“You’re lying,” Carter said easily. “You’ve never seen eyes or hair or lips or arms or hands or fingers or legs or feet, or anything else like Amy Lourie. Wait until you catch her in a bathing suit. You’re going to faint, Bobo. Arch will have to get you up off your little Rebel ass with a gallon of smelling salts. All you’ll want to do is put your face between those babies, and she’s got them, Bobo. She makes Elizabeth Taylor look like she’s deformed. And you tell me you’ve seen women like her? Not on the best day of your life, Bobo. You’re from Georgia, for Christ’s sake. All you’ve ever seen are field hands.”

“So?” I said. “Some of them are pretty.”

“Maybe,” Carter replied. He leaned close to me. “But I’m talking beautiful,” he whispered conspiratorially. “There’s a difference.”

“She’s very pretty,” I admitted.

Carter flicked ash on the floor. He bobbed his head in thought. “I can see it now. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be trying to get her to strip naked and pose for you.”

“My God, Carter.”

“If you do, I want to buy whatever you draw,” Carter replied. “You can have the whole damn summer’s take on my tips.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.