LITMIR.BIZ

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doing all the work for your organizing business you might feel better. You’re investing a lot of your time and energy in it and not getting much return. It’s a business. Don’t get too emotional. You’ve got to make a business decision. That’s all I’m saying. Is it a business or a hobby? I know you’re probably mad, so I’m getting out of here now.” He gave me a quick kiss and headed to his car.

      I managed not to stomp over to the driver’s side of the car, but I was only able to restrain myself because I knew Livvy and Nathan were watching. A losing venture! Make a business decision. Don’t get too emotional. Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his project he wanted me to walk away from.

      As soon as everyone was down for nap time, I hit the computer with a renewed sense of energy and purpose. I clicked over to our e-mail and was delighted to see some new e-mails, but then I realized it was on our personal account. I pulled out the calendar and flipped through the last few months. I’d bought it in January, right after we’d moved in. I’d expected that my business would be slow. It would take a while to build up a new client base. But ten months was a little long to wait for one client. I’d tried advertising, but that hadn’t drawn much interest.

      Most of the date squares in the winter and spring months were pristine white, except for playdates, pediatrician appointments, and library story times. The pattern didn’t change in the summer. I’d cooled down a bit and, objectively, I had to admit that Mitch was right. Everything In Its Place wasn’t going anywhere.

      I blew out a breath that sent my bangs flying off my forehead. A feeling of frustration mixed with depression swept over me. I couldn’t give up. Not yet. I’d give it until the end of the year. That would be one full year and if I didn’t have some organizing clients by then, well, then I’d reassess.

      I squared my shoulders. I thought of the advice from Organizers Online, an e-mail discussion group that I belonged to. Networking was the key, they said.

      Okay, network.

      Chamber of commerce meetings—check. I’d been attending those since May. I’d had a few nibbles, but nothing that turned into a job. I had the Magnolia Estates Homeowners’ Association monthly meeting on the calendar, too. I frowned. What else could I do? I shifted around in the chair and my jeans caught on the drawer that didn’t close completely. I shoved it closed and began sorting though the debris that accumulated on the desktop each week. Sometimes tidying things helped me think. Other times, it did absolutely nothing for my mental organization, but at least I’d have a clean desktop when I was done.

      I put the notepad and pen back by the phone, clipped Livvy’s crayon drawing to the refrigerator, and shredded two offers from credit card companies. The last thing, Nita Lockworth’s business card, was stuck under the keyboard. I pulled it out and tapped it against my chin as I thought about an idea that might help me get the word out on Everything In Its Place and help a few other people, too.

      An Everything In Its Place Tip for an Organized Party

      Cleaning

       Before the party: don’t kill yourself doing a “military clean” of your home. Most of your guests will be so busy enjoying the company and the food, they won’t notice your floorboards. Place trash containers in the kitchen and near any buffet lines. Place several plastic bag liners in the bottom of each trash can. If you’re serving food outdoors, make sure your trash cans have secure lids to minimize bugs. A “bug zapper” near the trash area is also a good idea for outdoor parties.

       After the party: use paper plates and cups to minimize cleanup time. If your party is more formal, make sure your dishwasher is empty so you can get the dirty dishes out of sight quickly. Or, if your guests are dying to help out, put them to work drying dishes. Nothing makes people feel more at home than helping in the kitchen.

      Chapter Six

      I pulled to the curb when I saw the glittery LITTLE PRINCESS TEA PARTY sign.

      Livvy bounced in the backseat. “Are we there?”

      “Yes. I think so,” I said as I climbed out. Livvy unbuckled and clambered out without my help. Nathan was at home with Mitch. They were having a boys’ night with pizza and SportsCenter.

      We climbed the steps of the house’s wide front porch and a little girl about Livvy’s age with a long braid down her back opened the screen and grabbed Livvy’s hand. “Over here! They’ve got hats and gloves and feathers!”

      I followed the sound of giggles and squeals and found ten little girls gathered around a kitchen table. If it was pink, purple, glittered, sparkled, or had feathers, it was on that table. Livvy dug in, her eyes shining like the rhinestone tiara that she was jamming on her head.

      “Hi, I’m Kay,” said a woman about my age, decked out in a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with silk flowers. She was wearing a dress and white gloves that reached to her elbows. “Welcome to the Princess Tea Party.”

      “Thanks. Looks like I’m a bit underdressed,” I said, gesturing to my jeans, white T-shirt, and cranberry zippered fleece.

      “Oh no. You’re fine. You’re welcome to stay and play dress-up, but I like to give the moms a break, too, so you can pick your daughter up around seven, if you’d rather. I’ve got two capable assistants.” Kay nodded to two teenage girls who were sitting with the kids. I left my cell phone number with Kay and said good-bye to Livvy. Ensconced with her friends, she didn’t mind me leaving.

      I took the state highway that paralleled the base and headed toward North Dawkins, which spread out between the base and the north-south interstate highway five miles away. Once a stop on the railroad surrounded by farmland, North Dawkins was now booming, sprouting big box stores and chain restaurants along the three major roads that connected the state highway to the interstate like rungs on a ladder.

      This part of Georgia was an interesting mix of rural areas interspersed with suburbia. I was surprised at how much I liked it. The one drawback was the muggy, buggy summer. Of course, there were still some things I didn’t quite understand, like the roadside boiled peanut stands. Those just didn’t sound good to me, but peach ice cream was another story.

      Development hadn’t reached the road I was on and I cruised through the flat green land. In the distance, I could see the thick bank of farmed pine trees that grew straight as arrows. I passed a small graveyard and felt a frisson of unease as I thought of the skulls in the Chauncey plot. I’d never look at the small cemeteries again without remembering the skulls and those gaping eye sockets. Tall grass and weeds were engulfing this cemetery and kudzu, the creeping green vine of the South that was almost impossible to eradicate, covered the nearby field and draped over a telephone pole. Unless someone did some cutting back, it wouldn’t be long before wide leaves swallowed the cemetery.

      I knew I’d pass at least two more small family plots before I got into North Dawkins. I’d never seen so many cemeteries in my life. They dotted the Georgia landscape and popped up in the most unexpected places. Small, forgotten patches of solemnity being reclaimed by the earth. Except for my quick glance at the Chauncey plot when I’d found the bones, I’d never looked at any of the family plots closely, but I assumed some of them probably dated from the late 1700s, since Georgia was one of the original colonies, something I tended to forget since the first things I associated with Georgia were peaches, the Civil War, and Gone With the Wind.

      There wasn’t much reminiscent of the old South in North Dawkins since it hadn’t really grown until the base was located here at the beginning of World War II. It didn’t have the classic small southern town look. There were plenty of towns within driving distance that had the redbrick courthouse, the town square with the statue of the Civil War soldier on horseback, quaint shops, and antebellum homes lining the streets under live oaks draped with Spanish moss.

      North Dawkins did have live oaks, but that was about it for the quaint department. No Spanish moss, no gracious antebellum homes, no courthouse square. I passed the front gate to Taylor Air Force Base and turned into the older section of North Dawkins, which had several antiquated strip malls that had been in their

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