Free (2005) Wrapped in Rain by Charles Martin Page A

gold necklace, rested in the seam of her breasts. Mutt watched the dog tag jiggle when she pulled against her leash.
    Dixie never skipped a beat. She had dealt with this kind before. Maybe even enjoyed it. Mutt slouched further in the seat and almost forgot that people might be looking for him. Dixie picked up the glass, sniffed it, sipped a hefty mouthful, and swished the tea around her cheeks like mouthwash before swallowing. She wiped her lips on the sweatband covering her right wrist, and her stance changed from a tall and slender greyhound to a stout boxer. Dixie closed her eyes, smiled wider, slapped the table, and drew deeper on her Southern drawl. "Tastes good to me, honey." She set the glass in front of the woman, turning her own lipstick stain outward.
    Missy was aghast, her jaw and shoulders dropping. She picked up the glass with two fingers and pitched it over the railing. After the splash, she turned to the man on her right. "Rocco!" she screamed. Rocco, wearing the best hair implants money could buy, was reading the menu and probably thinking about the alligator tail appetizer. Her high-pitched bark, though usual, was unwelcome. His pink silk shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel, where a dark carpet of chest hair spilled out and rose up to his neck. A thick gold chain, about the width of a dog collar, hung around his neck, and a diamond-studded Rolex accentuated his wrist. Mutt noticed that their watches matched. He wondered if Rocco had given it to her before or after he hung the rock on her finger that looked like something out of the Jurassic period.

    Rocco looked up from the menu, took a deep breath, eyed the waitress, and made use of his extremely deep voice. "What's the problem, lady?"
    Dixie stuck her red pencil through the middle of the red bun on top of her head, slid her small pad into the front of her apron, put her hand on her hip, and looked from Rocco to Miss Implants. She leaned over, letting her cutoff jeans ride a little too high up her thighs, and rested her elbows on the table. "Down here," she said with a sweet Southern smile and pointing straight down through the table, "iced tea is not a drink. It's not even a refreshment. And it's certainly not something that causes you to fall backwards into a pool." Dixie looked around and whispered in Rocco's direction, "It's a religion." She stood up, shrugged her shoulders, and said, And you either practice or you don't. Down here, there's no such thing as `unswate tay.' That's a myth propagated by people who don't come from 'round here. You can ask for it, but one of us might give you a funny look before we write you off as nothing but a couple of Yankees. Down here," she said, pointing again with both index fingers, "tea comes one way. `Swate. "' She eyed Rocco again and gave a nudge. "Like us." She put her hand on Rocco's shoulder and gently brushed his ear, making sure to dip the end of her finger just slightly into his ear canal. She said again, "Like us."
    That got Rocco's attention, and a smirk slowly replaced his best mafioso impersonation. Dixie looked to Missy and continued, "On average, the best mixture is one-third sugar and two-thirds tea, but"-she looked to Rocco again-"like most things, the exact amount varies by locale and who's doing the sweetening. True sweet tea does not come in a powder or a plastic container with a screw-off cap. It comes in little bags that are boiled in hot water, then steeped for three to four hours in syrupy sugar water.

    "It's the steeping that's the secret." At the thought of syrupy, sugary water and several hours of steeping, Rocco sat up, ran his fingers around his waistline, and gave Dixie's freckled legs and faded jean shorts another look. Dixie continued, "When dark enough, it's then mixed with more water from the faucet, maybe even a spigot or a hose, but"Dixie eyed the bottled water, stained with bright pink lipstick, sticking conspicuously out of Missy's purse-"never a bottle." She stood next to