yanking at his tie, presumably to get
more comfortable, although the gesture alarmed Belle, who was
accustomed to formal attire on businessmen, he went on, “I’m not
really a bad person, Miss Monroe, and I have a reputation as a
superior photographer to uphold.” He squinted at her. “But I get
the feeling you’re not from around here. Perhaps out ways aren’t
your ways.”
“Stop being disingenuous, Mr. Asher,” she
said, vexed again. “You know from my speech that I’m from the
South.”
“Right. Which state.”
“Georgia.”
“Hmmm.” For a moment, Belle could have sworn
he was searching his brain for something nice to say about Georgia.
If he mentioned the infamous Sherman, she might just have to give
him a lesson in history. Apparently his attempt bumped against a
wall, because he said, “Well, that doesn’t make any difference.
You’re a lovely young woman, and this series of photographs I want
to take of you will make you famous worldwide.”
“I don’t want to be famous worldwide,” she
said flatly. “The very notion repels my sensibilities.”
“Your sensibilities?” Win gazed at her as if
she were a strange and unusual life form. His expression and his
attitude infuriated her.
“Yes. Just because you Northern fiends won a
victory in the Recent Unpleasantness, doesn’t mean your victims
need to change our ways. In Georgia, we value manners and
politeness and courtesy, unlike some of you from Chicago.” She
hoped she gave the word Chicago the proper emphasis. She
didn’t really dislike the town, which was rather pleasant,
actually, but she didn’t want Win to know it.
Win blinked at her. Ignoring the intent of
her little speech, he wrinkled his brow and said, “The Recent
Unpleasantness? What’s that?” Enlightenment struck, and he cried,
“Oh! I get it. You mean the Civil War.”
Everything inside Belle went rigid with ire.
“The War Between the States was not a
civil war, Mr. Asher. The South was attempting to protect its very
way of life, in case you didn’t know that. It was the War of
Northern Aggression. The North incited the Aggression, thus
instigating the bloodshed and horror.” She really, really hated it
when he rolled his eyes.
She resented his next words even more. “Say,
you’re not going to band together with a bunch of other southern
belles and start robbing trains, are you? I can see the headlines
now: ‘Jessica James and her Gang of Girls Shoots Sheriff and Steals
Stash.’” He laughed at his alliterative joke.
Belle didn’t think it was funny at all.
“Jesse James,” she said through seriously clenched teeth, “was from
Missouri.”
“Yeah, well, wherever he was from, he blamed
his criminal activities on us bad people from the North. It was a
pitiful excuse, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Belle ground out. She
held a like sentiment regarding the infamous James gang, but would
sooner die than tell Win so.
“All right, all right, whatever you say,
Miss Monroe. I don’t care. I know some folks love to refight the
war with every waking breath, but I don’t. It’s been over for
almost thirty years, and I wasn’t even born yet when it ended.”
After eyeing her up and down and making Belle feel like squirming
which, needless to say, she didn’t, he added, “Anyhow, my side won,
so I don’t have any quarrels with you people down there. All I want
to do is take these photographs.”
Belle was so angry by this time that if she
hadn’t been taught proper manners in her youth—for example, if
she’d been reared in Chicago or New York City—she might have
stamped her foot. She had been taught proper manners, however, and
she didn’t. Since there was already at hand an even better means of
thwarting Mr. Win, “My Side Won,” Asher, she didn’t despair.
“This discussion is neither here nor there,
and I personally don’t care what you call the War Between the
States. I don’t believe I care to have my likeness splashed
more comfortable, although the gesture alarmed Belle, who was
accustomed to formal attire on businessmen, he went on, “I’m not
really a bad person, Miss Monroe, and I have a reputation as a
superior photographer to uphold.” He squinted at her. “But I get
the feeling you’re not from around here. Perhaps out ways aren’t
your ways.”
“Stop being disingenuous, Mr. Asher,” she
said, vexed again. “You know from my speech that I’m from the
South.”
“Right. Which state.”
“Georgia.”
“Hmmm.” For a moment, Belle could have sworn
he was searching his brain for something nice to say about Georgia.
If he mentioned the infamous Sherman, she might just have to give
him a lesson in history. Apparently his attempt bumped against a
wall, because he said, “Well, that doesn’t make any difference.
You’re a lovely young woman, and this series of photographs I want
to take of you will make you famous worldwide.”
“I don’t want to be famous worldwide,” she
said flatly. “The very notion repels my sensibilities.”
“Your sensibilities?” Win gazed at her as if
she were a strange and unusual life form. His expression and his
attitude infuriated her.
“Yes. Just because you Northern fiends won a
victory in the Recent Unpleasantness, doesn’t mean your victims
need to change our ways. In Georgia, we value manners and
politeness and courtesy, unlike some of you from Chicago.” She
hoped she gave the word Chicago the proper emphasis. She
didn’t really dislike the town, which was rather pleasant,
actually, but she didn’t want Win to know it.
Win blinked at her. Ignoring the intent of
her little speech, he wrinkled his brow and said, “The Recent
Unpleasantness? What’s that?” Enlightenment struck, and he cried,
“Oh! I get it. You mean the Civil War.”
Everything inside Belle went rigid with ire.
“The War Between the States was not a
civil war, Mr. Asher. The South was attempting to protect its very
way of life, in case you didn’t know that. It was the War of
Northern Aggression. The North incited the Aggression, thus
instigating the bloodshed and horror.” She really, really hated it
when he rolled his eyes.
She resented his next words even more. “Say,
you’re not going to band together with a bunch of other southern
belles and start robbing trains, are you? I can see the headlines
now: ‘Jessica James and her Gang of Girls Shoots Sheriff and Steals
Stash.’” He laughed at his alliterative joke.
Belle didn’t think it was funny at all.
“Jesse James,” she said through seriously clenched teeth, “was from
Missouri.”
“Yeah, well, wherever he was from, he blamed
his criminal activities on us bad people from the North. It was a
pitiful excuse, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Belle ground out. She
held a like sentiment regarding the infamous James gang, but would
sooner die than tell Win so.
“All right, all right, whatever you say,
Miss Monroe. I don’t care. I know some folks love to refight the
war with every waking breath, but I don’t. It’s been over for
almost thirty years, and I wasn’t even born yet when it ended.”
After eyeing her up and down and making Belle feel like squirming
which, needless to say, she didn’t, he added, “Anyhow, my side won,
so I don’t have any quarrels with you people down there. All I want
to do is take these photographs.”
Belle was so angry by this time that if she
hadn’t been taught proper manners in her youth—for example, if
she’d been reared in Chicago or New York City—she might have
stamped her foot. She had been taught proper manners, however, and
she didn’t. Since there was already at hand an even better means of
thwarting Mr. Win, “My Side Won,” Asher, she didn’t despair.
“This discussion is neither here nor there,
and I personally don’t care what you call the War Between the
States. I don’t believe I care to have my likeness splashed
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