Jill said with patently feigned indifference, “It’s okay, even my mother apologizes for me.”

“What would she have preferred you to do for a living?” asked Earlie as Betsy and Margot seated themselves.

“Nurse,” replied Jill thoughtfully. “Journalist. Business administrator. Stock-car driver. Checkout clerk at a 7-Eleven. Street sweeper. Streetwalker.” Though her expression remained impassive, Margot had become helpless with giggles and was waving at her to stop.

Betsy smiled at Hudson Earlie. He was extraordinarily handsome, with an outdoorsman’s permanently sunburned skin. “And how about you, Mr. Earlie? What would your mother have preferred you do?”

“Doctor,” he said in a good imitation of Jill’s smooth, expressionless voice. “Lawyer. Street sweeper. Used-car salesman.” He leaned forward and concluded in an undertone aimed at both Betsy and Jill, “Cop.” His eyes were a hot blue, his nose short but straight. His mouth, not large, hinted at arrogance, even stubbornness. Then he smiled, a wicked, lusty smile, with laugh lines cut deep. “Call me Hud.”

“Sure—Hud,” Betsy said, smiling back. As an excuse to tear her eyes away, she arranged her napkin over her lap. “When do we eat?” she asked.

“In a minute,” said Margot dryly, and when Betsy looked at her and at Jill, she saw them grinning.

Fine, thought Betsy. “I think you would have made a wonderful policeman,” she said to Hud, batting her eyelashes a trifle. “I bet every woman crook in the city would line up to be interrogated by you.”

Hud’s smile broadened, and he closed one eye in a not-so-surreptitious wink. “You have a right to remain silent,” he said in his own voice, a pleasant baritone, “but I hope you continue.”

Betsy made a mental note to find out if he was married.

For supper, Anderson served big, locally grown tomatoes stuffed with crab-and-celery salad, and sesame toast. Dessert was devil’s-food cake with coconut-caramel icing, cut into generous slabs. Betsy, with the sweet roll still undigested, earned a smile from Margot by taking only two bites. The coffee that came with it was very strong and delicious. Betsy followed Margot’s lead and turned down a refill.

But without it, she began to sink into that happy languor that generally follows a generous meal. A thin man with dark hair and eyes rose at the adjoining table and rapped gently on his water glass with his dessert fork. “Let’s get started here,” he said with a strong Midwest twang. He rapped again, and when he had their attention, he said, “I think first we need a chairman of this committee.”

“Who’s he?” Betsy murmured in Margot’s ear.

“Odell Jamison. He’s our mayor.” She raised her voice. “How about you, Odell?”

“No, I haven’t got time to do a good job,” said Odell. “I’m already working with the historical society for their Christmas pageant, playing at being mayor, and remodeling my house—if I don’t stay on those painters, they’ll never get it finished.”

Betsy smiled. Mayor Jamison had listed his profession both second and offhandedly; such a low-key politician couldn’t get elected mayor anywhere but in a small town.