all thrived on doing what they did best: cooking, cleaning and telling old friends and tourists tall tales of life in this small Southern town and of the exciting battle that took place just outside the city limits—in 1863.
“Did you hear?” Miss Frances said as she worked the biscuit dough. “Evelyn has rented her apartment to two men from out of state. They come from Georgia, I believe she said.”
Reva’s ears perked up as she recalled the man she’d met last night.
“Really?” Miss Edna said as she peeled an apple that would become part of a huge pot of stewed apples she’d prepare later this morning. “Are they tourists?”
“Evelyn wasn’t sure,” Frances said in a lowered voice. “The gentlemen wouldn’t say exactly why they’d come to town.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “We have so few tourists who actually stay here in Somerset, especially in the spring. Though there is that nice couple who comes here every fall to watch the leaves turn. Most tourists prefer the hotel out on the highway or one of the isolated cabins, especially the younger folks. It’s very odd, if you ask me. I can’t believe Evelyn would rent rooms in her house to strangers who won’t even tell her why they’re here.”
“Well,” Edna said, leaning in close but not lowering her voice, “she does need the money. And she sleeps with her daddy’s shotgun beside her bed and she knows how to use it, so I feel sure she’s safe.”
Gossip was another pastime Reva’s employees enjoyed. And two strangers in Somerset? This was definitely juicy gossip. Reva decided not to tell them she’d met one of the strangers last night. It would too soon become a part of the gossip, and she preferred to keep a low profile, when possible.
“Perhaps we should have a word with the gentlemen this afternoon,” Frances suggested. “Just to be sure everything’s on the up-and-up.”
Reva smiled as she cleaned and chopped the okra in front of her. No matter who or what Dean and his friend were, she had to feel a little bit sorry for them.
“Maybe one of them will come calling on Reva,” Edna said with a sly smile. “Evelyn said they were handsome young men, though one of them has a bit of a potbelly. Nothing horrible, like that rascal Rafer Johnson,” she added quickly. “Just a healthy sign that he’s been eating.”
“He’s probably married,” Frances observed wisely.
Edna scoffed, “Then why would he move to town in the company of another man?”
The two older women’s eyes met, and they were silent for a long moment. “You don’t think…” Frances said in a soft voice.
“Surely not,” Edna said, and then she pursed her lips.
“Two attractive men, living together, suspiciously silent about why they’re here and who they are…”
“When did they arrive?” Reva asked, knowing the answer. If Dean had been telling the truth, that is.
“Last night,” Frances said.
Reva laughed. “Why don’t we give them a chance to settle in and meet everyone before we make any rash judgments?”
“She’s right, of course,” Edna agreed. “And there is the possibility that the one who doesn’t have a potbelly might come calling on Reva.”
“No, thank you,” Reva said sharply. Men like Dean didn’t come calling, and even if they did, he wasn’t her type. She didn’t have a type!
“Would you prefer the man with the potbelly?” Frances asked. “Is that why you won’t date Sheriff Andrews? I know he’s asked for permission to call on you several times, and you always refuse. I had no idea you were looking for a man with a little more meat on his bones. Sheriff Andrews is not a small man, by any means, but he’s certainly not soft in any way. If you’d like, we can keep taking him food at the station until he grows a nice little round tummy of his own—”
Reva laughed. “No! Please, no. Why can’t you ladies just accept the fact that I don’t want any man to come calling on me?”
“It’s not natural,” Frances said.
“I wish I had a man.” Edna sighed. “I miss having someone to talk to in the evening, since my John passed away.”
“I miss the sex,” Frances confided.
“Well,” Edna said with a wicked smile, “your Billy Joe never was much for conversation.”
The two women laughed, and Reva quietly excused herself from the kitchen.
The women who worked for her had changed all her notions about growing older. They had fun, they enjoyed life. Oh, they battled arthritis and they moved more slowly than they used to, but they embraced life and enjoyed every minute.
But try as they might, they had not changed her mind about men. Pot belly or no, Reva was finished with the opposite sex. She didn’t need a man, didn’t want one, which was why she’d sent every small-town Romeo packing during her three years in Somerset.
She leaned against the wall in the hallway just outside the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron and closed her eyes. Would they ever give up their efforts as matchmakers? Her life was good now. Settled. She was content. She didn’t want to go back, not a single step. Since she had horrible luck with men, she was better off without one. A man would turn everything upside down, and as for love, there was no such thing. She’d believed herself in love once, but it had been as elusive and fragile as a soap bubble. And when that bubble had burst, she’d been terribly lost.
Never again. Absolutely, positively, never.
Edna and Frances continued to share their suppositions about the men who’d rented a space across the street. As their ideas grew more and more outrageous, Reva almost felt sorry for the newcomers.
He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it at all.
The cars had begun arriving before noon. They parked on the street in the shade of ancient trees, as well as in a gravel parking lot on the far side of the house.
Miss Reva’s was more popular than he’d imagined.
People milled about in the yard, studied the flowers, rocked and swung on the wide front porch. They came and they kept coming. He couldn’t see the side parking lot nearly well enough to suit him. Eddie Pinchon could drive up to the side door and Dean wouldn’t see a thing.
At fifteen minutes to one, as the crowd continued to grow, Dean made up his mind. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on. No one else at Miss Reva’s was so formally dressed, which meant he’d stick out like a sore thumb, but he couldn’t conceal his pistol if he left the jacket behind.
He didn’t run, but his trip down two flights of stairs was fast. He was ready to make his escape, but his landlady, Mrs. Evelyn Fister, stepped into his path without so much as batting an eyelash. He had to put on the brakes to keep from mowing her down.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said sweetly, “where are you off to this afternoon?”
“I thought I’d grab a bite to eat,” he said, moving to step around her.
She
