There, partially concealed behind a giant green Dumpster, was Lance Ledeaux’s ’69 Camaro. Normally I can’t tell one car from another; four tires and a steering wheel, and they all start to look alike. Once I even lost my Buick at the mall, but that’s another story. Lance’s Camaro, however, was an exception. Only a blind person could miss his car. I may wear trifocals, but I’m not blind, I assure you.

I’d commented only a few days ago that it was the same red-orange as in a box of Crayola crayons. Lance quickly informed me the correct term for the car’s original paint color was Hugger Orange. Lance then proceeded to get a little hot under his Brooks Brothers collar when he heard me refer to his car as “old.” He wasted no time setting me straight. It wasn’t “old,” he said. It was a “classic.” Well, la-di-da! I’d said, but not out loud. Old orange cars seemed a touchy subject.

But I digress. The question of the day was why his Hugger Orange Camaro was parked next to a Dumpster behind the Piggly Wiggly.

I sat there, hands on the wheel, and pondered my next move. What was the harm in waiting awhile? I wasn’t exactly spying on Lance; I was only admiring the lines of his “classic” car. Lance should thank me for guarding his prized possession against the off chance a band of vandals was roaming the loading dock in search of empty boxes.

I didn’t have long to wait before a silver gray sedan whipped into the lot and squealed to a halt next to the Dumpster. Lance climbed out of the passenger side and exchanged what appeared to be angry words with whoever was driving. He then slammed the car door shut and stalked toward his Camaro. The driver of the sedan stomped on the accelerator and roared off. I caught only a quick glimpse of a dark-haired woman as she zoomed past.

Lance was in an equal hurry to make his getaway. He slammed into reverse, backed out of his hiding place, and peeled off. Curious to see what he was up to, I shifted into gear and followed, hoping he wouldn’t happen to glance into his rearview mirror and spot me. Both cars cleared the Piggly Wiggly lot at opposite ends and turned onto the highway. The dark-haired woman headed east; Lance took off in the direction of Serenity Cove.

What was all that about? I wondered as I headed home. Who was the dark-haired woman? And why the secrecy?

I wished I had gotten a better look at the driver of the sedan. It really was time for new glasses. I’d been procrastinating for months, but the time had come to make an appointment with the optometrist. However, even at a distance, and even needing new specs, I could tell from the body language that Lance had been furious. Bill had recently made the observation that Lance had a way of ticking people off. Now someone had turned the tables.

Paybacks are hell.

Chapter 4

As agreed upon the day before, Connie Sue, Pam, Monica, and I formed a committee in search of the perfect gift for the newlyweds. Our task was complicated by the fact that Claudia, if she wanted something, bought it. Bing, bang, boom, she’d whip out her credit card. The Babes had given the four of us a price range and charged us with finding something “appropriate” for a woman who had everything, including a shiny new husband.

“I could have driven,” Pam said for the third time.

“I know, sugar, but we can fit more into my Lexus than that little PT Cruiser of yours,” Connie Sue told her as she made a beeline for Macy’s. The rest of us tried to match her pace.

All of us were aware of the importance of having enough room to accommodate purchases after a shopping spree. Augusta, Georgia, is home to the nearest mall of any size. It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump down the road from Serenity Cove, but a big hop, a big skip, and a very long jump. When we go, we take a list and make it into an outing. And no outing is complete without show-and-tell afterward.

“Let’s find a wedding gift first,” Pam suggested. “Afterward we can separate.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Where do we start?”

Monica studied the store directory. “How about cook-ware?”

I wasn’t fooled by Monica’s sly suggestion. She was Martha Stewart with dark hair and a fetish for tiaras. “What about home décor?” I asked innocently. “Lance can never have enough frames to hold all his photos.”

“Kate, shame on you,” Pam said with a shake of her head. “We could check out bed and bath. Maybe get a nice set of towels.”

“Sugar, there’s a time to be practical and a time to be extravagant.” Connie Sue tapped a French-manicured nail on the directory. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ more along the lines of kitchen electronics.”

Soon the four of us were in a heated debate over espresso machines-which to the best of my knowledge, Claudia didn’t own. My head was starting to spin. Who would have guessed there would be so much to consider? Things like programmable, a one-year versus three-year warranty, and adjustable cup heights. After much discussion, we finally agreed on a particular model that boasted a three-in-one capability: coffee, espresso, and cappuccino. If I ever remarry-and that’s a pretty big if-I’m going to run straight for the nearest bridal registry and request one of these wonders. Imagine-cappuccino at my fingertips. I would think I’d died and gone to heaven.

Mission accomplished, we sent the three-in-one wonder to package pickup and headed for the four corners of the mall. In keeping with the coffee theme, we arranged to meet at Starbucks to load up on beans and caffeine before heading home.

“Are you single-handedly committed to reviving the economy?” Monica asked upon seeing Connie Sue’s amazing collection of shopping bags.

“Everythin’ was on sale. What’s a girl supposed to do?” Connie Sue retorted, nonplussed.

“I bought new towels,” Pam offered.

Pam, in sharp contrast to Connie Sue, is frugal to a fault, but it’s these idiosyncrasies that make life interesting. When left to my own devices, I’d done a little shopping of my own, both the practical and the extravagant sort. I have a froufrou bag filled with freebie cosmetics, all sorts of tiny bottles filled with such things as moisturizer and exfoliator, along with a sample of a new designer fragrance. That goes to show my practical side. Problem was, I liked the new designer perfume so much, I bought one. I tried not to dwell on the price. And what’s more, I rationalized, I didn’t really buy it for myself; I bought it for Bill. The saleswoman claimed men found the scent irresistible. I could hardly wait to take it out for a test drive.

“I need a smoothie,” Connie Sue announced, piling her bags on a nearby vacant chair. “Be right back.”

While waiting for her to return, we huddled around a small table that gave us a view of the mall traffic. As it often did these days, talk centered on Lance Ledeaux.

“I can’t believe we let him talk us into this,” I complained for the umpteenth time.

Pam sipped her grande nonfat latte. “Remember this all sounded like a great idea at the time. No one held a gun to our heads and made us agree to go along with this play of his.”

“Not simply a play, sugar,” Connie Sue said, returning with smoothie in hand, in time to overhear Pam’s comment. “A theatrical production.”

Monica nodded grimly. “A theatrical production he’s written himself.”

“And plans to star in,” Pam added. “As well as produce and direct.”

I frowned, not caring if I might need Botox down the road. “Don’t know much about the theater, but even to an amateur such as myself, it sounds overly ambitious.”

Monica blew on her herbal tea to cool it. “Since we’re all involved, maybe the marquee should read ‘Babes on Broadway.’ ”

“Great idea, sugar, but I’m afraid it’s already been done.” Connie Sue took a long pull on the straw of her pink smoothie.