Saturday Mornings (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

  She chuckled. “I thought he'd be quiet until the morning.”

  “He?”

  She sat up and slipped on her gown then she reached for his hand. “Come with me, Andrew. I have something to show you.”

  He grabbed a pair of shorts. “If it's as good as the last thing you showed me, I don't think I can stand it.”

  “Wait and see.”

  She led him into his den and flicked on the lights. In the middle of the floor sat a cardboard box, and peeping over the top of the box was a small liver-and-white pointer.

  “It's a birddog puppy.”

  She laughed. “I know that, Andrew.”

  He squatted beside the box and lifted the puppy out.

  “He has fine markings, good color.” He glanced up at Margaret Leigh. “What's he doing in my den?”

  She squatted beside him and began to rub the puppy's head. “He's my wedding gift to you. After all the things I said about your profession, I had to find a way to let you know that I believe in you and what you do.”

  “He's beautiful. You're beautiful.” He leaned over to kiss her, and soon they were wrapped in each other's arms, kissing as if there were no tomorrow. They might have continued if the puppy hadn't protested. He didn't like being squashed.

  Andrew pulled back, and Margaret Leigh sat on the floor, drew her legs up, and wrapped her arms around them. “He's not champion stock. I couldn't afford to get you a puppy sired by champions. But I know you can train him to be a champion, Andrew. I just know you can.”

  Andrew put the puppy back into the box and led Margaret Leigh to the sofa. Sitting with her cuddled against his shoulder, he asked her the question that meant everything to him, the one he'd almost been afraid to ask.

  “It takes space for kennels, space for training.”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “I'm a smart woman, Andrew. I looked it all up at the library.”

  “Are you willing to live here with me, in the woods?”

  “On two conditions.”

  “Name them.”

  “That you let me get a television. I don't think I've heard the news until I see Peter Jennings.”

  “That's a small concession I'm willing to make. What's the second?”

  “That we can add space when the babies start coming?”

  “The babies?”

  “You don't want children?” Her face fell. “I thought... well, your brother has six and your sister has two.... and I thought you'd want—”

  “Four or five will do nicely.” Smiling, he ran his hand down her thigh. “There's just one thing, Margaret Leigh.”

  “What's that?”

  “Rick's way ahead. I think we'd better get started, or we'll never catch up.” He lay back on the sofa, taking her with him. “What do you say to that, my pretty one?”

  She reached for the waistband of his shorts. “I say we’ll never catch up if you don't stop talking.”

  Epilogue

  Boguefala Bottom was in full flower. Redbud and dogwood trees stood side by side, the redbud as flirty as painted ladies at a Saturday-night dance, and the dogwood as shy and blushing as a bride. Violets sprang up in the rich, dark earth, turning their purple faces toward the sun. Oak trees sprouted baby green leaves, and along the sunny hillsides, daffodils and daisies danced in the spring breeze.

  Margaret Leigh McGill stepped onto the front porch, her thick dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She wore comfortable faded jeans and a soft rosy shirt, and she was wielding a broom and humming.

  The bristles sang across the bare boards, kicking up only an occasional spurt of dust. Since Margaret Leigh's advent to Boguefala Bottom, dust and spider webs and mildew and bathtub rings were things of the past.

  In the backyard, the dogs were howling their morning greeting to Andrew. Margaret Leigh knew them all by name now—Mississippi Rex and Sam Pea and Lollipop and Jonas and, last of all, Colonel Leigh, the wedding puppy. She even knew them by their barks. Colonel Leigh was the loudest of ail, his voice rising above the din, eager to attract the master's attention.

  Margaret Leigh's humming took on a special lilt. She was eager to attract the master's attention, herself. And she knew just how to do it.

  “Don't you just love Saturday mornings?”

  Andrew's greeting preceded him, coming around the corner of the cabin a good half minute before he did. Margaret Leigh propped her broom beside the door and ran down the steps to greet him.

  With arms outstretched, she made a flying leap. He caught her, lifted her high, and waltzed her around and around.

  “I do. I do. I love every morning with you, Andrew.”

  “Ahhh, Maggy.” He set her on the ground, letting her slide slowly down the length of his body. “How can a man concentrate on bird dogs with a pretty woman like you around?”

  “That's what you get, Andrew McGill, for proposing to me.”

  “If I remember correctly, it was you who did the proposing.”

  “You said yes.”

  “So I did.” He laughed, then kissed her. “Hmm, that's the way I like to start the day.”

  “That's the way you started the day an hour ago.”

  “I like to make ten or eleven starts.”

  He pulled her into his embrace and kissed her again, slowly this time, savoring the scent of spring breezes in her hair and the taste of strawberry jam on her lips—homemade by his very own wife. Margaret Leigh loved all things domestic. And he was the luckiest man in all the world.

  He took his time kissing her, running his hands down the familiar length of her body, feeling her instant response.

  “Hmmm, Andrew. How can a lady think with a man like you around?”

  “What is there to think about except this?”

  He kissed her once more. They clung together until their breathing began to go raspy and their legs began to go weak. From a distance came the beep-beep of a car horn and the sound of tires on gravel.

  Margaret Leigh glanced toward the road. The rural mail carrier's brown Chevy Nova was coming around the bend.

  “Arthur's here,” she said.

  “He’ll be disappointed if we don't give him a show.” Andrew bent over her, pressing his lips against hers and keeping one eye on his mailbox.

  Arthur Harrison stopped his little car beside the mailbox and tooted his horn once more. Then he leaned far out his window and waved a stack of mail at them.

  “If you two lovebirds ain't a sight? I swear, it does an old man good to come out here and see you together. How ya’ll doin'?”

  Hand in hand, Andrew and Margaret Leigh walked down the short driveway to their mailbox.

  Andrew took the mail and shook Arthur's hand. “Top of the world, Arthur, and you?”

  “Can't complain. I still got my eyesight and enough teeth to gnaw my ham and peas.” His hearty laughter echoed through the woods. He swiveled his head around, appreciating the display of spring color. “It sure is pretty out here.”

  “We love it.” Margaret Leigh squeezed her husband's arm.

  “Say, I noticed a piece of mail in there from Grand Junction, Tennessee. Ain't that where you won that championship with one of them dogs of yours?”

  “That's the place. Mississippi Rex won in February.”

  “Well, I guess I better get goin'. The government don't pay me to stop and talk.” With a wave of his hand and a blast of his horn, Arthur was on his way, his tires kicking up gravel and dust.

  Andrew stood in the dust cloud, searching his mail for the letter from Grand Junction. It was in the middle of the stack, a slim white envelope, official and important-looking.

  Margaret Leigh took the other mail from him. “Open it, Andrew.”

  He tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and began to read. Halfway through, he began to smile. The smile became a whoop of joy. He grabbed Margaret Leigh and danced her around.

  “Tell me, Andrew. Tell me.”

  “Mississippi Rex and I hav
e been elected to the Bird Dog Hall of Fame.”

  “That's wonderful. I knew you could do it.”

  “Pretty one, you haven't seen anything yet. Wait until Colonel Leigh gets old enough to enter the field trials. Everybody will see a real champion then.” He took the rest of the mail from her and stuffed it into the mailbox.

  “What in the world—”

  “The mail can wait. This calls for a celebration.”

  “I think there's some root beer chilling in the fridge.”

  “I'm talking about a real celebration.”

  The center of his eyes turned hot as he caught her hand and led her to his hammock under the trees. Their hands were already undoing each other's buttons as they sank onto the hammock. The lattice screen he'd built the previous fall shielded them from the public.

  Snaps clicked and buttons popped and zippers zinged and denim whispered as they abandoned their clothes in a heap on the ground. The hammock tilted crazily until they got their balance.

  Holding her above him, Andrew brushed her heavy hair back from her face.

  “Remember the day you first came here?”

  “And you asked me if I'd ever made love in a hammock?”

  “Have you ever made love in a hammock, Mrs. McGill?”

  “Ohhh... dozens of times, hundreds of times.”

  He began to nuzzle her neck. “And I always thought you were the kind who would prefer cool white sheets.”

  “I like them too.” She tangled her hands in his golden hair and drew his head to her breasts. “Of course, the hayloft has its advantages.”

  “Hmmm, sweet...” He paused from his pleasures to give her a wicked grin. “How about that quilt by the fireplace?”

  “I've been meaning to talk to you about that quilt.” Leaning over him, she peppered his face with light kisses, ending with one on the tip of his nose.

  “What about that quilt?” He fitted his hands around her hips and settled her in the perfect spot.

  “How can a girl think when you do that?” She rocked with pleasure. The hammock seesawed and swayed. Margaret Leigh closed her eyes and threw back her head, reveling in the never-ending joy of loving her husband.

  They took their pleasure among the colors and fragrances of spring, with the song of a mockingbird sweet and clear in the morning air. After a long while she lay on top of him, stretched full length, her head on his chest and his hands in her hair.

  “You never did tell me about that quilt, Maggy, my love.”

  “Remember that night we strung Valentines along the mantel...”

  “...and popped popcorn over the fire...”

  “...and spread that quilt out...”

  “Hummm, I remember.”

  “That's when it all happened.”

  He chuckled. “It sure did.”

  She propped herself on one elbow so she could see his face. “That's when our baby decided it was time to get started.”

  “Our baby?” He hung one foot over the side of the hammock and brought it to a standstill. Then he cupped her face and pulled her down, nose to nose with him. “Our baby?”

  “We're going to have a baby, Andrew.”

  He closed his eyes and hugged her so close, she could hardly breath. He made small murmuring sounds of pleasure, like the cooing of mourning doves in the barn loft. Then he loosened his hold and tilted her chin up so he could look at her.

  “Maggy, do you think it's safe for you to be cavorting in a hammock?”

  “I'd say that depended on whom I was cavorting with.” She chuckled then caught his dear face in her hands. “It's perfectly safe, my love, but when I get so big I can't see my feet, I suspect we’ll have to act like an old married couple and stick to a nice flat mattress.”

  “Until then...” He ran his hands lightly over her thighs. “Maggy, I think this calls for another celebration.”

  -o0o-

  Look for Tess Jones’ story soon – That Jones Girl!

  o0o

  If you enjoyed the Mississippi McGills trilogy, you’ll enjoy the 5-book Donovans of Delta series. Donovan’s Angel, is the first book of the series.

  o0o

  Excerpt, From A Distance

  (A sprawling romantic novel from Peggy Webb in the tradition Anne Rivers Siddons)

  Prologue

  NAIROBI, 1995

  He remembered the smell of the flame flower wet with dew and the song of birds awakening before the first pink light spread across the east beyond the Virungas. The glowing malevolent eye of the volcanic mountains was with him, and the wispy shade of acacias on smooth stone. Water cascaded through gorges of mythological proportion, its thunder sweeping through his mind and leaving him naked and filled with yearnings that had no name.

  The memories were more real to Brett than was his brother, who lay dying. Propped in the doorway of the narrow hospital room in Nairobi, he watched the form on the stark-white bed. Death was close. He could feel it in the stillness that hovered in the room and see it in the faces of his mother and his sister-in-law.

  Ruth bent over her husband, one hand holding his in a white-fingered grip and the other tenderly smoothing his blood-matted hair back from his forehead.

  “Hang on, Malone,” she whispered. “You’re going to make it.”

  “Ruth ...” The voice coming from the battered lips was a mere croak; the face that the knife had laid open, a grotesque mask. “Don’t leave me ... Ruth.”

  “Never, my darling. Never!”

  The effort of speaking was too much, and Malone closed his eyes. Ruth pressed her chest across his and held herself rigid, as if she could keep him earthbound with the force of her will.

  Brett stood apart, his hands balled so tightly, the blunt fingernails cut into his palms. A faint light shaded the windowpane with pink and gold and fell across the white sheets in a muted rainbow. Morning had no business shining on death.

  Brett strode to the window to close the shade.

  “No. I want the light.” Malone opened his eyes and looked at his brother. “Brett ...”

  “Go to him,” Eleanor pleaded. Pain and tears had ravaged his mother’s face. She left her vigil by the side of the bed and clutched Brett’s arm. “For God’s sake, Brett, go to your brother.”

  “I’ll race you, Brett. Last one in is a rotten egg.”

  “If you’ll just let me have the car, Brett, I promise I’ll pull your kitchen duty for a month.”

  “Please, Brett ... No one else can do this but you.”

  Heavy with memories, Brett approached his brother’s bed. Ruth’s perfume, sweeter than the ginger that sprang up waxy and white from the jungle floor, stole over him like a forbidden embrace.

  “I’m ... dying.”

  Brett didn’t contradict his brother, didn’t dare add one last lie to the many that separated them.

  “Promise ...” Malone’s breath came in labored spurts now. With a mighty effort he fixed his brother with a fierce blue stare. “Take care of Ruth.”

  Ruth. The woman Brett hated. The woman he loved.

  “I promise.”

  It was a promise that would plunge him into the very bowels of hell.

  o0o

  Excerpt, Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse

  (Southern Cousins Mystery, Book Five)

  Peggy Webb

  Elvis’ Opinion #1 on Love, Revenge and Santa Paws

  With the Mayan misadventure behind us, you’d think my human family (the Valentines) would be settling down to enjoy a cup of Christmas cheer and a good ham bone, preferably dug up from the back yard by yours truly and seasoned with a bit of Mississippi red clay.

  But everybody in Mooreville is “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” (Not my song, but, hey, I’m a generous, humble dog who appreciates the efforts of other singers - though they pale compared to mine.) The Wildwood Baptist choir (the church of choice for the Valentines) is gearing up for the Christmas cantata, otherwise known as amateur hour. With all that off-key caterwauling, I keep expe
cting the local choir director to come looking for advice from an expert. That would be yours truly, world-famous King of Rock ‘n’ Roll in a basset hound suit. But, like everybody else in this little northeast corner of the state, they dismiss me as just another handsome face and go on about their silly business. Which means they don’t know G flat from a tasty stick of Pup-Peroni.

  Fortunately, I have a human mom who appreciates my many talents - Callie Valentine Jones, owner of the best little beauty shop in town and caretaker to half of Mooreville. Currently that includes my human daddy, Jack Jones, who got caught in a jaguar trap in the jungle and is now happily ensconced in Callie’s bed. But not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. Callie’s taking care of him while he recovers from leg surgery.

  Listen, I’m a generous-hearted but portly dog. I want my human daddy to get well quick, but not so fast he has to leave. Callie’s got me on a strict diet, but Jack pays that no more mind than he does when she tell him no (as in no hanky panky). Which she does with some regularity. While he’s here, I get all the forbidden fat—laden snacks I please, plus a goodly number of T-bone steaks. Jack knows who’s in his corner and who’s not. I’m doing all I can to make sure my human parents get together again. For good, this time.

  And speaking of broken relationships, Callie’s cousin Lovie still hasn’t forgiven Rocky Malone. She claims he left her to become a kidnapped Moon goddess in a Mayan jungle while he stayed at his dig and searched for old bones. (He’s an archeologist, and I’ll have to say that a man who loves bones as much as he does gets my vote.) Currently she’s out doing the “Jingle Bell Rock” (another song I could have turned to gold, but left in the hands of lesser singers) with another man who’s not fit to stir the soup in her pot. (She’s the owner of Lovie’s Luscious Eats, the best little catering business in the South.)

  Then, of course, there’s Ruby Nell, Callie’s mama, who has finally patched up her feud with Charlie (Callie’s uncle and godfather to the entire Valentine family). Ruby Nell has also sent her not-so-true love traveling on a gravel road. That would be Thomas Whitenton, her sometime dance partner and who knows what all. Never one to be “Running Scared,” Ruby Nell is up to her neck with Fayrene in plans for a Christmas Open House at the séance room on the back of Gas, Grits and Guts.