In the Dog House. V.M. Burns
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in the United States, for one, and I wouldn’t need a passport or shots. Like several other states, Tennessee had no state income tax. The cost of living seemed a lot lower than in Indiana. Plus, it didn’t snow very often. Add that to the fact I knew at least one person in Chattanooga, which catapulted it to the top of my list.
It turned out the Internet was good at finding long-lost friends too. I tracked down an e-mail address for my friend Scarlett Jefferson. Scarlett and I met during our freshman year of college and had been fast friends. She was a southern belle with a wicked sense of humor and a sharp mind. Her mother had been a huge fan of Gone with the Wind, so much so she’d named her two children Scarlett and Rhett. Despite the moniker, Scarlett got along well with the Yankees at Northwestern University and made tons of friends. Everyone called her Dixie, and we’d remained friends and roommates for our full four years. However, after college she moved back to Tennessee and married her high school sweetheart, Jeremiah Beauregard “Beau” Jefferson, and I fell in love and married Albert. We wrote for a few years and talked on the telephone, but Dixie and Albert never got along. Albert thought she was too opinionated and outspoken. Dixie never trusted Albert. Turned out she was right. While I was still riding high from the excitement of my decision to start over, I fired off an e-mail before my courage failed, stating I was thinking about moving to the Chattanooga area and was curious if she could recommend a good Realtor. I pressed send and promptly shut down my computer. I wasn’t sure if anything would come of this, but I was determined to find my happy place.
CHAPTER 2
I fully expected the crazy idea of moving to Tennessee would have faded in the bright light of a new day. However, the next morning I found myself even more excited than I was the previous night. In fact, when I sat down with coffee, I noticed a new e-mail had arrived. It was from Dixie. She was ecstatic to hear I was considering moving to Chattanooga. There were a lot of capital letters and exclamation marks, along with an entire row of happy face emoticons. She declared it fate that she was actually only a few hours away attending a Poodle Specialty, whatever that was, in Lansing, Michigan. She was going to be staying in the area for another week to attend an Obedience workshop and would drive down and maybe we could have lunch or dinner.
I promptly responded I would love to get together and sent my address, my cell phone number, and directions. I had plenty of room and invited her to stay here while she waited for the workshop. Message sent, I drank my coffee and tried to remember the last time I’d seen Dixie.
Later, I called Stephanie and told her what I wanted. Initially, she was unsure, but when I shared my plan to move someplace warm and sunny and start over, she thought it was a great idea. She told me to leave all of the legal arrangements to her, which I was happy to do.
I got dressed and started on my tasks. My next-door neighbor was an elderly retired police officer who suffered from dementia. Bradley Hurston had retired from the Chicago Police Department and moved to Lighthouse Dunes to stay with his sister after her husband died suddenly. Mr. Hurston had once been very active, coaching the boys’ baseball team and teaching self-defense classes to the women in our neighborhood. I still remembered his suggestion to S.I.N.G. if we were ever attacked. SING was the acronym he used to help us remember the four areas to attack—solar plexus, instep, nose, and groin. He was now confined to a wheelchair, where he spent his days looking out his front window with a pair of binoculars.
I got the lawn mower out of the garage and cut the grass. It had been a very wet spring, and now that summer had arrived, the grass was growing very rapidly. When I finished my yard, I cut Mr. Hurston’s grass, as well. His son usually cut his grass when he was in town or arranged for someone to do it, but he was a cop, too, and I knew he was often tired when he got home from work. Plus, he had a family and a yard of his own to mow. So, I’d made a habit of cutting Mr. Hurston’s yard whenever I cut mine. Besides, it was the least I could do for someone who’d been so committed to serving and protecting our community.
When I was done mowing, I edged both yards and swept up the grass clippings. The neighborhood association frowned on grass clippings left on the sidewalk. Three hours later, I was hot, sweaty, and covered in grass clippings, but both yards looked great.
The front door opened, and Marianne Carpenter, Mr. Hurston’s sister, smiled and beckoned me to come in.
Marianne Carpenter was a petite woman, barely five feet tall. She was probably in her mid-sixties but looked older. I suspected that was due to her hair, which was thinning but which she dyed a vibrant orange, along with an excessive amount of makeup, which highlighted rather than concealed every wrinkle. She was a timid woman who liked flashy clothes, large gawdy pieces of jewelry, and pink slippers. “You must be worn out. Come inside and have some lemonade.”
I was itchy from the grass clippings and suspected the odor that made its way to my nose every few seconds wasn’t something being carried by the wind, but was me. Nevertheless, I’d learned that declining Marianne’s offers was in poor taste. Her eyes filled with tears and she became offended. So, I made my usual half-hearted protests and went inside.
Bradley Hurston was seated in front of the living room picture window. He had always been a big man. Now he seemed small and shriveled up. His skin sagged, and the few hairs that remained stood out, making him look like a mad scientist.
“Hello, Mr. Hurston. How are you today?”
He gave me a glassy stare. “I saw you. I know what you did. I’ve got my eye on you.”
This was his standard greeting. He repeated those same words to everyone he met, repeatedly.
I nodded and followed Marianne to the kitchen. The layout of the house was a mirror image of my own, which always threw me off. My natural instinct was to turn left to go to the kitchen instead of right. After more than twenty years, I still veered to the left, bumped into the console table, and stubbed my toe. I went into the kitchen. Marianne was sitting at the circular wooden table with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.
“Have a seat and take a load off.” She smiled.
I sat and took a long drink. The lemonade was a mix, and it was so sweet I could feel my blood sugar rise. However, I was thirsty, so I chugged it down. Marianne Carpenter was the world’s worst cook. Her cookies were so hard I once used one as a wedge to level my kitchen chair. When she offered, I used my standard response, “Those look delicious, but I’m dieting.”
I wasn’t overweight. I’d describe myself as “big boned.” I was five feet four, one hundred fifty pounds, but compared to Marianne, I looked like the Jolly Green Giant. She was conscious of her figure and very conscientious of mine. She was extra-sensitive about everything else, but she understood dieting.
“Of course, dear, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Please forgive me. I’ve never had to watch my weight, but I do understand.” She patted my hand.
I plastered a fake smile on my face and dug my fingernails into my palm to prevent myself from flinging the glass of lemon-flavored sugar water at her.
“How are you holding up?” She leaned across the table and whispered with the look people wore to console family members at a funeral.
“I’m doing well. How are you?” I pretended I didn’t know she was referring to the fact that my husband had left me for a younger woman.
“Well, of course you’re fine.” She patted my hand again. “I’m praying for you two. In fact, when the pastor had altar call Sunday, I stood up and shared your situation with the congregation, and our pastor put your names on the prayer list at church.”
I dug my fingernails deeper and bit the inside of my cheek. “You did what?”
She smiled proudly, then hopped up and pulled a calendar off the refrigerator and brought it to the table. “Not only that, but I asked our prayer circle to keep you both on their prayer chain. There are people praying for you every hour of every day.” She looked at the sheet. “I’m scheduled from five to five thirty every morning.” She pointed her long, bony fingers at the time slot on the calendar.
I stared at the sheet until my eyes blurred and a vein throbbed