Page 21 of The Belle and the Biker

Savannah

The risingsun paints the jagged peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains with a white-gold glow. I'll make it to the breakfast table just in time to be chided for being an idle, late-sleeping layabout.

I rush my shower and Tiddlywinks's walk. It doesn't help. By the time I reach the Chippendale mahogany dining table, Hepzibah is already seated. Her blue-white hair is set in neat waves. Her pink lipstick is perfectly applied, and her eyebrows penciled in; the day she lets anyone see her without her "face" on is the day she stops drawing breath.

"Good morning, Aunt Hepzibah. You're looking well."

"What's left of me is," she sniffs. Her left eye is ringed in ugly greenish-yellow from the fading bruise left by Mae Abernathy, and I wonder what Mae looks like. Those two old biddies have helped keep the Sugar Hill-Bitter End feud alive for several generations.

I sit down at the table with Tiddlywinks on my lap. My aunt lifts one eyebrow questioningly and looks at the dog. Here we go again.

"She's a dog," I say with a touch of truculence. I'm getting tired of defending her species.

"Of course, she's a dog. What else would she be? Good heavens, child, sometimes I think you've only got one oar in the water."

Tiddlywinks is shuddering with excitement, the way she always does when she smells food.

"Is your dog having a seizure?"

"No, she's just hungry. Tiddlywinks hasn't eaten yet."

"You named her Tiddlywinks?" Aunt Hepzibah's voice goes so soft that I don't even recognize it. "You remembered."

"Yes. Playing Tiddlywinks here is among my few happy childhood memories."

Aunt Hepzibah stares at Tiddlywinks with an expression I'd almost describe as mushy, and then she sees me looking at her, and she draws herself up straight. "Well, with a common garden snake-like Willadeene for a mother, it's no wonder. Carlisle!"

"Yes, ma'am." Carlisle emerges from the doorway.

"Please take Tiddlywinks and give her some breakfast. Something healthy, with protein, mind. And send someone into town this morning to get a bag of the better variety of dog food. I'm sure Savannah's been feeding her the cheapest down-market brand. You know how that branch of the family is. They'll squeeze a quarter so tight the eagle cries."

She looks at me narrow-eyed as Carlisle removes Tiddlywinks from my lap. "And don't you roll your eyes at me, child."

"I would never do such a thing," I say innocently, spearing several bacon slices from the platter in the middle of the table. I add a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, and a biscuit, then ladle gravy over the biscuit. God, I love not starving myself. I love it so much.

"You Mulberry Acres Harkwells never were any good at lying."

I chew and swallow a bite of biscuit before answering. "You said you wanted me to testify because we're excellent at lying. Which is it?" I demand. Aunt Hepzibah's summary of a person's character flaws changes depending on the moment's needs.

And she conveniently goes deaf when anybody contradicts her. She really should see a doctor about that. "Pass the butter, will you, dear?"

I hand her the sterling silver dish. "Why not. Since it wouldn't melt in your mouth," I mutter.

She shoots me a sharp look. "What was that now?"

"I was just wondering when you'll need me to testify in court."

She flaps a wrinkled hand laden with chunky rings, and her bracelets make a jangling sound. "Oh, no need to bother about that now; it's not for some time."

When I'm done with breakfast, she looks me up and down. "You're not going to leave the house in that outfit, are you?"

I glance down at my dress. It's a floral rayon wrap dress. It is a bit snug, but since I've gained a lot of weight and lost a lot of money, I'm wardrobe-challenged these days. I managed to put together a nice wardrobe by shopping at consignment stores—Daisy taught me how. Unfortunately, it's almost all wintery and more of a New York style.

"Goodness, Aunt Hepzibah, who needs my mother when I've got you to offer fashion advice?"

"Who would take fashion advice from Willadeene? Bless her heart; she stole her dress sense from a Wal-Mart circular." Oh, I wish my mother was here for that one. She'd be fuming. She makes it her life's mission to be skinnier and better dressed than every other woman in Sugar Hill.

Aunt Hepzibah heaves a sigh, gets up from the table, and fetches her enormous pocketbook from its resting spot on the credenza. She hands me a Visa card.

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