Free Dancing Naked in Dixie by Lauren Clark Page A

would like it—he’d probably die of shock, actually. The man’s not used to impromptu displays of affection. Better not start now. I’ll be expected to keep it up, then disappoint him when I don’t.
    Marietta would appreciate it, but it wouldn’t be quite as special as sharing it with family.
    And David? I begin to laugh out loud, then cover my mouth. I’ll send him a postcard the moment I start craving red eye gravy and biscuits. Or say y’all.
    As I think, I run a finger along the edge of the postcard, rub the glossy coating with my thumb. There’s only person I want to send it to, and she can’t get mail.
    Mom, I really miss you.

Chapter 9
    Outside Roger’s bed and breakfast, I feel a little bit like Alice in Wonderland. I keep waiting to hear the angry honk of taxis and the squeal of tires. I expect to smell of motor oil and see clouds of smog dotting the tops of silver skyscrapers.
    Like many city dwellers, I find comfort in the anonymity of New York’s sidewalks. You can vanish into a sea of bobbing heads, ponytails, and baseball caps. The constant noise, jostled elbows, and the steady crinkle of shopping bags provide a buffer from anything remotely personal. Sunglasses shield every eye, even when it’s cloudy. On any given day, the line in front of the hot dog stand stretches a mile, where people stand closer than husbands and wives, yet are strangers. Amidst it all, brakes squeal, horns honk, and cell phone conversations buzz from all sides.
    Here, it’s quiet. Really serene. The azaleas and gardenias, full to bursting with pink and white blooms, have obviously been tricked into thinking it’s spring because of the warm weather.
    By accident, a person might fall in love with a place like this. It’s the silliest thing in the world for me to think. I’m not one of those sentimental types. I prefer the hustle, bustle, the noise, and the action. I’d be bored and restless in a place like this. At least, that’s what I’ve told my friends. And myself.
    I actually can’t remember a time in the last decade that I’ve spent more than five minutes in a small town. Okay. There was the time I was handed a whopping speeding ticket in La Jolla on my way to San Diego, but that really doesn’t count. A three hundred dollar fine does tend to dampen the moment.
    Here, though, at this very moment, the sky turning a deep shade of violet, but it’s clear enough to see a sprinkle of stars overhead. Under the streetlights, crickets begin chirping, and the air is so sweet and heavy with moisture a person could almost drink it in. My breathing is slower, my heart doesn’t feel quite so heavy, and I’m letting myself stroll along, absorbing the details of everything around me.
    I pass Shug’s office. One light burns in each window opposite the center door; the building is still and quiet. Next to his office is the Eufaula Library, a two-story red-brick building with light yellow trim. The large hanging eaves under the hipped roof give it a stately feel; long, narrow balconies face north and west.
    Up ahead and across the road, a dark, gothic-looking church strikes an imposing figure as I come nearer. The bricks are pale, set off by dark, tall, stained-glass windows. Beneath a small white cross, the centerpiece of the church is a rose window set between the two main towers. To the left, a fountain sits in the center of a stone-paved garden.
    I cross the street to get a better look at Shorter Mansion, which stands out in bright white with its Corinthian columns. A balcony sets off the double wooden doors and leaded-glass windows beneath. Dentils and a balustrade run along the top of the structure above a frieze of leaves and scrolls. It is certainly worthy of its stature as one of Alabama’s most magnificent historical sites.
    The home next to it is a dark, sprawling estate with an expansive porch and a tower that must reach three stories high.
    Up ahead, both Highland and Cotton Avenues branch off of the main