Deanna was silent for a few seconds. “Actually, I’m coming to stay. I’ve been in touch with a realtor in Anniston and we’ve found the perfect house for me, Sarah and the kids.”

“All of you!” I shrieked. “I can’t wait, Deanna. I need you here. And you’re going to love it. Can you imagine seeing the leaves change every year? And we even get snow sometimes, not too much, but enough to have fun. And...”

“I know,” she laughed. “I don’t need the chamber of commerce spiel. Besides, I’ve already bought ten new sweaters. I have Alabama red clay in my blood, Ronni. I love it there. The truth is, I also want to be near you, honey.” She paused. “Sarah is doing well, and we’ve found a twelve-step program meeting she can attend a few times a week. Charlotte will be going to college next year, and she likes Auburn. We’ll have in-state tuition after a year of residence. And,” she sighed, “Kevin will be enrolled at Oxford High School. He thinks he’ll become a football star there and Nick Saban will chase after him. Not that he’s ever been off the bench for Palmetto High.”

“I am positive the Alabama air will give him mad skills,” I said. “Anyway, Rick’s on his way here. We’re going to celebrate tonight at Classic On Noble in Anniston. It’s a gorgeous restaurant, Deanna. You’ll love it...”

“I’m sold already, Ronni. You can stop. We’ll see you in a couple of months. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I grinned at my cell phone, dying to tell Rick. He’d been with the boys all morning and was driving back from Tuscaloosa.

Mr. and Mrs. Gasbag had a new baby boy named Gaston, which Rick claimed would ensure the kid regularly scheduled playground beatings if they didn’t give him a less pretentious nickname. Jeremy and Joshua were as revolted by the name as their dad, but good big brothers by all accounts. So far. Victoria was giving Rick all the time he wanted with his sons, busy with the baby.

He walked in a few minutes later. “You won’t believe what Vicky did to that child. There’s a portrait of his little three month old blob self propped next to Daddy’s best-selling book. A professional portrait, hanging in the foyer.” He laughed and picked me up in a hug, swinging around me before setting me down. “If they only knew we call them the Gasbags, Gaston would be even more hilarious,” Rick said, “Little Gaston Gasbag, destined for a life of bowties and seersucker shorts. Roll, Le Tide.”

I giggled. “I guess there are worse names, but I can’t imagine one. I need you to sneak a pic of that portrait for me.”