Free Deep Dixie by Annie Jones Page A

of the old house her family had occupied since the town ’ s founding wrapped itself around the two of them.
    Lettie ’ s milky-eyed gaze remained trained on the younger woman the whole time until she finally broke the silence. “ You did hear me all right, didn ’ t you, Dixie Belle? ”
    Dixie squirmed like a six-year-old. Very few people could humble her like that, and only one got away with calling her by the nickname Dixie Belle . This scrappy imp of a woman who had raised one generation after another of her family, including Dixie herself, had always been able to put Dixie in her place with no more than a look or a word.
    The rocking chair groaned out a long, nerve-twisting reminder that Lettie was still waiting to hear Dixie ’ s concession.
    She stiffened. The mantle clock in the main room where they sat tick-tick-ticked, commanding time itself to slow to its dull, plodding cadence. The house, in its seeming state of perpetual midday, always in the golden light of sun through yellowed window shades, offered little in the way of something to change the subject.
    No. Change was not the way of this house or its owners. In fact, Dixie noted as she glanced around, nothing much in this house had changed in the last forty years. Not easily anyhow—with the exception of the peeling of wallpaper and the loss of loved ones.
    Daddy . The reminder of her loss made her breath snag high in the back of her throat. Her heart felt like it had clamped up into a cold little lump. She knotted her arms around herself as if that could keep the worries of the world from closing in on her. Daddy ’ s death had changed things here...changed them drastically, dreadfully, and perhaps irreversibly, though no one but Dixie seemed even remotely aware of that fact.
    “ Are you two done with your foray into the profundity of literary phantasm? ” Aunt Sis flounced into the room. The woman was the widow of Dixie ’ s only uncle. Her legal name was June Cunningham though absolutely no one had called her anything but Sis or Aunt Sis or even Miss Sis in years.
    She popped through the swinging door that led from the kitchen, bounded through the large dining area, and flounced into the formal receiving room where Dixie and Lettie sat. Aunt Sis pretty much flounced everywhere she went, except on the rare occasion when she skulked about or swooped in on unsuspecting people making what she liked to call her “ entrance . ”
    “ We ’ re just getting to our first writing session, Aunt Sis. I was held up late at work because we have some major— ”
    “ Oh, I know all about getting held up with crucial matters, sugar. ” She whipped a lace hankie from inside her oversized straw purse and began fanning her neck and face.
    The action sent a veritable cloud of perfume wafting over Dixie and Lettie.
    “ You would not believe the ballyhoo that went on today at the Every-Other-Thursday-Afternoon Arts and Culture Society. Accusations. Fault finding. Name calling! A bigger pack of whining, miserable, mean-spirited, back-stabbing busybodies I never saw. If they weren ’ t all my very best friends in the world, I would resign as the club ’ s patron on the spot. ”
    Dixie bit her lip to keep from snickering.
    Lettie did not even try to hide her amusement at Sis ’ s nonexistent dilemma. She snorted out a laugh.
    Aunt Sis tipped her nose up at them both then put her hand to her painted coral lips. “ Peachie Too! Where ’ s my little princess puppy-toes? Peachie Too? ”
    “ Grandpa has taken her for a walk. ” Dixie tried to return her attention to the journal in her lap.
    “ A walk? Oh, dear! ” Sis clutched at her throat and looked toward the nearest window. “ Did he put her sweater on? The lamb ’ s wool one with the faux fur collar? ”
    Dixie shut her eyes, trying to sound light and pleasant as she sighed and answered. “ He put something on her, yes. We all know better than to let that...to let Peachie Too outdoors unless she is