storage lot, but a different motor home, apparently the fabulously haired Mac’s, stood in the driveway now. It was smaller than the Margollins’ boxy whale, but newer looking. A rack on back held a bicycle.
Cars were parked all along the street. The scent of barbecued chicken and sounds of country music and voices drifted from the backyard. I didn’t own anything I considered “western” wear, but I’d done what I could to look cowgirlish with jeans, a plaid blouse, and a red scarf tied around my neck.
I paused outside the gate to the backyard, wishing now that I’d come earlier instead of waiting for the call that hadn’t come from Detective Dixon. I had the uneasy feeling Magnolia would make a big entrance out of my attempt to slip in unnoticed. I was right.
“Ivy, there you are!” Magnolia swooped down on me like a hawk after a cowering mouse. She threw up her hands. “Oh, and you’ve brought one of your fabulous cobblers!” As if it were some big surprise.
Tonight Magnolia, who always did these elaborate themes for her get-togethers, had outdone everyone in her denim skirt, enormous squash-blossom necklace, and boots, complete with spurs. A cowboy hat rode her hair like a bronc buster caught in a sea of cotton candy. From an invisible tape deck, Hank Williams sang about a cheatin’ heart. Magnolia grabbed my hand and held it up as if I were a victorious prizefighter.
“Hey, everybody, I think most of you know my neighbor, Ivy Malone. Ivy, you know the Dugans and the Roharities . . . and everybody.”
Magnolia’s wave took in the twenty or so people in the yard, but she didn’t give me time to acknowledge the few I did know among the RV Roamers group. “Mac, where are you?”
Subtlety was not Magnolia’s strong point. She located her intended victim on the other side of the barbecue grill and, spurs jangling, dragged me along as if I were now a prize cow headed into the show ring. Beaming, she introduced us. Ivy Malone, Mac MacPherson.
“I’ll just leave you two to get acquainted. And Mac, you absolutely must try some of Ivy’s cobbler. Ivy is truly the most divine cook I know.” Magnolia gave me a wiggle of eyebrows apparently meant to say, There, I’ve done my part, it’s up to you now , and jangled off with an air of mission accomplished.
Mac stuck out a hand. The movement revealed a blue motorcycle tattooed on his forearm.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.
As Magnolia had earlier said, he had a fine head of hair. Nicely silver-white. Also an attractive tan, blue eyes, and an admirably flat belly. Sunglasses dangled from a clip on his blue polo shirt. His build was stocky, with sandy-haired, muscular legs below khaki shorts. Reeboks on his feet, no spurs.
His knees were on the knobby side, and I’ve never been a fan of the blue-tattoo school of body decoration, but, in total, he was a rather presentable package.
But if you aren’t in the market for pickled eel . . .
We shook hands—good, solid handshake—and I murmured a repeat of the pleased to meet you. I still had my cobbler tucked under my left arm. I rejected an urge to thrust it at him— Here, Magnolia says you have to eat this —and beat a quick retreat.
“Let me set that on the table for you,” he said.
I still suspected that Mac MacPherson had had no warning that under all this window dressing of people and food he was the hors d’oeuvre of the day. Yet I could also see that he was a quick study and was gamely prepared to live up to his duties as bachelor guest.
“Beautiful evening,” he said when he returned. He made a gesture toward the crescent moon. No clouds tonight.
“Yes, isn’t it? Too bad Magnolia’s magnolias aren’t in bloom now. They put on such an impressive display, unusual for this area, that the newspaper usually sends someone out to take photos in the spring.”
“Yes, she’s told me about her magnolias.”
I liked the fact that he didn’t make some sly joke about Magnolia
Cars were parked all along the street. The scent of barbecued chicken and sounds of country music and voices drifted from the backyard. I didn’t own anything I considered “western” wear, but I’d done what I could to look cowgirlish with jeans, a plaid blouse, and a red scarf tied around my neck.
I paused outside the gate to the backyard, wishing now that I’d come earlier instead of waiting for the call that hadn’t come from Detective Dixon. I had the uneasy feeling Magnolia would make a big entrance out of my attempt to slip in unnoticed. I was right.
“Ivy, there you are!” Magnolia swooped down on me like a hawk after a cowering mouse. She threw up her hands. “Oh, and you’ve brought one of your fabulous cobblers!” As if it were some big surprise.
Tonight Magnolia, who always did these elaborate themes for her get-togethers, had outdone everyone in her denim skirt, enormous squash-blossom necklace, and boots, complete with spurs. A cowboy hat rode her hair like a bronc buster caught in a sea of cotton candy. From an invisible tape deck, Hank Williams sang about a cheatin’ heart. Magnolia grabbed my hand and held it up as if I were a victorious prizefighter.
“Hey, everybody, I think most of you know my neighbor, Ivy Malone. Ivy, you know the Dugans and the Roharities . . . and everybody.”
Magnolia’s wave took in the twenty or so people in the yard, but she didn’t give me time to acknowledge the few I did know among the RV Roamers group. “Mac, where are you?”
Subtlety was not Magnolia’s strong point. She located her intended victim on the other side of the barbecue grill and, spurs jangling, dragged me along as if I were now a prize cow headed into the show ring. Beaming, she introduced us. Ivy Malone, Mac MacPherson.
“I’ll just leave you two to get acquainted. And Mac, you absolutely must try some of Ivy’s cobbler. Ivy is truly the most divine cook I know.” Magnolia gave me a wiggle of eyebrows apparently meant to say, There, I’ve done my part, it’s up to you now , and jangled off with an air of mission accomplished.
Mac stuck out a hand. The movement revealed a blue motorcycle tattooed on his forearm.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.
As Magnolia had earlier said, he had a fine head of hair. Nicely silver-white. Also an attractive tan, blue eyes, and an admirably flat belly. Sunglasses dangled from a clip on his blue polo shirt. His build was stocky, with sandy-haired, muscular legs below khaki shorts. Reeboks on his feet, no spurs.
His knees were on the knobby side, and I’ve never been a fan of the blue-tattoo school of body decoration, but, in total, he was a rather presentable package.
But if you aren’t in the market for pickled eel . . .
We shook hands—good, solid handshake—and I murmured a repeat of the pleased to meet you. I still had my cobbler tucked under my left arm. I rejected an urge to thrust it at him— Here, Magnolia says you have to eat this —and beat a quick retreat.
“Let me set that on the table for you,” he said.
I still suspected that Mac MacPherson had had no warning that under all this window dressing of people and food he was the hors d’oeuvre of the day. Yet I could also see that he was a quick study and was gamely prepared to live up to his duties as bachelor guest.
“Beautiful evening,” he said when he returned. He made a gesture toward the crescent moon. No clouds tonight.
“Yes, isn’t it? Too bad Magnolia’s magnolias aren’t in bloom now. They put on such an impressive display, unusual for this area, that the newspaper usually sends someone out to take photos in the spring.”
“Yes, she’s told me about her magnolias.”
I liked the fact that he didn’t make some sly joke about Magnolia
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