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hear the rest of the story about him. Perhaps it would put my doubts about him to rest.
    Fifteen minutes later, I rang the doorbell at Ginger’s pink, adobe bungalow. Nature was putting on yet another spectacular sunset performance, lighting the western sky in brilliant shades of gold and crimson. Inside the house a dog yipped, the theme song from a well-known game show blasted, and a shrill voice screeched, “Someone answer that dadblasted phone!”
    I heard Ginger call, “It’s not the phone, Nona, it’s the doorbell. Brian, get it, will ya!”
    A tall young man swung the door open. He had sandy hair, hazel eyes, and Ginger’s friendly dimples. I jumped as a fluffy gray and white cat sprinted between my feet and vanished behind the house.
    “I’m Brian, the baby brother.” He extended his hand. “You must be the famous Kendall O’Dell?”
    “That’s me.” I shook his hand, noting that except for the eye color, he looked like a clone of Ginger, right down to the spray of freckles across his nose.
    “Hello? Hello!” Behind Brian, an elderly woman in a wheelchair shouted into the phone, “Well, for pity’s sake, speak up! I can’t hear you.” Beside her, a small brown dog danced and yelped in my direction.
    Ginger rushed into the room wiping her hands on a red and white gingham apron. “Hang up, Nona!” She threw me an apologetic smile and waved me inside as she shushed the dog.
    I tried not to gape at the old lady’s outrageous appearance as she wheeled up close to me. Over a brightly printed housedress, she wore a pink feather boa wrapped loosely about her sagging neck. Two bright splotches of rouge on crinkled cheeks, heavy blue eye shadow, and a platinum blonde wig with ringlets perched precariously on her head, completed the bizarre picture.
    “Nona,” Ginger said in a firm voice, “this is Kendall. Remember I told you she was coming for dinner?”
    “Candle?” Nona squinted up at me. “That’s a real funny name.” Before I could correct her she added, “I’m Wynona Callaway. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. Brian, fetch my scrapbooks!”
    I arched a brow at Ginger, trying not to look as bewildered as I felt. The dog set up a mournful wailing.
    “Shut up, Susie!” Brian pointed a threatening finger at the noisy animal, then turned to me. “You’ll have to excuse the pandemonium. Simple things like a doorbell ringing can be known to cause a major crisis around here.” He grinned impishly. “If you hurry, you can still escape.”
    “Oh, hush, Brian.” Ginger pretended to smack him. With a devilish laugh, he threaded his way around a collection of mismatched furniture, and disappeared down a hallway.
    Grimacing in mock anger, Ginger pushed the old lady to the television. “Kendall will look at the scrapbooks later, darlin’. Right now, why don’t you finish watching your show and we’ll eat in two shakes of a dog’s tail.” She touched Nona’s gnarled hand tenderly and motioned for me to follow her into a homey, but jumbled kitchen.
    Ginger was not a neat cook. The counters were strewn with crusted pots and smeared with tomato sauce. Dishes towered in the sink, but I didn’t care. The heavenly aroma made my mouth water and stomach grumble. After declining my offer of help, she poured a glass of lemonade and told me to ‘park my butt’ at the kitchen table.
    “You’re probably wonderin’ why Nona’s wearin’ that silly wig, right?”
    “Was she wearing a wig?” I said straight-faced. “I hadn’t noticed.”
    She cackled with glee and told me her grandmother had first been a silent screen actress, and then gone on to do theater in New York and London. “She was a real looker in her day,” Ginger sighed. “Poor ol’ love, she’s too vain to admit she’s almost bald. You should see her bedroom all chock full of ol’ costumes ’n’ wigs ’n’ stuff. It’s practically a museum!”
    I told her I’d be delighted and we both giggled hearing Nona shout suggestions