Scarlett decided to ignore her.
It was late when they got the kitchen cleaned up. When she began dinner Scarlett had found everything she needed, but after washing the dishes she was not so sure how to put it all back. It was not easy in the Grissoms’ big, fancy kitchen with built-in cabinets, two pantries, convection oven, the microwave, and assorted appliances.
When they were through, Farrie wanted to go into the Victorian parlor and sit under the Christmas tree rather than go upstairs and watch the television in the sister’s room. Somewhat reluctantly, Scarlett gave in.
The big high-ceilinged parlor was so bright with the Christmas tree that they didn’t bother to turn on other lights. After some trial and error Scarlett figured out how to turn on the radio in the stereo console. She sat down beside Farrie on the floor.
Since Christmas was only a few days away the local radio station played mostly Christmas carols. In alternate strings the red, green, blue, and white lights on the tree blinked on and off.
Outside it was sleeting again. Icy rain threw itself up against the glass of the parlor windows with a faint hissing sound. When the furnace cut on it added its warm, muted
Farrie leaned forward, hugging her knees, her pixie face lit by the flashing lights of the tree. Scarlett was glad her little sister wasn’t trying to talk about anything. Everything that Farrie wanted to say was in the air anyway.
Scarlett stared up at the big tree remembering one particular year they’d had to leave Catfish Holler at just about Christmastime for some reason that no one ever explained, but probably because the law was after the Scraggses. With two of the Scraggs uncles they’d gone over the mountains into North Carolina to stay a week in a motel. It was a bad place. The rooms in the old cabins looked clean but stank so much they could hardly breathe.
On top of everything else the motel had been full of hookers. When their uncle Lyndon Baines Scraggs wasn’t around to keep an eye on things, Scarlett sat in the middle of the motel bed and held Farrie in her arms, listening to the loud music, the doors slamming until almost morning. Scarlett had been about fourteen then. She hadn’t been able to show her face outside their room for truckers chasing her, wanting to give her money for what they thought she was selling.
No, Scarlett thought as she studied the back of her head, Farrie didn’t have to say a word. She could almost hear her say:
Scarlett bit her lip. It was true she would do almost anything for Farrie. It had been that way ever since her sister was born. But nobody could ever accuse Scarlett O’Hara of being talked into a crazy idea; she was too smart and stubborn for that.
She leaned forward, clasping her own knees in her arms. It was pretty cold- blooded to consider marrying someone just to have a roof over their heads. The only trouble was, when she was around the sheriff she didn’t feel very
She shut her eyes for a moment. Mercy, just thinking about Sheriff Buck’s curly eyelashes, wide mouth, and determined chin filled her with the strangest feelings! When Scarlett opened her eyes Farrie was studying her. Why did her sister always have to look as though she could practically read her mind?
“He likes you, too,” Farrie told her. “You could see it when you were feeding him meatloaf.”
“Meatballs,” Scarlett said. “Not meatloaf.”
Farrie waited.
“All right,” Scarlett said, frowning, “just don’t harp on it. I’ll see what I can do.”
When Buck came out of the den at eleven the Christmas tree lights in the parlor had been turned off. It was quiet, no interminable Christmas carols from Nancyville’s AM radio station, no female voices. No giggling. They’d finally gone to bed, he told himself.
As he always did before he turned in, Buck bolted the downstairs doors and turned the furnace thermostat to sixty-five degrees. By the time he’d got upstairs the house had already begun to cool.
The sheets were fairly cold when he climbed into what was, he’d always been told, his maternal grandfather Blankenship’s Lincoln-style bed. It took a moment for Buck’s body heat to warm it up. That gave him plenty of time to lie in the dark and listen to the wind pound the sleet against the northeast side of the house with a hiss like the sea hitting the shore. Then the wind, moaning in a low, wintry voice.
Around the holidays Jackson County had the homeless coming over the mountains on the interstates from cities like Nashville. Sometimes there was a problem with families sleeping in cars or in old pickup trucks. On a night as cold as this it could be dangerous to pull off the highway to some supermarket parking lot to sleep. Half the homeless heading south for Atlanta or Florida didn’t have warm clothes, much less blankets. Buck thought about getting up and calling the jail, checking to see if anybody’d been brought in.
In the next instant he rejected the idea. There was a directive out to the department about taking the homeless to shelter; he’d written it himself back before Thanksgiving. The night shift could handle it, Buck told himself. No need to jump out of a warm bed as his dad always had to check on every little thing downtown.
Buck turned over on his side and shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think about the homeless, he didn’t want to think of vagrants out in a night of wind and bitter cold. Nor the condition of the Scraggs sisters when he’d brought them home: Scarlett in rubber sandals and a thin cotton dress, the younger one not much better off in sneakers and an old discarded football jacket. Old Devil Anse made money from his rackets; there was no excuse for anyone bringing up their own kin like that.
Cursing his need to get some sleep, Buck flopped over on his opposite side. And suddenly jerked up in bed holding his bad shoulder.
“Confound it,” he yelled. His mistreated arm throbbed painfully. He considered getting out of bed and putting the sling back on. Only briefly.
Gritting his teeth, Buck slid back down in the bed again. With his left hand he carefully pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes. He kept his eyes closed determinedly as the wind lifted something loose outside the house and banged it across the lawn. A shutter thumped loudly. Or it was the unknown thing again, making an extended trip across the frozen grass outside. Buck told himself he wasn’t going to get up.
Somehow, even with all his fretting, he managed to drift off to sleep. Unfortunately, he had one of the worst dreams of his life.
He was dancing, and Buck was no dancer, at a wedding reception where half the guests were troll-like children running around wearing hideous peach satin dresses with big, floppy hats.
Even asleep, Buck cursed.
Then he discovered he was holding in his arms one of the most enchanting women he’d ever seen. The motion of the dance wafted her long dark hair out into the air like silken smoke. Her eyes were the same mysterious hue. And her lips – ah, her lips! That warm, full mouth was made for kissing. Buck was aware he hung over her, hopelessly fascinated, and that she wore a distinctive perfume. Aroma of meatloaf.
Buck looked down and could see she was wearing a costume in a vaguely antique style. The upper part of her gown exposed a good bit of her truly dazzling, pushed-up breasts. There were diamonds at her throat, and at her ears. On her head he saw, amazed, a diamond tiara. She gave him an impish smile.
In spite of the dazzling enchantment Buck was wary. There was something about the whole thing -
Abruptly he looked down again, and his suspicions were confirmed. He was Prince Charming, all right: he had on his best uniform with all his ribbon decorations and awards, including Georgia State
