The noise in the dining room at the Speckled Perch was approaching full din. Bus boys scrambled about, clearing dishes. A couple of high-chaired babies screeched. A waitress rushed out from the kitchen, left arm laden with plates, and shouted to the hostess: “Eighty-six the cobbler.”

Dang. That peach cobbler was a specialty. I planned to reserve my second dessert choice, a slice of key lime pie, as soon as we sat down.

“It’ll be just a minute, Ms. Rosalee.” The young hostess smiled at Mama. “We’re getting you a booth cleaned up right now.”

Too vain to wear her glasses, Mama squinted at the girl’s name tag. Tracy. The hostess had probably been one of her Sunday school students, like half of Himmarshee.

“Take your time, honey.”

Tony had insisted on dropping us at the front entrance before he parked the luxury car he’d rented to drive south. He’d noticed the unpaved lot was filled with puddles, which I thought was considerate of him. Of course, a little rainwater wouldn’t faze me in my work boots. But I could see where Mama, sporting bright orange sling-back heels, might mind the mud.

As they prepared our table, I replayed getting ready in my mind.

“Don’t you have anything else to wear, Mace?” Mama had asked, as we waited for Tony to pick us up at her house.

“Let me go take a look in the Jeep, Mama. Maybe I’ll find a little black dress and Jimmy Choo heels in the back, right next to the paste bait for my raccoon traps.”

“No need to get snippy.” She tied a jaunty bow beneath her chin. The scarf was the same shade as her shoes and pantsuit.

“I thought you were never wearing orange again after that jumpsuit they made you wear in jail.”

She waved her hand, as if a little stint in the slammer in connection to a murder was of no consequence.

“It’s not orange. It’s tangerine, and I look good in this shade, Mace.” Admiring herself in her full-length mirror, she clipped on matching earrings. “Besides, all that was so long ago.”

“It was only last summer,” I’d said, more sharply than I meant to.

Why was I so cranky? All I know is that each time Mama added another one of her tangerine-colored doo-dads, it left me feeling more plain in my olive drab work clothes and boots. It didn’t help when Tony arrived, and let out an admiring whistle when she finally paraded into her living room. All I’d gotten when I answered the door was a flash of those beautiful white teeth and a somewhat formal “Good evening.”

I mean, not like I cared. I’d never be interested in a guy who spent more time on his hair than I spent on mine.

As if on cue, Tony and his perfect hair pushed open the door of the Perch. My mind returned to the present. An older couple was leaving at the same time, and the woman dropped her cane. Tony picked it up and handed it back, then held the door open for them to pass through.

“Thank you,” said the woman, who looked eightyish.

Tony gave a little bow. “It’s a pleasure to assist such a lovely lady.”

I swear she blushed.

The young hostess’ jaw dropped when Tony walked up to join us. The restaurant’s usual male clientele included ranchers, bass fishermen, and the occasional rodeo bull rider with the facial scars and busted-up body to prove it. We don’t get too many guys who look like male models in Himmarshee.

“Can I have you?” Tracy immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “Help you,” she said between her fingers. “Can I help you?”

The dimple in his cheek winked at her. I’m sure Tracy thought it was adorable. “I have everything I need with my two dates.” Tony pointed at us.

“I’m starving,” I announced.

“Mace is always hungry,” Mama stage-whispered. “She burns a lot of calories driving her poor mother crazy.”

Ring, ring. Kettle to pot.

Tracy fell all over herself, showing us to our booth and making sure Tony was comfortable. How would it feel to cause a stir everywhere you went, just because the random placement of your facial features happened to be what people find attractive? With Tony—Mama, too—it was more than that, though. There was a certain attitude, an expectation of attention. Not conceit, exactly, but self-confidence by the truckload.

Suddenly a yeasty smell wafted out of the kitchen, focusing my brain on food. “Tracy, would you mind asking the busboy to bring us some rolls as soon as he can? My stomach’s growling like a pit bull.”

Reaching for her glass of water, Mama’s mouth was an inch from my ear: “Could you at least try to be lady-like, Mace?”

I leaned in to pluck a napkin from the table’s center and whispered back: “I’ll remind you of that advice after you’ve scarfed down two of those doughy nuggets before he even gets a chance to put the basket on the table.”

My mood improved once I got a beer and the bread. I offered the basket to Tony, but he passed. Probably worried about those rippling abs under that fitted shirt.

“So, where’s C’ndee?” Mama looked at him innocently over her tumbler of sweet tea. “Is she running late again, bless her heart?”

Her voice was cane-syrup sweet, so Tony couldn’t be expected to know she was taking a Southern-style shot. He glanced at his watch, which was gold and wafer thin. “Looks that way. Sorry. I know you ladies are hungry.”

I swallowed the last bite of my fourth roll. “No problem.”

Tony dialed C’ndee’s cell, and got voicemail. If his aunt didn’t show for dinner, I’d happily take the opportunity to grill him about her love life. Mama didn’t seem disappointed by her absence, either. She always did like being the prettiest girl in the room.

“We sure appreciate you taking us to dinner, Tony.” Mama dabbed a slab of butter on her second roll. “I thought you’d be tired after that long drive from New Jersey.”

He waved a hand. “I like to drive. And I don’t sleep well. So if I’m going to be up all night, I might as well be doing something.”

“I know how that is. I’m a very light sleeper myself …”

The woman slept like a ton of stone. As I sipped my beer, I tuned out the two of them and surveyed the restaurant. There wasn’t much competition for Mama on the female front. A few retiree couples from the RV park finished their early bird specials, the wives showing fleshy, sunburned arms in sleeveless floral blouses. A girl from Marty’s high-school class opened baby shower gifts at a table for eight. I wasn’t sure whether it was her fourth or fifth, but I did notice she’d gotten bigger with each baby. The fact that about half of her guests were also pregnant didn’t keep them from stealing glances at Tony. Studying the menu, he seemed not to notice the attention.

That scarlet-haired senior from the drive-thru was at the bar, wearing a skirt no bigger than a dish towel.

Elbowing Mama, I whispered. “Hey, do you know that old gal flirting with the bartender?”

Mama looked, and then snapped her head around quick. “Dab Holt. She must have moved back. Remind me to tell you her story. It’s a doozy. Please say she didn’t spot me.”

“Nope. You’re safe.”

I continued my scan. Only one woman in the place might have given Mama a run for her money. She sat alone at the last stool at the bar. She’d spun around, back to the bar, so she could face the dining room. Even at this distance and in low lighting, I could tell two things: She wasn’t from Himmarshee, and she was the type to turn heads. She wore sunglasses, even in the dim bar, and tight black leather from tip to toe. Motorcycle boots and a halo of blond curls completed the look. I saw the sunglasses shift just barely toward our booth. So even this goddess was not immune to Tony’s chick-magnet looks. I nearly laughed at the thought she might think we were a couple.