I had been expecting Jitty, so I wasn't surprised when I heard her caustic voice. I looked behind me and she was standing there, arms akimbo, watching me.
"You're right," I said, frowning, "but I don't want to drive to Scott's house naked. What if I get stopped for speeding?"
"Honey, you're not just speedin', you're committing reckless abandonment. And it ain't behind the wheel I'm talkin' about." Jitty took a seat on the side of my bed and leaned back, her elbows supporting her. She was wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a halter top made from a red kerchief. A strangely familiar outfit.
"Hey, those are Mama's clothes," I said. My mother had been very comfortable in the 1960s. She'd had the figure for hip-huggers and navel-revealing tops.
"No, I'm taller than your mama. These are mine."
"You copied them."
"The highest form of flattery, or so they say."
Jitty wasn't about to be shaken by my accusations or criticism, so I decided to tell the truth. "You look very . . . mod." Sleek and mod. Being dead, she didn't resort to mashed potatoes, ice cream, grits, and other comfort foods.
"And you look frazzled," she pointed out. "I can see your problem. It's hard to know how to dress for this very special occasion. Let's see, what would be appropriate for fish sticks? Maybe something red, to hide the catsup dribbles."
"Ha. Ha." I still held the green skirt and went through several unsuitable blouses before I dropped it to the floor and pulled a pair of black jeans out of the closet. The old classic five-pocket design.
"That looks a little more realistic," Jitty said. "Try the red cotton pullover with the black buttons."
I knew before I got the top out of the drawer that it was the makings of a sharp outfit. Jitty had flair, and I had the perfect pair of black stack mules to wear with it.
"That's a much better ensemble," Jitty said, nodding. "You go prancin' over to his house in a skirt and stockin's, and he's gonna feel bad about the charred wiener he's servin' you on a stale bun."
"I believe the menu is fish sticks," I reminded her. Jitty was contrary as a cornered snake. She'd spent the last year nagging me to find a man. Now that I had one, she wasn't satisfied. I knew her objections. Scott was a bluesman. He was a Yankee. He was a convicted felon and charged with the murder of a symbol for racial harmony. But Jitty's concerns went even deeper than that. Scott wasn't going to stay in Zinnia forever. Probably not for much longer now that Ivory was dead. It was his potential for transitory behavior that had her agitated. Trying to hide my actions, I selected a pair of red lace panties and matching demi-bra.
"Wasted effort," Jitty said. "That man is used to groupies who don't wear undies. Ex-pedient is the by-word you should use. You won't win Scott Hampton with Victoria's Secret. Fancy lace panties won't capture his heart."
I decided to take her head-on. "Tell me why you don't like Scott." I already knew all her reasons, but I wanted to make her say them. As she started to talk, I pulled the jeans over my hips, noting how easily they slid up. I'd lost at least five pounds. No wonder. I'd hardly had time to eat.
"It's not that I don't like him," she hedged. "It's just that he's an unknown, Sarah Booth. We really don't know anything about him, except what he's told you. He's not the kind of man to stay put in any one place. He could be gone tomorrow, and probably will be."
I saw it then. For all that Jitty harped on me getting bred and having a baby, she wanted the whole package. She was a true woman of the sixties—she wanted freedom and the security of a reliable man. But was that what I wanted? "The fact that Scott may move on isn't a problem for me. I don't believe in forever." I was testing the sentiment even as I said the words. "Maybe I like it that Scott won't stay here permanently." I zipped the jeans and gave a thumbs-up to my image in the mirror.
Jitty was suddenly hovering behind my shoulder. "That's what worries me. That ain't a dream, Sarah Booth. That's hidin' out from a dream."
"Pox on dreams." I was satisfied with my game plan, so why couldn't Jitty leave me alone?
"Dreams don't just happen. You have to work at 'em. I think you're afraid to dream, Sarah Booth."
"I have my dream and it's just fine." I liked the idea of independence. Scott was a man who wouldn't shackle me or try to pin me down. He was an artist. He understood the need to be free. He wouldn't try to define me or confine me like a lot of men.
"Tell me your biggest dream," Jitty said. Her voice was soft, not her usual disapproving tone.
"That would be the success of my detective agency." Ha! I had her there.
"At the sacrifice of everything else?" she asked, and I could see she was troubled. It was a strange twist of events. In the past, Jitty had deviled me endlessly, but I'd never been able to turn the tables. Until now.
"If Delaney Detective Agency doesn't succeed, I won't have this life, and neither will you," I pointed out to her. "I have to focus on making a success of this, above all else." I'd never realized before how true that was. If Scott stayed or left, I would continue with my new career. The detective agency was the constant in my life.
"Sarah Booth, don't squander your dreams on a job. Mortals don't realize how powerful they are. If you can dream it, you have the power to make it happen. You simply have to believe strong enough and focus hard enough." She held my gaze with hers. "You have to let other dreams fall away and choose only one. That's the secret. Now don't you have another dream?"
"I'm too busy on the first one."
Her smile was sad. "What about a family? Wouldn't that be a wonderful dream?"
"I had a family. I lost it." I was suddenly angry with her.
"I know," she said. "You lost your folks young, but now it's time you built another family, one with a steady man, not some blues-singin' guitar man."
"Family is your dream. You're the one who's always harping about an heir to the Delaney name." In the past, I'd bought in to Jitty's dream, but now I wasn't so certain.
"And you're the one who's gettin' laid tonight. Just remember, dreams can be suppressed but not destroyed, and I don't think you're tellin' the truth about what you want."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Not even Catholics use the rhythm method anymore."
"Taken care of," I assured her. And it would be. I had no desire to be a mother. None. I slipped on the red blouse and my shoes and took a turn in the mirror.
"Don't get serious with Scott. He won't stay here, Sarah Booth. You'll be alone again, and that'll do a lot more damage than you think. Guard your heart, and don't get careless."
"I won't, I will, and I won't," I promised her as I picked up my purse and keys and ran down the stairs. I was almost to the front door when Sweetie Pie came rushing out of the parlor and almost knocked me down.
She stood, tail wagging furiously. She wanted to go with me. "Okay, but no begging at the table," I warned her, knowing that she'd promise anything and then do exactly as she pleased. I opened the door and she shot out and jumped in the front seat of the roadster. I got her sunglasses and a scarf to keep the wind out of her eyes and ears, and we were off.
The night was hot, but driving created a wonderful breeze. Although I hated the heat, I loved many things about summer. There was the smell of fresh-cut grass and ripe watermelons. When I drove through a stand of pines on Bilbo Lane, I could hear the cicadas rising to a crescendo before they fell away to silence.
Turning down Scott's drive, I stopped the car in wonderment. The driveway was lit by at least a hundred candles in white paper sacks. Scott had created this magical starlit path just for me. For such a tough guy, he had a romantic streak a mile wide. I walked to the front door and found the porch alight with more candles. Even more flickering tapers beckoned me inside, and as I stepped into the front room, a shadow moved forward to greet me.
"Sarah Booth," Scott said, gathering me into his arms. "I've been thinking about you all day."
"This is beautiful," I told him. "Thank you."
He kissed me gently
before pouring us both wine. The most enticing odor wafted from the kitchen. "What is that?" I asked, sniffing, wondering if I should have worn something with elastic in the waist.
"Prime rib. Not exactly Southern, but I think you'll like it."
"I think you're right."
Like Jitty, I'd halfway expected a "meal in a tin pan" that we didn't bother to eat, opting for bed instead. Scott had other ideas. He'd worked on the dinner all afternoon, and he'd put a lot of thought into the evening. We drank Merlot in coffee cups and ate off mismatched plates, and I'd never had a more elegant meal. As we ate, Scott told me anecdotes and gossip about the music business.
"I didn't realize you were such a host," I said, remembering my earlier fantasy of Scott standing beside me at Dahlia House, hosting an evening. He'd been born to money and gracious manners. He would be a perfect guest host.
"I haven't cooked in ages, but there was a time when I enjoyed having company. I'd like to do more of it, with you by my side. Things are going to start changing real fast once I'm found innocent of Ivory's murder. I think you'll really enjoy the music world, if you'll give it a try."
There was no aspect of the entertainment world that fascinated me more than the blues. It would be fabulous to sample it with Scott as my guide. Jitty was wrong. I had plenty of dreams. "I'd really like that," I said. "In between cases, of course."
"Of course," he agreed.
For dessert, he'd made a tart from the sand pears on the tree outside his door. I was impressed and told him so.
"Coffee?" he asked. "Fresh from the Folger's bean, roasted and ground only moments before you arrived."
"I couldn't turn that down."
When we both had steaming mugs, he reached across the table and took my hand. "Where are we going, Sarah Booth?"
I'd changed locations and conversational partners, but not the topic. It was as if Jitty was directing from the wings. "What do you mean?" I asked, stumbling into the conversation I'd never expected to have with Scott.
"I've never known anyone like you, Sarah Booth."
Sweeter words could never be spoken to a woman, but something in me had changed. I didn't want declarations of permanence. I wanted only this moment. I didn't want to think about a future. I didn't even want to know what Scott might be offering. What I'd said to Jitty was true. I didn't want a family—or any of the branches of one. At least not now.
I sipped my coffee, forcing myself to look him in the eye. "Do we have to be going anywhere?"
His pale eyes grew troubled. "You're the first woman I've ever seen a future with. Don't you want to be going somewhere?" He was puzzled by my reaction, but calm.
"I'm a detective. Not a wife. Not a mother." For the first time in my life, I had a crystal-clear view of myself, and for the moment it didn't involve a spouse. I had a sudden revelation—perhaps this was the appeal of Coleman. There, yet unattainable. And, in some part, Scott too. He would move on; it was inevitable.
"Don't you ever want to marry?" he asked.
"I don't know." My lack of a matrimonial direction was just another sign of my failing as a Daddy's Girl. Every DG knew from the first moment of consciousness where she was going. She had her eye on the shoreline, with a perfect vision of what her future would be. I was just drifting.
There was a long silence. "You're involved with the sheriff, aren't you?" he asked.
"No, I'm not." The denial was quick.
"Involved may not be the right word. You have strong feelings for him, don't you?"
Scott was a perceptive man. He'd seen more than I thought. "He's married."
Scott took my hand and held it. "And you wish he weren't."
There was no point denying that. Besides, I couldn't lie to Scott. I hated a liar. "But he is. And he wants to make his marriage work," I said gently.
Scott's grip on my hand tightened. "I'm beginning to fall in love with you. It scares the hell out of me."
"That's not very flattering," I said, wanting desperately to veer from this serious path Scott had chosen. We had a long stretch of smooth water in front of us where we could glide and drift together, without commitment to any particular course. Why couldn't we simply be? "I don't have a warning label, you know."
"Maybe you should, Sarah Booth. I think you could be lethal if you chose."
He dropped my hands and looked down at the floor. "It's probably for the best. If I were lucky enough to have you love me, I'd just lose you. Everyone I've ever cared about is dead."
My heart didn't break, but it cracked a little. I knew how it felt to be left behind.
"People always think prison is bad," he continued. "Losing the people you love is much worse. That's my life sentence—whoever I love, dies."
"That's ridiculous," I said softly. "Nothing's going to happen to me." But I knew what he meant, and I knew how terrifying it was to feel that loss was first cousin to love.
"Tell me one thing, Sarah Booth, are you irrevocably in love with the sheriff?"
I picked up Scott's hand and held on to him. I could hedge the truth because my feelings for Coleman, whatever they were, would come to naught. But I owed Scott as much truth as I knew. "I don't know," I said, and it came out in a whisper. "I've been so very careful not to think about the possibility. It's wrong. Coleman is off-limits to me now and possibly forever. That's the reality. That's what I live with. How can I say if I love him when I haven't allowed myself the possibility?"
"Reality has nothing to do with emotions. All the facts in the world won't change how you feel. You just have to decide what you feel."
"Why?" I asked. "Why torture myself?"
"Because you feel what you feel, Sarah Booth, and that's important. Not naming those feelings is just a way of tricking yourself. And when you're doing that, you're—" He broke off suddenly.
I glanced toward the front door, where Sweetie Pie was moaning softly. She'd been a perfect angel all evening, begging only half a loaf of garlic bread and at least a pound of beef.
"What's the matter?" I asked her.
She gave a sharp yap and then growled deep in her throat. There was the distinct sound of footsteps running in the gravel of the drive.
"There's someone out there," I said.
Scott stood and put his napkin on the table. "I'll check."
"I'm going, too." I followed him to the door. As soon as we opened it, Sweetie Pie went flying out into the night. She didn't bother with the steps; she leaped to the ground and began to run, baying loudly.
"What the—"
Scott never got to finish. Something whizzed by my head and crashed into the front door. There was the smell of gasoline and the whoosh of flames. The explosion was like a sledgehammer in my back. Suddenly I was flying through the air. The last thing I remembered was hitting the dirt.
"Sarah Booth, you have to wake up. I'm tired of standing here in these heels, waiting for you to do something other than drool out the side of your mouth. Open your eyes, right this minute."
I cracked an eyelid open. Tinkie's face filled my vision, and though she was slightly blurred, there was no mistaking her. "Quit nagging at me," I said.
Her answer was a loud squeal that made me squint my eyes shut.
"Open those eyes," Tinkie ordered again.
When I did, Tinkie had been joined by Cece. The two of them were hovering over me. I thought of the Harpies, but I knew better than to say anything. I was already injured. I wasn't sure how or why, but my body was screaming at me in a thousand different places.
"Where am I?" I couldn't see much of my surroundings, but I wasn't at Dahlia House. Then I remembered. I'd been at Scott's. Something awful had happened. "Where's Scott?"
"He's okay," Tinkie said, putting a gentle hand on my forehead. "He's been released, minor injuries. Coleman took him in for questioning. You're the one that has everyone worried because you wouldn't wake up. Doc wouldn't let them take you to a room. You're in the ER, where he could personally keep an eye on you. He just went to make
a phone call."
I tried to turn my head to glance around, but a warning pain convinced me to take it slowly. "What happened?"
"Someone tried to kill you, dahling," Cece said. "Molotov cocktail. But cheer up. You're going to be in the paper tomorrow. Rather a ghastly picture, though. Not your best side, what with your butt up in the air. We couldn't find an angle that made it look smaller." She shrugged. "Of course, those black stack mules on the porch show you have dainty feet."
"You were blown right out of your shoes," Tinkie said.
"Front page!" Cece said.
I glared at her. "Never let injuries to a good friend stand in the way of a headline."
"They arrested Emanuel," Cece responded, knowing it would derail my tirade.
"Emanuel Keys?" I was shocked.
"No, Emanuel Gable, Clark's illegitimate son," Cece snapped. "Of course Emanuel Keys."
"Why?"
"Because Coleman thinks he tried to kill you and Scott," Cece said with impatience. She was acting ornery because she'd been so worried about me. It was one of her least charming traits.
Tinkie frowned at her. "She's had her brain scrambled. Don't be so snappy."
"I was asking why Emanuel was trying to kill us," I said, rather irritated myself. My body was a jangle of pain. Even my fingers hurt.
Tinkie answered this one. "Coleman caught Emanuel speeding away from Scott's house. There was another bottle of gasoline and a rag in the trunk of his car."
"Wow." I was still a little confused on the details of what had happened. One minute I'd been drinking coffee with Scott, and the next, I was flying across the front yard. "How did Coleman get there so quickly?"
Cece and Tinkie exchanged glances. It took me a couple of seconds, but I worked it out. "Coleman followed me to Scott's, didn't he?"
Instead of answering, they stepped back. Coleman stepped into view.
"Sarah Booth," he whispered, putting the backs of his fingers against my cheek. "You've scared ten years off my life. When I saw you in the yard ..." He shook his head.
"I'm okay."
"Doc said you were mighty lucky."
"Did you see Emanuel throw the Molotov cocktail?" I asked.
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