you don’t like?” It wasn’t really the questions that mattered. It was the information dump that occurred whenever more than two good Southern ladies got together.
It was warming into summer temperatures today, and I was sprawled out on the porch with my laptop, my notebook, and a glass of—don’t tell anyone—unsweetened tea. Asking questions, getting answers, organizing the information in my mind. This was my happy place.
“Now let’s take a little break from the work and talk about how you’re doin’, Shelby,” Mrs. Varney suggested sweetly.
“You seen that young Jonah naked yet?” Myrt cackled, leaning forward in her rocker.
“Um. No. Jonah and I are just roommates.” Though I’d seen him sweaty and breathless several times as the man was constantly coming and going from workouts and training sessions. That was almost as good as naked. Probably.
“Youth is wasted on the young.” Carolina Rae sighed. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t let separate bedrooms hold me back.”
The other ladies nodded and rocked vigorously in agreement.
“I’m not here to find myself a boyfriend,” I reminded them. “I’m here to learn why it is that the residents of Bootleg Springs work so well together. You’ve got people of all ages and backgrounds banding together for a common cause, and you succeeded spectacularly.”
“Shelby, there’s no secret there,” Mrs. Varney insisted. “We’re neighbors. That makes us family.”
In nearly every other part of the country that was not true. I remembered the next-door neighbors we had growing up in Charlotte. They blared rock music until 2 a.m. and got in loud arguments over who was going to clean up the dog poop in the backyard. My parents ended up building a ten-foot-tall privacy fence and threw a party when the couple divorced and sold the house.
In Pittsburgh, I knew some of my neighbors’ names. At least their last names according to labels above their mailboxes. But living together didn’t automatically foster any sense of community.
“Let’s talk about the history of Bootleg Springs,” I said, changing the subject. Perhaps their heritage played an important role in why residents felt like they all belonged here.
“Well, you can’t talk about Bootleg Springs history and not talk about Jedidiah Bodine,” Myrt cackled.
“Oh, that Jedidiah was a handsome one,” Mrs. Varney said, fanning herself with her paper plate.
“You aren’t that old, Ethel,” Carolina Rae pointed out.
“Old enough to remember him tearin’ through town in his hot rod the day before he up and keeled over from a heart attack.”
“May he rest in peace,” the women chorused.
They launched into Volume One of Jedidiah Bodine’s colorful history, and I scribbled furiously trying to keep up with their back and forth. I was so engrossed in the story that I didn’t hear Jonah until his foot hit the first porch step.
“Ladies,” he said. He didn’t sound happy.
He was sweaty from his personal training session. I liked the idea that he worked out with his clients, suffered with them, not just told them what to do. I had to force my gaze away from that sweaty patch over his chest.
“Why, Jonah Bodine. You’re looking handsomer every time I lay eyes on you,” Mrs. Varney said flirtatiously.
“Thank you, Mrs. Varney,” he said. He was probably used to the embarrassing attention by now.
“We were just telling Shelby here all about your great-granddad Jedidiah,” Myrt cut in. “I bet you’d like to know a thing or two about him, seein’s how you grew up fatherless thanks to that no-good Jonah Bodine Sr., may he rest in peace.”
“May he rest in peace,” the ladies echoed.
“It’s so nice to see you ladies,” Jonah said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were warding off a headache. “Shelby, can I have a word with you inside?”
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to go pour Jonah a nice glass of sweet tea,” I said, climbing gingerly to my feet.
He grabbed my wrist with his sweaty hand and dragged me into the house. He opened his mouth to start in on me then and there, but I shushed him and pointed to the screen door where four ladies had their ears wide open.
“I don’t like sweet tea,” he snapped when I pushed him into the kitchen.
“Preaching to the choir on that one,” I said, filling a glass from the tap. “Why not just eat seventeen packets of sugar instead?”
I handed him the glass. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before chugging it.
“Thank you for the water,” he said. “But I don’t like you bringing my