LITMIR.BIZ

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dream house. It has a wraparound front porch with a beaded wood ceiling and old brick floors, porch rockers and wind chimes everywhere, a swing on the west end near the arbor spilling with Zephrine Drouhin (a French bourbon rose).

      If you mentioned my house, you’d have to say it in the same breath as southern charm. That’s the main reason most of the Valentine family socials, as well as more than a few civic events, are held here.

      The first thing I do when I get home is turn on the stereo, which is already loaded with my favorite CDs—Eric Clapton’s blues, Willie Nelson’s whiskey-voiced ballads, and Marina Raye’s haunting Native American flute. Nothing fills up space and makes a house more welcoming than music.

      Elvis ambles through the doggie door and into the backyard to lord it over my collection of stray animals—seven cats and Hoyt, the little blond spaniel. I haven’t decided what to do about the cats, but I’ve decided to keep Hoyt. Hence, the name. Hoyt was one of Elvis’ backup singers. Which ought to make my opinionated basset hound happy, but seems to have done just the opposite. From the kitchen window I spy Elvis sneaking off to his favorite oak tree to bury Hoyt’s bone.

      I push open the back screen door. “Elvis, give that back right this minute. You know you have plenty without stealing.”

      He gives me this look, then drops Hoyt’s bone, huffs over to the gazebo, and plops down with his back to me. I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d say he’s been taking lessons from Mama. She wrote the book on looks that can kill.

      “You know you’re kidding. Be a good boy and don’t torture Hoyt and the cats.”

      I race upstairs to change and shower. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. I’m sweaty from being in a tent on the hot asphalt of downtown Tupelo; plus, I feel tainted with death. Poor Brian.

      Slipping into the shower, I close my eyes and imagine the water washing my troubles down the drain. As I reach for the soap it’s plucked from my hand.

      “Here. Let me do that.”

      No use screaming. I know who it is before I turn around.

      “Jack, need I remind you that you don’t live here anymore? Need I also remind you that breaking and entering is a crime?”

      His big laugh echoes off the tiled walls. “Who’s going to scrub your back?” He starts slathering soap on me, and I swear if I could chop off his talented hands and keep only that part of him, I’d die a happy woman.

      Well, maybe his talented tongue, too, but I’m not even going to think about that. If I do I’ll end up in the middle of my own bed in a compromising position.

      “Leave, Jack. And for goodness’ sake, put on some clothes.”

      “Not before I say good-bye.”

      Suddenly his hands are everywhere and I end up on my bed, anyway. For a very long time.

      What can I say? I’m not sorry. Jack may have terrible daddy potential, but he certainly excels at the preliminaries. And after all, I’m still married to him. Sort of.

      Leaving me sprawled across the rumpled covers, he reaches for his pants. And I watch. I’ll admit it. If there was anybody worth watching, it’s Jack Jones—six feet of muscle and mouthwatering appeal, and every inch of him lethal.

      “I’m leaving town, Callie. I’ll be gone awhile.”

      “For good, I hope.”

      “Is that why you’re staring?” He plants a kiss that sizzles my roots, then strolls out the door like a swashbuckling Rhett Butler who just had his way with willful Scarlett.

      And I’m back at square one—in the shower scrubbing off sweat.

      “I thought you’d be dressed by now.”

      The soap slips out of my hand and I whirl around to face this new intrusion.

      “Good grief, Mama. Don’t you ever knock?”

      “The front door was wide open.”

      She tosses me a towel, then makes herself at home while I towel off. I don’t know another single person who could make the toilet seat look like a throne.

      “I saw Jack.” She gives me this look. If anybody can make you squirm, it’s Mama. She has elevated stark raving silence to an art. “I told him to stay for the party. He’s still part of the family.”

      “I never heard of family who went off whenever they pleased and didn’t bother to tell you where they were going or what they were doing.” Which is one of the many reasons I separated from Jack Jones. He could be a deep-cover assassin for all I know. “You shouldn’t have invited him, Mama. It’s my house.”

      “Really, Callie. Everybody knows you’re still in love with him. Why can’t you see that?”

      I open the bathroom door. “Mama, do you mind? I have to pee.”

      “Don’t let me stop you.” Ignoring the door, she stations herself in front of my bathroom mirror and inspects her hair. “I’m thinking of going blond.”

      “For goodness’ sake, Mama, you just went burnished copper.”

      “I’m thinking a Marilyn Monroe–ish look would go well with my dance costumes.”

      “What dance costumes?”

      “Didn’t I tell you?” Naturally not. Mama has secrets that would make you gray overnight. I guess that’s why she’s so crazy about Jack. They’re two of a kind. “Fayrene and I have enrolled in a senior citizens’ dance class. Everybody ought to expand their horizons, including you, my dear.”

      The only horizon I want to expand is to get a manicurist for Hair.Net, but that’s hard to do. Every time I get a bit ahead, somebody comes along with a sob story. Mostly Mama, who usually needs a little breather in Tunica (her words, not mine). But I’ll have to say that subsidizing her occasional gambling jaunts is a small price to pay for having a mother who is larger than life.

      Life with Mama is never boring. And if either one of us ended up in front of a speeding train, the other would step in and take her place on the tracks.

      She follows me into the bedroom trailing Hawaiian ginger perfume and hot-pink ruffles while I slip into a yellow sundress and matching Michael Kors ballerina flats. Designer shoes always perk me up, and after today’s events at the chapel, I need all the help I can get.

      We head down the stairs just as Lovie breezes in with the party food and her overnight bag. (She’s spending the night with me, which is not unusual. If she’s staying late in Mooreville or I’m staying late in Tupelo, we crash at each other’s houses.)

      Fayrene is right behind her. When I lift my eyebrows, Lovie winks at me.

      “Fayrene said she came early to help.”

      Snoop is more like it. Fayrene loves to be in the know. But I’m more than happy to leave arranging the food to Mama and her coconspirator in dance and devilment because Lovie is motioning me behind their backs.

      We slip out of the kitchen and into my living room. Actually it’s two rooms with vaulted ceilings and the adjoining wall knocked out, dominated by my antique baby grand piano. When you enter you have the feeling of being in Thomas Jefferson’s elegant Monticello.

      “What gives, Lovie?”

      “Rocky called again. He’s booked a room at the Ramada.”

      “It’s a nice hotel.”

      “Why doesn’t he want to stay with me, Callie? He’ll just be here a few days and then he’s flying to Mexico on a dig.” Rocky’s an archaeologist who apparently has more passion for treasures of the past than the treasure right before his eyes. “He’ll be gone no telling how long. What am I going to do?”

      Asking me for love advice is like asking a sinner to preach at a Baptist church revival.

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