“I did, too, the first time I came here. Then I found out it was the current owner’s idea of a joke. In the eighties, it was Walt’s Bar and Grill, but the native tongue of Tennessee shortened it.”

“To Barn Grill. I’ve got it.”

The sound of Tim McGraw singing “Don’t Take the Girl” drifted through the door as they stepped into an entry area with dark brown latticework walls and an aquarium that had a Day-Glo orange castle sitting on a bed of fluorescent blue rocks. The roomy restaurant was divided into two sections, with a bar at the front. Beneath a pair of fake Tiffany lampshades, a bartender who looked like Chris Rock filled a pair of beer mugs. He called out a greeting as he spotted Dean. The bar patrons turned on their stools and immediately sprang to life.

“Hey, Boo, where you been all weekend?”

“That is a fabulous shirt.”

“We’ve been talkin’ about next season, and—”

“Charlie thinks you should go to the run-and-shoot.”

They acted as though they’d known him forever, although Dean had told her he’d only eaten here twice. The instant intimacy people showed toward him made her glad she wasn’t famous.

“Ordinarily, I’d love to talk sports with you boys, but tonight I promised my fiancée I wouldn’t.” Dean draped his arm around her shoulders. “It’s our anniversary, and you know how sentimental the ladies get.”

“What anniversary is that?” the Chris Rock lookalike asked.

“Six full months since my little darlin’ hunted me down and drug me home.”

The men laughed. Dean steered her past the bar and into the rear section of the restaurant. “I drug you home?” she said. “Since when did you give up your Yankee citizenship?”

“Since I became a southern landowner. Automatically made me bilingual.”

A half wall topped with more brown latticework and a row of straw Chianti bottles divided the restaurant from the bar. He shepherded her to a vacant table and held out a chair. “Those ol’ boys at the bar? One’s a county judge, the big man’s the high school principal, and the bald guy’s an openly gay hairdresser. I love the South.”

“It’s a good place to be an oddball, I’ll grant you that.” She reached across the red vinyl tablecloth for the cracker basket and grabbed a packet of saltines. “I’m surprised they’ll serve you. Nita Garrison must have slipped up.”

“We’re outside the town limits, and this is one property she doesn’t own. There also seems to be a general ‘what she don’t know won’t hurt her’ attitude.”

“Are you really going to sic your lawyer on her?”

“I’m not sure. The good news is, I’ll win. The bad news is, it’ll take months.”

“I’m not painting Tango.”

“Damn right you aren’t.”