“I just wish you didn’t have to give it more publicity with a Ledger story,” she said.

“I don’t see that I have much choice,” I said as Seth poured steaming cups of coffee all around after supper.

“No,” Minnie sighed. “But right now, not that many people know about it. I called around the whole district. Makely’s the only place they were distributed.”

We went over it and over it from every angle, then worked on my statement until my nieces and nephews came home.

As I drove through Cotton Grove on my way home to Dobbs, I passed by the neat house on the edge of town that my brother Will had once shared with Trish. It was still early, barely dark good; and through the thick trees, I saw that a light was on in Trish’s living room.

I braked with such abruptness that the pickup behind almost rear-ended me. Well, what the hell, I thought. Talking with Trish about Janie Whitehead would at least make a change from worrying about my campaign.

13 daytime friends and nighttime lovers

Will’s ex-wife is a vice president in charge of customer service at my bank in Dobbs, so I’ve run into her frequently over the years. We’re friendly enough, but I hadn’t been in her house since Mother died.

Mother was what everyone called a “good woman” (as distinct from “a good ol’ gal”) even though I realized right before she died that a narrow streak of wildness lay just beneath her surface serenity. Most of the time she kept it repressed, but when it got out of hand… well, that little streak of wildness was what took her off to Goldsboro during World War II and what later made her want to marry a widowed bootlegger with a houseful of motherless boys after the war.

Nine times out of ten, a good woman does exactly what her family and society expect of her.

That tenth time? Better stand back out of her way.

She’ll burn down her world just for the hell of it, or risk everything she’s worked a lifetime for on pure-out whimsy.

A similar streak in Trish is probably why Mother liked her and stayed friends even after the divorce. Not that she didn’t do everything in her power to talk my brother out of marrying Trish.

“I thought you liked her,” Will said plaintively when he first started talking engagement rings.

“Liking has nothing to do with it,” said Mother. “I just don’t believe you two are suited.”

“Who’s not?” he asked. “Me for her or her for me?”

Mother just shook her head. She never said another word against the match once it was made, and she never said “I told you so” when it came unmade after two and a half years.

As I pulled into the driveway behind Trish’s conservative white Japanese import, I found myself wondering for the first time in years what actually had gone wrong with their marriage. Will just tightened his mouth and we assumed he’d caught Trish in bed with someone since he was the one that wanted out. There’d been talk of her having round heels, but no one specific had ever been named.

Even after the divorce, when she could have been a little less discreet, there’d been no stories of some man’s car parked all night in her driveway. True, she and Kay Saunders had spent a lot of weekends down at the beach that year, and everybody knows what kind of messing around two women off the leash can do, especially at the beach; but Kay was going through a rough time with Fred. He’d always cheated on Kay; that summer he quit trying to hide it.

Divorce can be a contagious virus and we half expected that Fred and Kay’s marriage might go bust too, but somehow they kept it going. Last I heard, they were still together, living in Maryland somewhere.

The front drape moved a finger’s width, then Trish opened the door.

“Well, I’ll be darned! Deborah? Come on in!” She stood back to let me pass.

Time had been nice to her. She had to be early forties, yet her reddish-blonde hair fell softly around a smooth face, her breasts were still firm inside a cotton peasant blouse, her legs as magnificent as ever in cut-off jeans. She was barefooted, and I smelled the open bottle of nail polish on the coffee table just as I noticed that seven of her toes sported glistening pink polish.

On the couch sat another woman, in white slacks, tailored apricot silk shirt, and gold-tooled thongs. Short dark hair, green eyes, probably in her late thirties. Her triangular, catlike features were softened by the few extra pounds she carried.

“You and Margie know each other, don’t you?” asked Trish, and when I shook my head, she introduced us. “Deborah Knott, Margie McGranahan. Margie works in our Makely branch. Deborah’s my ex’s sister.‘

“Oh, yes,” said the woman with a smile. “You’re running for judge. Congratulations on your win Tuesday.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a chair opposite. “I like your sandals.”

Other women notice jewelry. I always notice shoes.

“These old things?” She stretched out a shapely foot and I saw that her toenails had been freshly painted in the same pink shade as Trish’s. “I got these on sale at the end of last summer. At the Bigg Shopp, of all places.”

She capped the nail polish and slid it across the coffee table to Trish, then began gathering up her purse, car keys, and a folder of papers.

“Did I interrupt?” I asked, noticing the opened bottle of wine and nearly empty glasses.

“No, no,” Trish reassured me. “Margie was just leaving. We did all we were going to do tonight.”

“My husband had to work late,” Margie explained, “so this was a good time for us to talk and catch up on some bank mess, but I really do need to get on home. When do you want to let’s try and finish this, Trish? Monday night?”

Trish had drifted over to the front door and opened it. “How about I give you a call when I see how things are working out?”

“Fine. Nice meeting you, Deborah,” said Margie. “And good luck in the runoff.”

She glanced out the open door and hesitated. “I’m afraid you’ve got me blocked in.”

“Oh, is that your car?” I was surprised. “I thought it was Trish’s.”

“No, mine’s in the garage,” said Trish.

“But isn’t it the same model?”

“Yes, isn’t that a funny coincidence? I reckon you were confused.”

As I backed my car out of the driveway so Margie McGranahan could leave, I had a vague sense of déjà vu, yet no matter how I grabbed for that tag end of subconsciousness, the whole memory wouldn’t come.

Margie tapped her horn in thanks and sped off toward Makely as I pulled back into the drive.

Since Cotton Grove’s town limits were less than a thousand feet away, streetlights were few and far between out here. The trees had matured amazingly since I last stood in Trish’s yard. Coupled with the overgrown shrubbery all around, the place was effectively shielded from its neighbors on either side and had an unexpected sense of privacy for a town lot. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but Jupiter shone with a steady white fire in the western sky in competition with all the other bright points now pricking through the darkness.

“How about some wine?” asked Trish as I followed her back into the softly lit house.

“No thanks, but I could sure use some iced tea.”

Every refrigerator in the South holds a jug or half-gallon jar of strong sweet tea, and Trish’s was no exception.

I trailed her out to the kitchen and sat down at her breakfast table while she poured us both tea and then began stacking the dishwasher with the things she and Margie had dirtied at supper. She’d redone the room completely. Everything was blue-and-white gingham and white ruffles. Very feminine.

“Haven’t seen much of you these last few years,” said Trish. “What’ve you been up to? Besides work and running for judge, I mean?”

“You mean how’s my love life?”

She laughed. “Well, I was going to work up to that more subtle-like. I heard you were seeing Jed Whitehead again.”