Free Dancing Naked in Dixie by Lauren Clark

on my decorating plans. I’m thinking Southern Living meets Metropolitan Home —”
    I shake my head vigorously. “No, I think it’s a casual family get-together. His mother, his sister. His dad, maybe? I’m really not sure.”
    A sudden thought hits me. I imagine a throng of people, elbow to elbow, and I won’t be able to see or hear because of the crowd.
    “Well, well.” Roger adjusts his tie and takes a few steps toward the hallway. He pauses in the doorway, then half-turns to look back at me. “That should be interesting.” A strange expression crosses his face—halfway between amusement and fascination.
    It’s obvious there’s something I don’t know. It’s also clear he has no intention of telling me. I know I should let it go, allow him to leave, and find out for myself. Three seconds later, I can’t stand it any longer. My insides are twitching every which way, but I keep my tone even and calm. “What do you mean?”
    “You’ll see,” Roger says. “We’ll chat tomorrow, darling. Catch up.”
    With that, he struts out the door. It shuts behind him with a gentle click.
    I shake my head. Catch up? What’s with these people? I think for a moment. Well, I guess that’s what normal people do when they sit still long enough.
    Come to think of it, when I’m home, I can’t be bothered with office gossip. It seems I’m always a dozen episodes behind on who’s dating who, who’s getting a divorce, or who’s having a baby.
    All this worrying isn’t good for me. My breathing is shallow and fast. My throat is scratchy and dry. I glance around the room, slightly panicked. No mini-bar, no bottled water. No Diet Dr. Pepper because I drank it already.
    Do I dare get that RC? And the Moon Pies?
    Desperation knows no bounds when I have to quench my thirst. I start to fish around in the pockets of my tote bag. Ah ha! Gotcha, I think triumphantly. Except for the Moon Pies are hot and half-melted. The RC is a bit warm too.
    Ice. Surely they have ice here. I take a step toward the door. No, I can’t bother Roger. If I do, I’ll never get to the Jordan’s.
    Bathroom sink. They have to have one of these. Behind the door, a lovely white pedestal sink sits in the center of the far wall, a huge claw-foot tub to the right.
    I take a peek in the mirror; run a hand through my hair. The handles of the faucet creak when I turn them. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, blessed water! I let it run, then tuck my hair behind both ears and stick my mouth underneath. Water is dripping across my cheek and up to my ear. Even so, it’s delicious, wet, and cold. Refreshed, I throw myself into getting ready.
    Black skirt, matching jacket, a pair of deep red, open-toed heels, dash of lip gloss. There.
    It’s six o’clock on the dot. Certainly, I don’t want to be early. Or late. I glance at the directions. Shug has written down an address on North Eufaula Avenue. It’s not far.
    I walk over to the window and hoist the wooden frame up a few inches so that a slight breeze can come through the screen. The room is taking on a golden glow from the setting sun. A sudden gust blows past my arm. Several papers, which were neatly stacked on the writing desk in the corner, flutter to the floor. Stationary, envelopes, and a few brochures about the Pilgrimage, thanks to Roger. There’s a postcard, too. I pick that up last.
    It’s a lovely one, actually. The towering white structure cuts an impressive figure against a turquoise blue sky. Bright pink azaleas hug the columns and steps leading up to the veranda.
    I flip it over and read the back.
    Shorter Mansion. 340 North Eufaula Avenue. Built in 1884 by Eli and Wylena Shorter, the home took on its present Neoclassical Revival appearance after its 1906 renovations. Headquarters for the Eufaula Heritage Association. Open Year-Round.
    Out of habit, I reach for a pen, uncap it, and hold it above the white rectangle.
    Wait. Who am I going to send it to? Emptiness fills my chest.
    Andrew