The Right Thing

CHAPTER 11


“Look on the bright side: you didn’t get any of that paint in your hair. Bleachy like you got it, you’d of had to cut the red straight out.”

Starr and I are crammed into Buddy’s—I mean Bette’s—prehistoric-pink little bathroom in the Airstream, trying to get me out of my clothes without smearing paint everywhere. My jeans are in a garbage bag on the pink bath rug, and my boots are outside in the cramped hallway. I’m shivering on the fuzzy pink toilet seat cover, crouched under a gilt filigreed shelf just over my head. There’s even a pink crocheted toilet paper cozy on the extra roll of pink paper up there. Somebody likes pink. A lot.

“Bright side, my scrawny ass,” I mutter as Starr carefully peels me out of four hundred dollars’ worth of red-stained, dirty green cashmere. Some of the paint has soaked through the sweater, and so my bra’s ruined, too. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom’s dollhouse-sized mirror, and a fright looks back. In the yellow glare of the overhead light, my hair is sticking up all over my head, my winter-white skin is broken out in goose bumps as big as mosquito bites, and I’m sitting here in my oldest underwear and ratty Hot Sox.

“The bright side,” I complain, “is Buddy Bledsoe not beating the crap out of me. And I’m freezing.”

Starr grabs a pink towel embroidered with swans and drapes it over my shoulders. “Buddy’s Bette now, honey,” she reminds me. “Try to remember—it means a lot to her. Think on what it’s been like. Year in, year out, knowing she was a woman on the inside but having to act all macho because she had the wrong plumbing!” The bra and sweater join my jeans inside the black garbage bag. “That’s why Bette was so hateful, back before she got the surgery.”

“Like he’s not hateful now?” I snipe, running my fingers through my hair to make it lie down.

There’s a timid knock at the bathroom door. “I got it, Starr,” Buddy says in a muffled voice.

Starr slides the door open a crack and trades the garbage bag for my new black dress that was previously hanging in the back of the Beemer, taking it from the hot-roller-wearing former terror of Fairmont Street.

“Here, Bette,” Starr says. “Take this. Just put the keys in my purse. You might as well stick that garbage bag right in the dumpster. Annie’s clothes are toast.” She shuts the door and, with a little difficulty, turns around to face me again. This bathroom’s not really meant to hold two people at the same time, especially not if one of them is pregnant. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, as though I’m the one who’s done something awful.

“What?” I demand.

Starr’s mouth is determined. She says, “Look. Bette’s real sorry, Annie, for tonight and all the trouble she gave us back when we were kids.” She strips the plastic bag off my low-cut, off-the-shoulder dress. “You want some help getting done up?”

I take the dress from her. “I think I can handle this by myself, thanks.” Then, knowing I sound snotty but unable to stop myself, I say, “Why don’t you get back to ‘catching up’ with your old friend out there in Trailer Land.” I can’t look at Starr after that, so I fuss with getting the dress off its hanger instead.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Starr asks. She tries to put her hands on her hips and bangs her elbows into the plastic shower door and the plastic wall of the bathroom. “Ow.” She rubs her arms.

I finally get the dress off the hanger. “Why didn’t you tell me who Bette really was when I asked you?” I demand in a lowered voice. “I’m the one who’s just driven to New Orleans, lied to Du, and risked an ass-load of trouble! You couldn’t tell me the truth? That Buddy Bledsoe is your best friend?”

Starr raises an eyebrow. “She’s not my best friend, Annie. You are, or were. Okay, so I’ve been knowing Bette was really Buddy ever since she and Jesús—that’s Bette’s boyfriend, Jesús Ortega, he’s a jockey—started in to living here year-round. They go to visit Jesús’s family in Miami for the summer while the Fair Grounds is closed. Bette put the money on that horse for me at Gulfstream Park. We both made out pretty good.”


“How nice for you. And Buddy.”

Starr goes on like I haven’t said a word. “Me and Bette first met up when I was working the Clubhouse, cocktail waitressing. I recognized who she was when she and Jesús got into it after he started flirting with me—not that he meant anything by it, those Latinos, they’ll come on to a bucket of spackle if it’s wearing a skirt—but Bette got mad as a snakebit hog. Seeing that red face and those eyes going squinty, it all came back to me then. ‘Buddy?’ I asked. She drank down her mai tai in one gulp and busted into tears. I felt so sorry for that big ol’ gal, Annie. Bette asked me not to tell anyone about how she used to be Buddy Bledsoe. She’s an equine acupuncturist now, calls herself Bette Swann.”

There’s that timid knock at the bathroom door again.

Oh, please. “Little girls, little girls, let me come in or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll beat your brains in,” I say under my breath. Starr gives me another exasperated look, and I feel like a jerk.

On the other side of the door Buddy says, “Annie? You want some coffee? I’ve got some whole-bean Jamaica Blue Mountain and a French press. It won’t take but a jiffy to make you a cup . . .” This is going to drive me crazy: that wistful voice still reminds me of somebody. I can almost put my finger on who it is.

“Go ahead, Bette—she’d love some coffee,” Starr says loudly to the closed door. Then, turning to me, she hisses, “You going to act nice, or you want to go back to waiting in the car? Look, if you’d have come in when I asked the first time, you’d have never sat in that paint. You and Bette could have had a chance to get reacquainted.”

I think this over while I’m maneuvering myself into the black dress. It’s tricky because the dress is so tight and the bathroom’s so small. With a fair amount of difficulty, I manage to get it over my head, banging my own elbow into the shower, almost upending the little gilt shelf with the toilet paper cozy and assorted bottles of lotions and gels. However does the lummox lurking outside ever get in that shower? I wonder. With a crowbar and a vat of Vaseline?

“Zip me, will you?” I ask, lifting my hair off the back of my neck. Without a word, Starr zips up my dress. “Okay.” I sigh as our eyes meet in the mirror. “It’s not like I’m going to tell him to go to hell because of what happened over twenty years ago. Sometimes I used to wonder where he ended up, and now I know.”

“You sure do,” Starr says. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

Knock, knock.

“You girls need anything?”

I finally realize who Bette’s voice reminds me of: Cher, with a honking head cold.

“We’ll be right out,” Starr answers. Without waiting for me, she opens the door and steps out. Reluctantly, I follow her into the cabin of the Airstream and tug my high-heeled boots on over my Hot Sox. I feel skanky, got up in the short black dress and boots, but that’s what I’ve got to wear if I don’t want red paint all over the Beemer’s upholstery. I sure can’t do eighty-five on the way home now: if I get pulled over dressed like this, I might get mistaken for a working girl.

While we were busy in the bathroom, Bette has removed the curlers, applied fire-engine-red lip gloss, sprinkled some Shalimar in her cleavage, and changed into a teal velour sweat suit. Except for the bunny slippers, she looks really pulled together, like she could go shopping at Wal-Mart. As Dolly, my saleswoman at Maison-Dit, says, you should always look your best because you never know who you’re going to run into.

Earlier this evening when I stumbled inside the trailer howling about the paint and near-assault, I didn’t exactly take the time to have a good look around. Now I see that the Airstream’s kind of homey, with armfuls of crocheted afghans covering the built-in sofa. The lightbulbs in the Tiffany-shaded lamps are pink—the better to see your complexion in, my dear—and every surface that isn’t covered by tatted doilies has a swan on it: a whole flock of porcelain swans, glittering swans of Swarovski crystal, carved wooden swans, swans in snow globes, framed holograms of swans in flight, swan wind chimes, swans painted on velvet, plush stuffed baby swans, and a life-sized, painted cement swan standing guard at the door.

Now before you think I’m being judgmental, you should know that, much against her family’s wishes, Du’s grandmother lives in a double-wide and her trailer décor is strikingly similar to Bette’s. Old Mrs. Sizemore’s icon of choice is bullfrogs. Every available space is cluttered with green amphibians in various weird vignettes, but my favorite is the bullfrog got up like a matador, swirling his cape before a pawing bullfrog wearing a big old pair of horns. When it’s our turn to go to Tupelo for Christmas, I always get a bang out of stopping off at Miz Estelle’s trailer down in Noxubee and getting the lowdown on the latest additions to her collection, so I’m not a trailer snob, okay? I’m just not used to them.

And I’m glad to see Troy Smoot hasn’t run off while I was occupied in the bathroom. He’s sitting on the sofa amid a pile of swan-embroidered throw pillows, looking little, lost, and hairy. At the sight of me, Troy wags his whole body in recognition, so I think he’s happy to see me, too.

“How do you like it?” Bette asks, throwing her arms wide in an encompassing gesture that just misses a swan mobile.

“You, ah . . . certainly have made the place . . . ,” I begin and then stop, stuck for words.

“It’s as sweet as can be.” Starr gives me a discreet poke in the back, pushing me toward the dinette, where three coffee cups and saucers have been laid on scalloped rose-colored placemats. The china pattern is, naturally, swans on a pale-blue background. I really don’t want to believe I’m going to sit down and have coffee, but I slide into the booth anyway. This black dress is so much shorter than I’m used to that I have to tug it down my thighs or risk having it climb up around my waist. Starr sits next to me on the outside so I can’t bolt, and Bette joins us. I can’t help but stare at her in a kind of sick fascination as she squeezes into the opposite side of the booth, the banquette’s plywood groaning.

Oh, if anyone ever finds out about this, you are finished, do you hear me? It’s the rosebush voice weighing in. Get out now.

Another helpful observation. Listen up, Annie, I remind myself. You’ve sat down at barbeques and Ladies’ League meetings with Bobby Shapley’s uranium-plated bitch of a wife, Julie Posey Shapley, and you can get through this, too, hear? And besides, Julie’s mean little eyes never betrayed a desperate need for acceptance into the girls’ club. She didn’t pour me a cup of coffee with hands that shake ever so slightly, setting the cup and saucer to a dainty jangle of bone china. I feel myself thawing like ice cubes in a pitcher of just-brewed tea, and taking a sip of the very good coffee, I tell that stupid rosebush voice to shut up and go wait in the car if it can’t act like a lady.

“Can I get you gals anything to eat?” Bette asks. “I’ve got a batch of cookies that just came out of the oven.” She smiles, an awful hope glowing in those bearlike brown eyes. Oh, Lord, those have got to be false eyelashes and she’s fluttering them at me.

“No thanks,” I say hastily, looking down at my cup. “This coffee’s perfect. We’ve got a long way to go tonight.” I give Starr’s foot a kick under the table.


But Starr ignores me and kicks me back. “Did you make your snickerdoodles? You know I just love them. I could eat your snickerdoodles all night long.”

Bette’s toothy smile is as big and bright as a lit-up carnival ride. “I’ll go get us some. Y’all just hold on.” Prying herself out of the dinette, she lumbers to the spotless countertop and grabs one of several gaily decorated cookie tins. “Let me see,” she says. “I think they’re in this one.” She opens it and shakes her head. “No, that’s the brownies. Here’s the snickerdoodles.” She rummages in a cabinet, pulls down a plate, and arranges some cookies on it.

“Bette’s a big baker,” Starr tells me, her pale eyes wide and guileless. “She makes a sinful pan of brownies.”

Bette giggles delightedly, shrugging an oh-shucks gesture. “I made the special fudge brownies last night ’cause I just had to have ’em,” she confides. “I get so down these days, and baking’s about the only thing I’ve got to look forward to when I get home from sticking horses all day. I’m all on my lonesome until Jesús comes back from Miami, so I’ve got nobody to cook for.” She brings the cookie-filled plate over to the dinette and the snickerdoodles look scrumptious indeed. Starr reaches for one, but I sip my coffee instead.

“Y’all dig in!” Bette beams.

“Mmm-hmm.” Starr’s mouth is full of cookie. I’m not going to succumb to temptation, not this time, not again. “Annie says she’s not eating anything until Friday,” Starr informs Bette. She takes another cookie. “Annie’s got issues with food, big time.”

Before I can tell her to knock it off, Bette says, “Now Starr, don’t pick on her, honey.” She smiles at me from across the table, her eyes glowing in that thicket of false eyelashes. “You look fabulous, but then you’ve always been a china doll. I used to envy you the most, Annie.” She pops a whole cookie into her red, glossy mouth and chews enthusiastically. I can’t take my eyes off her because I would really love a snickerdoodle right now, but I tell myself to forget it and have another sip of coffee.

“I was there,” Bette reminds me, “when you made your debut at the Snow Ball, remember?” She licks her fingers one by one and takes another cookie off the plate.

“Um, not really,” I say. I force myself to look away at a porcelain swan tissue dispenser sporting a Kleenex tail on top of the television set behind her.

“Oh, honey—you remember. I know you do. I was Lisa Treeby’s escort, and you were there with that big ol’ fella you married right out of college. Isn’t his name Duane? I’ll testify that you were definitely the belle of that ball. I always wondered why you ran off the stage and didn’t come back until after the Presentation was done with and the dancing began, but I couldn’t get over how perfect your dress was, and your hair—sugar! It was divine . . .” Absentmindedly, Bette extends the tip of her kielbasa-sized pinky to catch a crumb stuck in her lip gloss, lost in her reverie of me and my debutante ball of sixteen years ago, an occasion I’d prefer not to revisit right now with the vision across from me. It’s a little creepy.

Starr brings Bette back to the table, placing a small hand on top of Bette’s pork-roast-sized one. “Babe, this has been heaven and I expect you and Annie must have a lot of catching up to do, but we’ve got to get back on the road.”

“I haven’t seen you in months.” Bette pouts, those red lips drooping.

“I know,” Starr says, “and I thank you from the very bottom of my heart, putting that thousand bucks down for me. It’s an answer to a prayer, and I’m going to need every cent.” Starr pats the Winn-Dixie bag full of cash next to her on the banquette seat. I give it a glance, but my eyes return to the last snickerdoodle on the plate. Be strong, Annie, I tell myself as Starr tucks the plastic grocery bag in her purse.

Somewhere in the trailer’s back half, behind the folding door, a telephone loudly whoops.

“Goddammit!” Bette explodes, her eyes narrowing to burning, fringed slits. “If it’s not one f*cking thing, it’s another. A*shole trainers wait until the last minute, think I’m gonna drop everything to acupuncture some poor nag in the middle of the night—like its back wasn’t sore this afternoon—but no-o-o, Mr. Big Shot from Churchill Downs thinks I’m just sitting here, hoping for the phone to ring, like I don’t have a life. Those arrogant pieces of shit, I could smack their heads together just to hear the splat!” She’s breathing hard; her massive fists pounding the table hard enough to make the coffee slop out of my cup.

My eyes widen. There’s still an awful lot of Buddy underneath all that Bette, and right now I’m feeling sorry for that poor arrogant piece of shit, Mr. Big Shot. Better him than me, though.

Bette gets to her feet with a poisonous look toward the ringing phone. “Y’all hold on while I take care of this bullshit, hear?” Like a semi in low gear, she heads to the bedroom in the back of the trailer, squeezes through the opening, and slides the door shut with a slam that makes the trailer shake.

I turn to Starr. “She’s really an acupuncturist? They actually do that to horses?”

“She is, and they do,” Starr replies.

“You’re right, you know,” I concede. “She’s changed a lot—I mean, it’s still Buddy, but she’s kind of sweet now, in this WrestleMania kind of way. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so bitchy.”

“Look, Annie . . .” Starr hesitates. “Bette’s been a good friend.” She looks down at her hands on the table. “But I meant what I said before. You’re my best friend, always have been, no matter what. When things got bad—and they got that way a lot—I used to tell myself stories about what you might be doing. I could see you, going to school, having dinner with your folks, playing with other girls, then growing up and starting to go out with boys. You know, a normal life? Those stories I’d think up would keep me going. I could almost forget about the lights getting turned off again, or that Miss Hulda had found Momma’s picture and tossed it out.” Starr looks at me then, her eyes grave. “Sometimes I wondered if you missed me, too. Every time Poppa drove us off into the night, I told myself that somehow we’d find each other again, someday. . . .”

I nod, the back of my throat heavy with tears. It was the same thing for me even years after she was gone. “We went through so much together, especially for a pair of second-graders. Nothing was the same anymore, not after you left.”

Starr says slowly, “I can’t ever let myself... care . . . that way about anybody anymore, Annie. Never. You know what I mean?”

Again, I nod. I do.

We’re quiet for a moment while in the back of the trailer Bette’s giving someone a loud, unintelligible, but profanity-laced piece of her mind. With a sigh, Starr finishes her coffee and wipes her lips with a paper napkin from the swimming swan caddy.

“That Bette,” she says with a shake of her head. “Anyhow, we found each other now, didn’t we? That’s got to mean something, like maybe we was supposed to be together again for some reason.”

“Maybe so,” I say.


Starr grimaces. “Damn. I got to go visit the little girl’s room, sugar. Wait here for me and try not to eat anything.” With a smile that belies that last dig, she gets up, goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

I sit for a minute, wondering how the hell I’m going to pull off being Starr’s friend when we return to Jackson. Tonight’s mission is one thing, but sooner or later we’ll be chin-deep in Jackson politics again. Do I have the courage to stand by her? I think of what Du will say, about the fallout in the Ladies’ League and all over town.

“So grow up, Annie,” I mutter.

Oh, that’ll solve everything, the rosebush voice jeers. I shift uncomfortably on the bench seat, hating the fact that for once it’s probably right.

But then, out of nowhere, my stomach grumbles, loudly, and I find myself grateful for the distraction from my self-loathing. Maybe those Chessmen from earlier today have set my long-denied appetite into relentless motion, but ever since the sight of those snickerdoodles earlier, it’s been in the back of my mind, whether I could afford to eat one of Bette’s cookies. I need the comfort of something sweet, and don’t I deserve it? This has been one hell of a night, and the taste of those cookies in Starr’s condo is fading fast.

Now that I’m allowing myself to consider jumping the traces again, though, I know what I really want is a brownie, not a snickerdoodle. Bette mentioned she’d made brownies. Surely she won’t mind if I have one? Before I agonize anymore, I slide out of the dinette, sidle over to the counter, and open the tin Bette picked up earlier. Furtively, I part the wax paper, grab a brownie off the top, and cram it into my mouth.

It tastes a little strange, as though Bette’s recipe is a foreign one, maybe a kind of... Mexican brownie? She does have a Latin boyfriend, so that might explain it, but this isn’t really how I remember fudge brownies and a bit of a disappointment. I chew thoughtfully for a minute and can almost identify the herby aftertaste, and then there’s Starr’s muffled voice coming from the bathroom. I shut the lid on the tin, chewing as fast as I can because I don’t want to listen to Starr’s ragging me about my weight. This brownie is between me, my out-of-control appetite, and no one else. So what if it’s lettuce and vitamins until Friday?

“Annie?”

I swallow the rest of the brownie with difficulty because it’s kind of dry and extra chewy. Really, I think, that was hardly worth it. This indiscriminate eating has got to stop, or I’m going to wind up the size of Bette, having to go through doors sideways.

“Yes?” I manage, brownie swallowed at last.

“I might be in here a while. You want to take Troy for a quick walk before we get on the road?”

Even though I’m coming to dread the idea of returning to Jackson, I’m ready to do anything that’ll get us gone faster. It’s nearly eleven, and we really ought to leave in the next ten minutes. Troy, half hidden in the throw pillows, is sound asleep on the afghan-covered sofa. He looks okay to me, but maybe she’s right—what do I know about dogs?—and then it occurs to me that I need a leash, or something like one. Looking around the trailer, I don’t see anything useful I could borrow and Lord knows I don’t want to disturb Bette. She must have put the fear of God into Mr. Big Shot because even here in the front of the Airstream I hear her slam down the phone so loudly it seems there ought to be shards of plastic flying through the door. Bye-bye, arrogant shit head.

Or not. The phone whoops again almost immediately. “Oh, now you’ve done it!” Bette yells. Maybe it’d be a good idea to just grab Troy and get out of here until she puts paid to this latest interruption of her girls’ night.

“Wake-y, wake-y, baby,” I croon to the terrier as I lift him up off the sofa. “Let’s find you a leash.” Troy stretches with a big yawn. “I’ll be right back,” I call softly to Starr, and walk outside into the night with the dog in my arms.

Pausing on the top step for a moment, I think, wow. The night is so, so . . . beautiful. The foggy canopy over New Orleans is an opalescent dome of light high, high, high above me. Over by the cafeteria, a door opens, spilling hot yellow light and mariachi guitars into the quiet. I barely notice, being so enthralled with the crazy-beautiful sky that I stumble going down the steps and almost fall. Catching my balance in my high-heeled boots only to reel into one of the silk palm trees, I’m breathlessly proud that I’ve managed not to drop the dog and that I’m still on my feet.

“Whoops,” I sputter as I fight my way out of the silk fronds. I’ve got a thing for those palm trees, don’t I? But now my heels are trapped in the black garbage bags piled around the bench. My balance is going again. “Shit,” I exclaim.

“Hey, watch yourself.” Out of the darkness, it’s a man’s voice. A strong, warm hand catches my elbow, another solid-feeling hand across the small of my back, steadying me. “You’ve conquered the steps, don’t take a tumble now.”

“Eek!” It’s a small, involuntary squeak of surprise. I’m startled, but the world’s mad orbit slows and I’m caught before I even begin to fall, as though I’m paired with a really good dance partner. In the orangey glow of Bette’s trailer’s Christmas lights, I have to look up at the man who’s just saved Troy and me from tumping over on our asses once again in the magnolia blossoms.

He’s not too tall, maybe a hair over six feet, but that’s still a lot taller than I am, his face worn around the eyes with the kind of lines you get from working outside in all weathers, squinting into the sun, the dust, the rain, timing the horses as they battle gravity around a hundred racetracks. It’s a face as open as an Oklahoma horizon with a jaw as solid as Ozark bedrock. It’s a good face, and he’s smiling down at me in a way that makes me want to smile back. Like a flamenco dancer, with a certain élan I kick the black garbage bag wrapped around the heel of my boot onto the overturned red bench. Olé!

What in the hell do you think you’re doing? You have no idea who he is!

I don’t care. To hell with the rosebush voice. “Thanks,” I say, feeling grateful. “That was close.”

“You new in town?” the man asks. “I haven’t seen you around here before, have I?” Taking those wonderfully steady hands away, he gestures at the dark backstretch around us.

“I doubt it. I’m not from here,” I say. “I’m Annie.”

“I’m Ted.” That smile broadens, his longish dark hair lifting in the light breeze from the east. “So, Annie not-from-here—you want to introduce me to your friend?”

I look around. There’s nobody here but me. I’m feeling confused until I realize he means the dog in my arms. “Oh!” I’m laughing. “Troy Smoot. I liberated him tonight from an elevator. He needs a leash so he can have a pee without getting lost.” This strikes me as one of the funniest things I’ve ever said in my life. I mean, I’m laughing so hard the nice man in the jean jacket, faded Levi’s, and dusty cowboy boots has to take me by the arm again when I turn around and walk smack into the Beemer.

“Crap, that’s pitiful. I just ran into my own car.” I giggle.

“Nice car. Well, I believe I can help you with a leash, at least,” Ted—his name is Ted, I remind myself so I won’t call him Steve by accident—says with that same great smile. “I just happen to have a quantity of hay rope over in Barn Nine, down at the other end of the backstretch. Want to take a stroll and get it? Shape you’re in, I hate to leave you by yourself.”


This sounds like a fantastic idea to me, so I say, “Lead on!” Grabbing his arm, I lean into his shoulder because suddenly the ground seems very far away and I need to concentrate on it. Wait—where’s Troy? I don’t remember putting him down, but he’s got to be around here somewhere, right?

“Umm, Ted?”

“Yes?” Ted says.

“Have you seen Troy?” I’m panicking.

“I’m holding him, lady.”

That’s certainly a relief. Now I can work at getting across the treacherous, uneven dirt beneath my boots without falling down anymore. We’re walking what seems a long way from the Airstream, past a lot of darkened barns, and the night air is cool on my arms, my neck. I remember Starr telling me how the air here in New Orleans was like a live thing, and so it is, a silken creature purring around my bare knees and thighs, and I laugh again because it feels so good that I can’t imagine air ever feeling like anything else.

“Isn’t air wonderful?” I almost trip over my own feet.

“You okay?” Ted’s face seems concerned as he steers me into a dim, half-lit stable. Suddenly, the world slips a gear, a tilt on its axis, and again I’m glad for his arm.

“Sure!” I say brightly, looking around. There’s nobody here except for Ted, Troy, me, and some horses, but I’m fine with that. Somewhere a radio is playing country music, the volume turned down low. The horses, bay, gray, and chestnut, come to the front of their stalls, blinking with sleepy interest at us.

“The rope’s right here,” Ted says. Opening a half-door, he steps inside a stall where grass bales are neatly stacked in a golden-green tower, loose hay piled in sweet-smelling drifts on the hard-packed clay floor. I want to lie down in that hay, it looks so clean and soft. I’d be in a good place if the world tilts sideways again, and suddenly I’m afraid it’s going to. I’m beginning to feel as though I’m surfing the night, that there’s a huge wave building underneath my boots, making my every move a little tricky.

“Okay, big guy,” Ted says to Troy. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

I lean against the dust-covered cinder block wall without a care for my black dress and try to catch my breath. My heart is pounding as though I just ran here all the way from Jackson. Whatever is wrong with me? Why am I so flushed? And I’m thirsty. Really, really thirsty—like I’d trade my BMW for a glass of water, and there’s that wave again.

“Here you go.” Ted hands me a length of rough twine with Troy on the end of it. He bends down and ruffles the terrier’s fur. “Good dog you’ve got there.”

“He’s really a Treeby,” I say faintly, swaying on my feet. “But thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome,” Ted says, his voice grave. “My hay rope is your hay rope.” He sketches a bow, and before I realize what he’s doing, he takes my hand, brushing his lips over my fingers. “It’s not often I get the chance to do a lady a favor.”

“Could you please do me another one?” I blurt. The words stumble out of the desert that is my mouth. My fingers are burning where his lips just were. “I could really use something to drink.”

“A drink?” Ted says, looking uneasy. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“What do you mean? I haven’t had anything to drink tonight but coffee, and all I want is a glass of water!” I’m sincerely indignant, at least until he smiles that smile again.

“Water it is then, Miss Annie. Come with me.” Ted’s saying I can have some water is a huge relief. I’m ready to deal with that damned wave beneath my feet now because everything’s going to be okay, water’s on the way and I’m with a nice man instead of all alone in a strange place.

Without thinking I stretch up on my tiptoes to give him a kiss on his stubble-covered jaw for being such a nice man, but at the same time Ted turns his face down to mine like he wants to ask me a question, and even though I don’t intend for it to do that, my mouth folds into his mouth and oh Lord I think I’m going to pass out he feels so wonderful so amazing so bone-deep right that I drop the hay rope and my arms are around his neck and his hands are on my waist I breathe him he smells of leather and night and cologne I do not dare let go I will fall and all the while Troy Smoot that good dog sits at my feet patient as a saint with all the time in the world to wait for this kiss to end.