No Daughter of the South by Cynthia Webb Page A

tasteless gray vegetable matter inside. I took just one bite of each item. “What’s wrong with Irene?” I asked, in disgust. Irene was Bobby’s wife. She’d always been the cook, and she’d made good, plain food. This stuff was obviously pre-packaged and frozen.
    “Irene? She and Bobby split years ago. He’s married to Rosemarie, now, one of the aerobic instructors at the Cleopatra Spa.”
    “Three-hundred-and-fifty-pound Bobby, peddling all this high-cholesterol food, and he’s married to an aerobic instructor?”
    “Quit talking and eat.”
    “I can’t eat this stuff. Let’s go.”
    “Well, your’s is the minority opinion,” said Johnny. “Bobby has opened three more Bobby D’s, and he’s raking in the cash. Getting rid of Irene was great for business.”
    We argued over the check. Johnny wanted to pay for my lunch, of course, and I wasn’t having any of it. When we got to the front steps of the restaurant, he said, “I think it will be better if we take your car.”
    “Fine.”
    “Well, where is it?” he asked, looking around the parking lot.
    “Over at the Port Mullet News ,” I answered.
    “How’d you get here, then?” he asked, sounding perplexed and irritated. Before I could answer, he said, “Come on, get in, we’ll drive over there in mine then.”
    I started to argue, but thought better of it, and climbed in the patrol car.
     
    We switched to my car—or rather, Momma’s—in the parking lot of the newspaper office. I let him drive.
    He knew the short cuts all right, and was still a zippy driver. It wasn’t long before we were out in the sticks. We had gone inland, I knew, because the land wasn’t as flat as the coast. Not that you could call it hilly. The tepid swells of land resembled hills about as much as my chest resemble Dolly Parton’s. Which is to say, no comparison.
    Anyway, the ride was peaceful. I took off my boots and propped my feet up on the dash board. Riding around with Johnny. Something I hadn’t done in forever, but it felt so familiar. Like being on a bicycle again, after a long absence.
    We were way out in the middle of nowhere when Johnny pulled over to the side. I didn’t ask him what he was doing when he opened the door and got out. I just climbed out, too.
    He walked through the live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss until we reached a shallow creek lined with weeds. He walked alongside the clear, gently flowing water. Less than half a foot deep. I followed him, carefully picking my way through the bushes and weeds, until we reached a ratty-looking wooden bridge, just wide enough for one car to cross. There were signs at both ends, forbidding trucks. We climbed up the short bank and sat on the edge of the bridge, our legs dangling over the side. Our feet didn’t touch the water, but almost.
    “Deadman’s Bridge?” I asked finally.
    Johnny nodded. I sure couldn’t imagine anyone falling off this low bridge into that quiet, shallow water and drowning. Maybe if he was drunk. Maybe if the stream was swollen with heavy rain. But I didn’t think so.
    The heat, the insect noises, the soft sounds of the water all made me feel sleepy. I looked over at Johnny to see if he felt the same way. He was looking at me. But it wasn’t sleep his eyes were lusting for.
    I couldn’t help remembering how good Johnny was in bed. Well, actually, he was pretty good in the backseat of a car, or the front seat of a car, or sometimes in the sand beside a car. Couldn’t remember trying it under a car.
    I also couldn’t help wanting him at that moment, and I was determined not to give in to that wanting. That was a rare state for me. Was it Sammy that did that to me, or just late-blooming common sense?
    I started back to the car, and he followed. We reached the car about the same time.
    “How’d you ever miss coming out here before?” he asked, sliding in on the driver’s side.
    “Oh, I’ve been here before. I just didn’t remember that it was called Deadman’s