teller had a cabin on a meandering tributary near Bayou Banner. As angry as she was, Susannah could admit Ellie was right. Not even a professional such as Mama Ambrosia could explain the magic that still happened sometimes between Susannah and J.D. They’d even made up their own private language for it, with code phrases for lovemaking such as scarves and cards or hats and rabbits.
J.D.’s slow drawl rumbled in Susannah’s ear, and she could almost feel his warm breath tickling the lobe. “What about a game of scarves and cards, Susannah?”
He’d proposed on one of those liquid-velvet nights the Mississippi Delta had made famous, when the moon was just right, and shadows on the surface of the bayou rippled like fairy wings, making everything seem like an illusion, including scents of forsythia that stirred in the midnight air as gently as the cream in Madame Ambrosia’s darkest love potions.
Their prom clothes—his tux and her butter-yellow dress beside them—they’d been lying naked on their backs on pine needles, stargazing through the waving fronds of willow branches. With a voice as smooth as the inky sky, J.D. had sung the traditional song, “Oh, Susannah”—something he always did, since his family had come from Alabama—then he’d whispered, “I want to marry you right now, oh, Susannah Banner.”
She’d smiled into blue eyes, threading her fingers in the dark hair of his chest, then she’d kissed him, his light goatee tickling her nose and chin. “You want to marry me right now?” she’d teased, just to hear him say it again. She’d never heard anything as sexy as his drawl, and everybody else felt the same way. His voice was smoky and mysterious, a low bass rumble that came from his chest and shot into a listener’s bloodstream like a Cupid’s arrow tinged with sex. “I want to marry you this very second.”
“Why should I say yes?” she’d kindly inquired.
“Because when we’re legal, we can lie in bed all day.”
“Now there’s a typical J.D. answer.” She’d laughed. “Sex is never far from your mind, is it?”
“Does that bother you, oh, Susannah?”
“Your sex drive is the only thing I like about you, J.D.,” she’d assured, although secretly she’d hadn’t much minded his sense of humor, either.
She had been eighteen then, and since her parents had died the year before when their car crashed on the road between Bayou Blair and Bayou Banner during a flash flood, there had been nobody left to stop Susannah from marrying bad-boy J.D., except her big sister, June, who was ten years older. And of course, Susannah had never once listened to June.
“Well, J.D.,” she’d said reasonably. “All we have to do is drive into Bayou Blair and find ourselves a preacher and a place to get a blood test.”
And so, by the next morning, they were husband and wife.
Back then, J.D. had been playing music in clubs around the tristate, and he and his band could haul equipment in nothing larger than a cargo van. Now he came with an entourage, and she was lucky if his publicist, Maureen, would even share his most current cell phone number. Susannah had never been interested in gadgets, but her traditionally decorated house was full of them at the moment—everything from new phones to fancy laptop computers and an intricate home alarm system she couldn’t even operate.
“Susannah? You gonna have the usual?”
Delia’s voice cut through her reverie. Thankfully Delia was the polar opposite of J.D. Nothing had ever changed the diner owner—not two divorces, or losing her mama to cancer, or having her last boyfriend run off with the librarian from Bayou Blair. Come hell or high water, Delia remained as steady as a rock. She was a little plump, with a pretty face that never aged, and she’d always worn the same tan uniform and white apron. As always she was unsheathing a pencil from a mussed bun of tawny hair as if it were a tiny sword. She pointed it at an order pad, ready to do battle.
“What are you girls having?” she drawled.
Susannah shrugged undecidedly, thinking that Delia had even looked this way years ago when Susannah and June had come here with their folks every Saturday morning. Memories made Susannah’s heart squeeze. After her folks had passed, Ellie had begun meeting Susannah here every Saturday, keeping up the Banner family tradition. When nothing else in the world helped, smelling sausage frying on Delia’s grill could usually soothe Susannah.
“I’m not sure, Delia…” Susannah forced herself to stare at the menu, only to notice her wedding ring and feel a wave of depression. “I’m not very hungry. Maybe toast—”
Groaning, Delia dropped the order pad into her apron pocket and planted her hands on her hips. “I should have known something was wrong by the crazy way you pulled into my parking lot. What did your devil in blue jeans do now?”
“Not a thing,” Susannah lied, knowing if she opened her mouth—at least to anybody except Ellie—her dirty laundry would be hanging out for all of Bayou Banner to see. Of course, before J.D., Susannah’s own mama had caused a few eyebrows to rise around town, too.
Still, the Banners had been the town’s most prominent family, and Susannah had hoped to uphold tradition. However, instead of decorating the town square’s Christmas tree or spearheading the Easter egg drive, she’d spent most of her time apologizing for her rowdy husband and his big-city friends, all of whom made her mama look tame.
Suddenly, something inside Susannah’s chest wrenched, and she almost uttered a soft cry; she could swear her heart had done three somersaults and now, it was aching to beat the band. How could she get the old J.D. back? The sweet, gentle man she’d married?
If only her mama was alive! Barbara Banner would have known how to handle J.D. She’d been a delicate woman who read too much, painted in her spare time and was overly emotional and prone to indulge too many fantasies, the type to take to her bed in winters, and to get involved in dramas of her own making. Still, her advice about men was always on target. Realizing Delia and Ellie were staring at her, Susannah blinked.
“You sure you’re okay, honey?” asked Delia.
“Fine,” Susannah lied. Knowing only a hearty appetite would appease Delia, she added, “I changed my mind. I’ll have the usual. In fact, you’d better add extra grits.” As she said the words, her stomach rumbled. Like most Southern women, Susannah included, Delia had inherited enough mouthwatering recipes to open a restaurant. For years, Susannah had been begging Delia to share her recipe for strawberry-rhubarb pie, but Delia kept refusing, saying the ingredients were top secret. “I’ll have my favorite pie for dessert,” Susannah added.
For Delia, having dessert after breakfast showed proof of mental stability—it was as good as formal papers signed by the board of health—so she sighed in relief, then took Ellie’s order and headed for the counter, saying over her shoulder, “I’m puttin’ cornbread on top of them grits, too, honey-bun. That’ll keep that miserable excuse for a man from scrambling your noggin. Yes ma’am, the only thing I allow to be scrambled in Delia’s Diner is my own damn eggs.”
Lifting a hand so as to display her airbrushed nails, Delia held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart to indicate the minuscule length of J.D.’s penis. “Johnson’s johnson,” she called loudly, just in case Susannah hadn’t caught the allusion.
Susannah wished it were true, but unfortunately J.D. was hung like a racehorse, and he knew how to use every inch of his equipment. Otherwise Susannah would have divorced him by now, or at least that’s what she told herself.
