young and handsome as he was.

“Motes,” Whitney screeched. “What kind of a stupid name is that?”

He set Nita on her feet and kissed her hungrily. Whitney shot her a murderous look and stalked past them toward the house. He was still kissing Nita when the door slammed, hard, behind them.

He looked up then. “What's wrong with her?” he said.

She put her hands on both sides of his face and gave him a little shake. “She's gotten too big for tickling.”

“Does anyone ever get too big for tickling?” he said, pinching her side.

“Stop that,” she said. He'd cut his hair and it lay neatly against the nape of his neck. He'd always worn it long before, shoulder length, like a pirate or a Creek warrior, and she'd liked that, but this was nice, too. “Did Lavonne call?”

“She did. She said they'd deliver the tables and chairs on Friday morning.”

“I sure hope it doesn't rain.”

“The Weather Channel says Saturday will be clear and sunny.”

Nita looked beyond him to the yard littered with wire and tools and dog toys. A rusty patio table with four chairs and a sagging umbrella sat under a chinaberry tree. “Just remember it was your idea to have a wedding. It was your idea to have it in the backyard.”

“Hey.” He put his finger under her chin and lifted it gently. “It's gonna be okay. You have to have a little faith, is all.”

She smiled but her throat felt tight. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just prenuptial jitters.”

“Everything will be fine. You'll see.” He dropped his head to nuzzle her neck but Nita protested. She put her hand on his chest and stared at him until he stopped grinning.

“I'm happy,” she said. “I'm happy and I don't want to jinx it. I don't want anything to change.”

He shook his head slowly. “It's not gonna change, baby, it's only gonna get better.”

She put her hand up to his cheek. “Promise?” she said softly.

He grinned lazily, tightening his arms around her. “I promise, Mrs. Motes,” he said, leaning to bite her earlobe.

LAVONNE FINISHED THE 941 REPORTS AND WENT OUT FRONT TO relieve Little Moses so he could take a cigarette break. The lunch crowd had thinned considerably, rain was bad for tourism, and the new girl, Maureen, had no trouble handling the few customers that remained. Lavonne took out her checklist and went down the column carefully. She had ordered the chicken and the beef for Nita's wedding barbecue, and the tables and chairs were set to be delivered on Friday. Nita was expecting around seventy-five guests and she had insisted on a simple menu and red-checked tablecloths because she had had the fancy wedding before, and look how well that turned out. Everything was on schedule and Lavonne was glad because Eadie was arriving tomorrow and she seemed to be in a hard-drinking kind of mood. God only knew how much work she'd get done once Eadie got here.

The bell on the front door rang and Lavonne looked up. “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

He pushed the hood of his rain jacket back and wiped his brow, smiling apologetically. “Sorry,” he said. “I don't mean to drip water all over your freshly waxed floor.”

She shrugged. “That's what mops are for.” He had been in before, his face looked familiar.

“It always takes me a minute to decide,” he said, leaning over the counter. “Everything looks so good.”

“Well, everything is good,” Lavonne said. “I can vouch for that.”

He grinned. He was about forty-five, Lavonne was guessing; not tall, but the kind of man who kept himself in good shape. He wore no wedding ring. “Let me have a dozen of the dinner rolls,” he said. “And a loaf of the sourdough bread, sliced.”

Little Moses stuck his head out of the swinging door and said, “I'll get it.” She wiped down the counter while Little Moses went in the back to slice a sourdough loaf.

The man watched her work, still smiling. He had laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Lavonne liked that. A man with laugh lines in his face couldn't be all bad. “Lavonne,” he said, reading her name tag. “That doesn't sound Jewish.”

“I'm not Jewish,” she said. “But my partner is.”

He stuck his hand across the counter. “Joe Solomon,” he said.

Lavonne shook hands with him. “Lavonne Zibolsky.”

“You don't sound like a native.”

“Neither do you.”

He laughed and dropped his hand. “I'm from New York originally. Upstate. I got transferred down here about six months ago.”

“I'm from Cleveland. Originally. But I've been here almost twenty years.”

“Wow. You must like it.”

“I'm getting used to it. I've learned to mash a button and carry someone to the store, if you know what I mean.”

“Very impressive.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her as if he were trying to read something in her face. “Let me guess,” he said. “You followed a husband down here and you both liked it so much you refused a transfer to Minneapolis or Chicago or Buffalo or someplace else where it snows twelve feet a year.”

“I followed him,” Lavonne said. “He left. I stayed.”

Little Moses came out with the sliced sourdough loaf and Lavonne pointed Joe toward the register. He followed her, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

“I don't know how you do it,” he said, as she rang him up.

“Do what?”

“Stay so slim. If I worked here I'd weigh three hundred pounds.”

Lavonne was dismayed to find herself blushing. She stuffed the loaf of bread and the rolls quickly into a bag. “I hope your family enjoys the bread,” she said, handing it to him.

“My family?” He grinned, taking the bag from her and shoving it down the front of his rain jacket. “It's just me,” he said.

Lavonne smiled and went back to wiping down the counter.

At the door, he turned around and looked at her. “Same time next week?” he said.

“I'll be here,” she said.

He grinned and went out, the door closing softly on his heels.

VIRGINIA HAD BEEN TRYING FOR WEEKS TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO wrangle an invitation to Nita's wedding, so it was a special bit of luck when she ran into Nita at the grocery store the Wednesday before the ceremony. She had not seen Nita in months, and Virginia almost didn't recognize her. She looked so young and fresh, not like she had looked when she was married to Charles. Then she had looked pale and worn. Virginia supposed Nita's new look probably had something to do with the young handyman she was marrying. In Virginia's day, of course, such a thing would have been scandalous, but it was a sign of the times, she supposed, that everything seemed to be changing. Even here in the Bible Belt, a woman could run off and leave her husband of sixteen years just because she wasn't happy. She could take up with a man thirteen years her junior and no one thought anything of it.

“Yoo-hoo, Nita!” Virginia said, smiling and waving her hand. She pushed her cart in front of Nita's, effectively blocking any escape.

Nita, startled, put down a grapefruit and smiled bravely at her ex-mother-in-law. “Virginia,” she said calmly. “How are you?”

Virginia smiled, showing a line of tiny white teeth. “Oh, I'm fine,” she said. Nita's eyes slid past her to the grapefruits. “And how are the children? I had hoped to see them at my wedding. Charles said something about them being … indisposed.”

Nita looked uncomfortable. This barb had found its mark surely and swiftly, as Virginia had known it would. “Yes. About that,” Nita said, glancing at Virginia and then again at the grapefruits. Color crept into her cheeks and along the line of her brow. “They had planned on coming to your wedding, of course, but then something came up. …” Her voice trailed off helplessly. Nita had always been a bad liar and it appeared her skills at deception had not improved over the past year. Virginia wondered how in the world she had managed to pull off whatever trickery she had used to crush Charles into submission. Any fool could read Nita's intention in her face. But then again, Virginia thought unpleasantly, I didn't see an ambush coming, either. She stood watching her ex-daughter-in-law flounder around beneath her sharp steely gaze like a moth pinned to a mounting board.

Nita cleared her throat and tried again. “I've been meaning to bring them by. They've gotten so big you'd hardly recognize them. And Logan's driving now. He just got his license.” She picked up a grapefruit. “I assumed Charles would bring them by to see you on one of his custody weekends, and I've been so busy planning …” She stopped. Color flooded her face. “I'm back in school, you know. My days are pretty crazy.”

“But of course, you've been so busy planning the wedding and all,” Virginia murmured. “Didn't I hear that you were getting remarried?” This barb also found its mark.

Nita put one hand on her forehead and rubbed the worry lines that appeared there suddenly. “You know, I've been meaning to call you about that,” she began hesitantly.

“Don't these look good?” Virginia said, picking up a grapefruit.

“I've gotten so busy planning the wedding and being back in school and all.”

“Two for a dollar,” Virginia said, sniffing the grapefruit. “Doesn't that seem a little expensive?”

“But I had you on my list to call.”

“When I was a child, you could buy a whole bag of grapefruits for a dollar.”

“I thought since you hadn't seen the children in a while …”

“Oranges, too,” Virginia said.

“I thought you might like to attend the wedding,” Nita said flatly.

“Oh, I'd just love to.” Virginia put the grapefruit down and smiled her most charming smile.

Later that night, at dinner, she told Redmon about the invitation to Nita's wedding.

“Aw, honey, you're not planning on going to that are you?” Redmon said. He sat with his elbows on the table, a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, hunkered down over his plate like a hyena guarding a freshly killed wildebeest.

“Of course I'm going,” Virginia snapped, trying not to watch him eat. “Why wouldn't I go?” She was curious to see the life Nita had made for herself after giving up a half-million-dollar house in the suburbs and a country club membership all in the name of love. Running into her in the grocery store had been a personal coup. Virginia was glad to know she still had the power to manipulate her ex-daughter-in-law into doing things she didn't want to do. Now if she could only figure out some way to manipulate her husband.

Redmon was proving more difficult to train than Virginia had originally anticipated. She had expected, after a few days, to have him well in hand, and here it was nearly a week later and he still insisted on slurping his soup and telling off-color jokes at the dinner table. He still persisted, for some unknown reason, in calling her “Queenie” and slapping her on the rear end whenever she was within striking distance.

“But Queenie,” Redmon said, opening his mouth to reveal a mass of half-chewed pot roast. “I thought after what them girls done to your boy, Charles, you wouldn't want to go to that wedding.”

Virginia leaned forward. “What did they do to him?” she asked grimly.

Redmon grinned and smacked his oily lips. “Now, baby doll, you know I can't tell you that. You know what happens in Montana, stays in Montana.”

Virginia gritted her teeth and looked down at the carpet. It was called Elvis Red and Virginia had never seen the color in any decorator's catalog or carpet showroom. She was pretty sure Redmon must have paid thousands of dollars extra to have it specially dyed so it could look as gauche and tacky as it did.

He knew what had happened in Montana because he'd been there. But he wasn't talking. At least not now. Not only had she not been able to pry the secret of the Montana hunting trip out of him, but she'd also been unable to do anything about this monument to bad taste that they lived in. He seemed determined to keep a tight rein on their personal finances, giving her an allowance so small she could barely buy groceries, much less entertain, or redecorate the garish mansion Redmon called home. Just yesterday she had been forced to host her bridge group at the house and she had overheard Lee Anne Bales and Worland Pendergrass giggling and whispering over the gold-plated fixtures in the master bathroom with its marble floors, marble walls, and crushed velvet draperies. Not to mention the built-in, lighted cabinet in the master bedroom highlighting Redmon's collection of Elvis memorabilia, and the king-size bed that was actually suspended from the ceiling by four gold-plated chains. Virginia had glanced in the bedroom door to find Lee Anne and Worland laying on their backs on the gently swaying bed, looking up at the huge ceiling mirror and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.

“My God, it's like a New Orleans whorehouse,” Lee Anne said.

Worland snorted and put her hand over her mouth. “How desperate did Virginia have to be to marry into this,” she said.

Pretty damn desperate. Virginia had stood just outside the door and felt her face burn with rage and humiliation. She could not bear to have people laugh at her. But looking around the great room with its huge stacked stone fireplace, big-screen TV, faux-wood furniture, and overstuffed Naugahyde seating group, complete with built-in beer cooler and remote control caddy, she could not blame them for laughing. She would have laughed, too, had it been anyone besides herself married to Redmon.

“All I'm saying …” Redmon said, grease glistening along his top lip. “All I'm saying is you might not want to show up for that wedding after what them girls did to your boy.” He grinned and shook his head. “Them girls is trouble,” he said.

“They don't know what trouble is,” Virginia muttered, staring balefully at the Elvis Red carpet.

“What?” Redmon bellowed. Good God, he had hair growing out of his ears. She could see it clearly beneath the glare of the gold-plated crystal chandelier. The Big-Ass Chandelier. It was how Virginia referred to the monstrosity in the privacy of her own mind. It was on her long list of things that would have to go.

“Nothing,” she said.

The swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen swung open and Della Smurl came out carrying a plate of biscuits. Della was the only African-American woman in Ithaca, Georgia, still willing to don a maid's outfit and do domestic work—for the right price, of course. She'd struggled to send three children to graduate school before she figured out that white folks—white folks like Virginia, anyway—were willing to pay any price just to feel like they were back in the good old days before civil rights. Before an uppity little black woman by the name of Rosa Parks rocked their world forever and brought the good old days crashing down around their ears.

Now Della made close to six figures a year, took vacations to the Bahamas, and had a retirement account she could live on for thirty years.

“I told you to make yeast rolls, not biscuits,” Virginia said sharply.

Della set the platter of biscuits down, loudly, on the table in front of Redmon. He greedily filled his plate. “I don't have time to make yeast rolls,” Della said belligerently. She'd wear the uniform, for the right price, but she'd be damned if she'd take the same shit she'd had to take before Rosa Parks. “You got to let it rise and beat it down and let it rise again and I don't have time for all that nonsense. Not if you want me to make a pot roast, too.”

“In point of fact,” Virginia said icily, “I did not want you to make pot roast. I wanted you to make Boeuf Bourguignon.” She'd gone to all the trouble to put together a menu, complete with recipes, and Della hadn't followed a single one. Instead, she substituted whatever simple fare she saw fit to substitute.

Della put her hand on her ample hip, but before she could say anything, Redmon said, “I like biscuits. I like pot roast.” He grinned like an idiot with his mouth full of biscuit, and winked at the black woman. She smirked at Virginia and left the room.

Virginia counted to ten. How was she supposed to bring culinary culture to this house when her husband insisted on siding with the help? When his idea of fine dining was baked possum stuffed with sweet potatoes, and turnip greens? Virginia counted to ten again, wondering how in the world Myra had stood it all those years. She stared down at the glass dining table with its gold ram's horn base surrounded by chairs upholstered in faux zebra skin, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

It's not like she hadn't been warned. It's not like she'd gone into this marriage with blinders on. She had known Redmon for years, of course. He had been married to her staunchest comrade-in-arms, Myra (Virginia did not have female friends, only allies), and Virginia had pegged him correctly within ten minutes of their first meeting—he was socially uncouth, and as loud and unsophisticated in his dress and manners as only a nouveau riche redneck can be. Still, when Myra was killed in a tragic tennis accident, and Virginia's own fortunes took a tumble thanks to a portfolio overly invested in growth stocks and growth mutual funds, not to mention the demise of Boone & Broadwell, she had begun to look differently at Redmon. He was rumored to be one of the wealthiest men in Georgia. And she had managed, after several years of steady, patient work, to civilize the Judge.

But she had underestimated Redmon. She saw this now. Behind his Gomer Pyle exterior there lurked the wily, stubborn nature of a street- smart hillbilly—the kind of man her father used to call “smart as an outhouse rat.” And to make matters worse, it seemed Redmon had been carrying a secret torch for Virginia for nearly thirty years, and not only insisted on actually consummating their marriage, but insisted on consummating it nightly.

Virginia spent a good part of her time these days trying to avoid her marriage bed and cursing the chemist who had discovered Viagra.

“We're going to that wedding,” Virginia said curtly.

Redmon chewed steadily and watched her with a crafty expression on his big red face. “What you got up your sleeve, Queenie?” he said. “What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said stiffly, avoiding his gaze. She raised her voice and said, “Della, more tea.”

There was no sound but for the steady clomping of Redmon's bicuspids chewing through a rather large piece of pot roast.

“Della,” she said sharply.

Nothing.

“Della, I know you hear me.”

The door swung open violently and Della came back in carrying a pitcher of sweet tea. “I don't know why some folks can't eat in the kitchen,” she grumbled. “I don't know why some folks can't think of other folks and their bad feet every once in a while.”

Redmon, of course, fell for it. “You want us to eat in the kitchen, Della?” he said. “We can if it's easier on you.” Della put the pitcher down and went out, still grumbling.

Virginia stared at Redmon. She insisted on eating dinner in the formal dining room every evening. She was trying to set a standard. She was attempting to entice Redmon into leaving his Alabama hog-farm roots behind him, and if enticement didn't work she was determined to drag him kicking and screaming into the realm of good breeding and good taste. She was determined to overcome his penchant for gold-plated fixtures and expensive, but tasteless, furnishings, and the first thing to go, she decided savagely, would be the Elvis Red carpet.

What was it Oscar Wilde had said on his deathbed, looking at the room's gaudy wallpaper? One of us will have to go. That was pretty much the way Virginia felt about the red carpet. That was pretty much the way Virginia felt about her whole damn marriage.

Redmon finished his meal, belched, and pushed himself away from the table, rubbing his big round belly with both hands. “Well, Queenie, what's it to be tonight? The Cheerleader and the Coach? The Naughty Secretary and the Boss? The French Maid and the Millionaire?”

Virginia thought she heard Della snort in the kitchen. “Not tonight, I have a headache,” she said.

“You had a headache last night,” Redmon said, standing up from the table.

“I really need to see a doctor about these migraines,” Virginia said, putting her hand over her eyes and watching his big, booted feet cross the red carpet toward her.

“I know just the thing for migraines,” he said in her ear, leaning down to kiss her. She turned her face to give him her cheek but he was wise to that move, and swiveled his head around, clamping his mouth over hers.

She pushed him away with both hands, standing up so quickly her faux zebra chair nearly toppled over.

He grinned in that particularly juvenile way men have when they are trying to convince an unwilling woman. “It's your turn to decide, Queenie,” he said slapping her on the bottom. “But if you don't, I will!”

“What about your heart?”

“What about it?” he said.

“Do you really think the exertion would be good for you?” she said, looking around desperately. “So soon after a big meal?”

“You let me worry about my heart,” he said, slapping her again on the rear end. “What's it to be, Queenie?”

“Oh, all right,” she snapped. “How about the Naughty Schoolboy and the Schoolteacher?” She said it half in jest but his eyes got round and a spot of pink appeared on both cheeks.

He lowered his voice and said earnestly, “Will you spank me in front of the whole class, Teacher?”

“Oh, good God,” she said, but he had already grabbed her hand and was pulling her toward the bedroom door.