Maddie held a cocktail napkin with a phone number scribbled on it in lipstick. She’d found it deep in the pocket of a pair of Kenny’s slacks. Hand shaking, she shoved the napkin at me. I didn’t want to make the call either. But this was my sister. I took the number.

I hadn’t waited around at Mama’s to hear any more of Teensy’s yapping—not to mention any further dissection of Maddie’s strange behavior. I made a quick excuse about having to be up early, and was out the door right behind her. I tailed her to her house.

Now, the two of us were in her living room. The telephone beckoned on a table between us. The room was so quiet, I could hear the motor whirring on the decorative fountain in Maddie’s front yard.

I punched in the phone number. It rang and rang, maybe a dozen times, before someone finally answered. The clink of glasses and laughter echoed in my ear.

“19th Hole Lounge; Angel speaking.’’

I pressed down the button on the phone to disconnect.

“Who was it?’’ Maddie asked.

“Nobody,’’ I lied. “They never picked up.’’

“No answering machine? No voice mail?’’

I shrugged. “Maybe they can’t afford it.’’

I folded the napkin and slipped it deep into my pocket. I wasn’t going to make it easy for Maddie to call again. I wasn’t sure how the golf course’s bar—and its gorgeous barmaid—played into Kenny’s unfaithfulness. But I’d rather find out first than let Maddie assume the worst and act rashly. Angel didn’t seem like a good person to cross without having all the facts in hand.

Later, when Maddie’s mind was less burdened, she might think about hitting redial on her home phone. For now, the number was hidden in my pocket. I tried to distract her. “Why don’t you try Kenny again?’’

“I’ve dialed that number so many times the cramps in my fingers have cramps,’’ Maddie said. “I have the feeling he’s hiding out at his hunting camp. Would you go look for him? I’m so angry, I honestly don’t trust what I might do if I find him.’’

I knew Maddie was right about that. The mood she was in, she might just shoot him and mount his head like a hunting trophy on the wall. “Absolutely, I’ll go. If I find him, I’ll fetch him home again.’’ I didn’t say I’d probably knock some sense into the cheating bastard first.

“You can find it, right?’’

“Yep, I was just out there last winter when y’all had that big pig roast. It’s almost to the Okeechobee County line, not too far from the dump.’’

Maddie nodded. “I owe you one.’’ Her voice was so soft I had to lean in to hear her.

She looked miserable. It seemed every ounce of the self-confidence she’d always possessed had been sucked out. Putting my arm around her, I pulled her close. I wanted to protect her.

“You’d do the same for me, sister. You don’t owe me a thing.’’

I smoothed at Maddie’s fiery red hair, and brushed my lips against her cheek. It tasted salty from the tears she’d shed.

_____

My Jeep bounced over the rutted entrance to Kenny’s camp, more a claustrophobic pathway than a road. Live oaks raised gnarled limbs overhead, creating a dark tunnel. I remembered how sweet bay and wax myrtle crowded in from both sides. The cramped lane gave me the sense I was sliding blindfolded into a long, narrow chute.

I tried to keep my eyes out for potholes, while my mind focused on what I’d find when the Jeep came out the other side. Even in the dark, I could see the white blossoms on a wild sour orange. The tree’s branches scratched at the Jeep, rubbing paint off my already-

battered ride.

Finally, I broke free of the woodsy tunnel and entered a small clearing. My high-beam headlights played over what would be the camp’s front yard, if Kenny had ever bothered to plant grass. No lights shone in the windows of the ramshackle camp house—a scrap-wood building with a broad screened porch and patched tin roof. Kenny’s truck was nowhere in sight. Weeds were flattened and small shrubs crushed in the area he and his hunting buddies normally used for parking. No one was parked there tonight.

The Jeep rolled over what looked like a huge anthill. I pulled to a stop about twenty-five feet from the front porch door. Grabbing a flashlight from the glove box, I got out and made my way to the structure.

I knew the camp was larger—and nicer—inside than it seemed from the yard. Kenny had put in electricity and indoor plumbing, which was a plus when it came to convincing Maddie or Mama to ever visit. Marty and I definitely got all our family’s nature-girl genes. Aiming the flashlight at the top of the door jamb, I ran my finger along the wood. There was the key, just where Kenny always hid it. Once inside the door, I flipped on the lights.

The first thing that struck me was the smell of cigarette smoke. Aside from Sal’s occasional cigars, no one in our family smoked. Kenny didn’t either, as far as I knew. Judging by the pungency, the smoke was fairly recent.

Only after the cigarette odor registered did I notice another, fainter smell. It was lemony, like perfume or cologne. I’d smelled it somewhere before. When I sat down on the couch, the sweet scent was stronger. It seemed to rise up from the cushions. I definitely preferred it to the smoke stink, or the stale beer I could smell in a bottle on an end table next to the couch.

The bottle was about two-thirds full. Cigarette ashes littered the top, and someone had dropped their butts into the remaining beer. Lovely. The ashtray on the coffee table also overflowed, and lots of those discards were stained with lipstick. I poked through the ashtray with a pencil, and found at least three different shades on various cigarettes.

It looked like more than hunting was happening at Kenny’s camp. Fearing what I’d find, I made my way to the bedroom.

The bed was rumpled, a jumble of black satin sheets and tossed pillows. No way were those linens Maddie’s. My prudish, fiscally conservative sister would be more likely to sleep on a bed of nails than on slinky, pricey, black satin.

Thong panties, bright red with lacy insets, draped a lampshade. Again, not Maddie’s. On the nightstand sat two empty cans of diet Mountain Dew, Kenny’s favorite. Next to those were three packages of condoms in camouflage colors. An unopened bottle of Dom Perignon rested on the bed.

I may be more Budweiser than fine champagne, but even I knew that was some pretty pricey hooch. Another two bottles, empty, were up-ended in silver ice buckets half-filled with water. The water was still cool to the touch, but all the ice had melted. I counted five champagne flutes. Three were on top of a bureau. The other two were on the floor by the head of the bed, one on each side. I checked them for lipstick stains. All but one had the telltale marks.

I fetched the ashtray from the living room to see if the shades matched. At least one did—the lipstick on several of the cigarette butts matched one of the champagne glasses.

I stood there, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. No matter how I figured, it didn’t look good for Kenny. Several women had been here—or maybe just one woman with an unusually diverse lipstick palette. There was drinking—which Maddie didn’t approve of. There was the appearance of sex. And there were those camouflage condoms. Those had Kenny and hunting camp written all over them.

I hadn’t found him, but I’d certainly found something. What in the world was I going to tell my sister?

I was about to leave when I remembered the napkin with the phone number I’d shoved into my pocket. I pulled it out and held it next to the champagne flute that matched one of the cigarettes. The rosy red phone number to the 19th Hole Lounge was written in exactly the same shade of lipstick.

_____

Outside on the front porch, I let my eyes adjust again to the dark. Beneath a waxing moon, there was light enough to see the sabal fronds beginning to shudder in a gusty wind. The temperature had dropped. A storm brewed. Silvery clouds swollen with rain scudded across a black sky.