Chapter One

"IT'D BETTER BE rainin' buckets the day they put me in the ground. Sunshine just ain't fittin' for a funeral."

So Hank Barton had frequently proclaimed to his gaggle of elderly cronies as they sat around the potbellied stove at Hope Hardware, spitting tobacco juice in the general direction of the tarnished spittoon that hadn't seen a lick of brass polish since God was a little boy.

Squeezing Cal's hand, I blinked away both tears and rainwater as Hank's casket was lowered into the muddy hole.

"You got your wish, pal," I said softly. Hank had provided my first taste of Perdue hospitality the night I stumbled, half-frozen, into the tiny West Texas town after my car broke down out near the city limits sign. He'd not only revived me with hot coffee and kind words, he'd also given me a place to stay while I worked out the puzzle of my ancestry. I would never forget him.

Cal draped an arm across my shoulders, easing me further beneath the shelter of his blue umbrella. "A good man," he said.

Two slender women leaned against each other for support as they swayed toward the grave, identical faces crumpled in grief. One dropped a rose atop the descending coffin, the other a lily.

The gesture informed me which was which. I usually don't have any trouble telling Lily from her twin sister, Rose, but they had dressed alike for their father's funeral. They had even coordinated their hairdos. Rose, who usually allows her dark hair to tumble in waves about her shoulders, had today swept it up into a tight bun.

"It always tickled Hank to pieces when they wore matching outfits," Cal whispered.

"Really? Well, I guess that's why they did it today then. As a kind of parting gift."

"Most likely."

The crowd was dispersing, trying to maintain balance as they picked their way across the slick grass. Cal took a firm grip on my arm and guided me in the direction of his patrol car. My black pumps, the only dressy shoes I owned, were now brown with mud and the sharp high heels kept sinking into the soggy ground. How did some women endure wearing such torture devices every day?

Lily Barton, for instance. Lily owned and operated The Little Nosegay, Perdue's flower shop, but her daily attire was more Rodeo Drive than West Texas. As Cal settled me into his cruiser's passenger seat, I watched her glide toward the waiting funeral parlor limousine with the grace and poise of a model traversing the runway at a fashion show.

Rose Joyce, née Barton, straggled along behind, clinging to her husband's arm as I had clung to Cal's. Like me, she was more accustomed to blue jeans and sneakers. Her shop, just around the corner from Lily's, was called Back In A Minute. I guess she was smart enough to know that naming the place Secondhand Rose's would jiggle the cute meter past its red zone. Houstonians would likely refer to her shop as a vintage clothing boutique, but Rose sneered at such pseudo-refinement, insisting she sold used clothing and that was that.

I saw my middle-aged neighbor, Dorothy Stenson, pause beside her sedan to shake rain from a black umbrella, her lips pursed as if she'd breakfasted on lemons.

"Dot's on the warpath," Cal said, following my gaze.

"What now?" Notice I wasn't surprised. Dorothy has worn a rut into that particular path.

Before he could answer, my chubby friend caught sight of us. Too ladylike to shout across the headstones, she pointed at herself, pointed at us, then made a cheerleader's L with one arm straight out, the other straight up.

Biting back a grin, I nodded understanding.

"What the hell was that all about?" Cal asked.

"She wants us to meet her at Lucy's."

Copyright © 2005 Elizabeth Dearl