She takes my hand in both of hers, and I notice her manicure is flawless. Finally, something I understand.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mayor Parsons. What a charming town you have.”
“Isn’t it just?” She’s still holding my hand, her eyes scanning my face with an intensity that suggests she is cataloging every pore, mole, and freckle. “Now, I understand you’re from Atlanta. Buckhead specifically. Very nice area. Very refined.”
The way she says refined makes it sound like a communicable disease.
“Yes, I’ve lived there most of my life.”
“And you run an etiquette school, is that right? Teaching young ladies how to behave properly?” Her smile never wavers, but something in her eyes sharpens. “How interesting. You know, we don’t have much call for that sort of thing around here. Our young people learn manners at home.”
I’m not sure if this is an insult or not, but it feels like an insult, even if it’s wrapped in so much sweetness I can’t be certain.
“Well, different communities have different needs,” I say carefully. “I’m sure your young people are wonderfully well-mannered.”
“Oh, they are. Mostly.” She finally releases my hand. “Now, you simply must come to our next town council meeting. We have some concerns about The Rusty Spur that we’d love to talk to you about. Nothing serious, just, you know, neighborly conversation.”
“Concerns?”
“The noise ordinance, mainly. And the parking situation on Friday nights. There was an incident last month with the—well, we can discuss all that later.” She pats my arm. “Now, you go get yourself some food. Ruthie’s banana pudding is not to be missed.”
She’s gone before I can ask what incident she’s referring to, swept away by someone else who needs her attention.
“She does that,” Dolly says, walking closer. “She drops little bombs and then disappears. Don’t let her rattle you.”
“Oh, I’m not rattled.”
“Honey, you look like a deer caught in the headlights. Come on, let’s get you some food.”
The food line is where things start to go wrong.
It begins innocently enough. A woman I don’t know hands me a plate and points toward the spread of dishes.
“Help yourself, sweetheart. There’s plenty.”
I look at the options. Casseroles of all different origins. Salads drowning in what looks like mayonnaise. Something called a “congealed salad” that appears to be Jello with fruit suspended in it. An entire table is dedicated to desserts, including what I think is the famous banana pudding.
I take small portions of things that look safe. Some green beans. A roll. A scoop of what looks like chicken salad, although I’m not totally sure.
The woman behind me watches my selections with horror.
“Honey, that’s all you’re having? You need to eat more than that. You’re skin and bones.”
“I’m not really that hungry.”
“Nonsense.”
She starts adding things to my plate without asking me. A heap of something called hash brown casserole. A square of cornbread. And a mysterious brown substance that she identifies as “Aunt Myrtle’s famous beef tips.”
By the time I escape the line, my plate is piled so high I can hardly see over it.
I find a seat at one of the tables between Dolly and an elderly man who introduces himself as Earl. The same Earl whose wife passed, I realize, remembering what Wyatt told me. He looks tired but grateful for the company, and I make a mental note to be especially kind to him.
“So you’re Mavis’s girl,” he says, looking at me. “You don’t look much like her.”
“I’m told I have the same cheekbones.”
“Well, maybe, but Mavis had a way about her. A spark.” He shakes his head slowly. “You seem a little too contained.”
