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tracks. Instead of his usual sullenly sardonic face, he looked completely devastated. And . . . were those tears glinting in his eyes?
    Sara threw an arm around him (difficult, since he was taller than her) and redirected her fury toward Rebecca Adrian. “Where is that harpy? What did she do to you?”
    “Nothing! Let’s go, okay? I’m getting really tired.”
    Sara gave Derrick’s arm a squeeze as they wordlessly walked to the parking deck and got into their separate cars. She couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a transformation.
    Back at the Peabody Hotel, Rebecca Adrian extinguished a cigarette against a “No Smoking” sign and picked up her cell phone. “Information? I need the number for Sebastian Taylor in Memphis, Tennessee.”

Chapter 2
    Seb Taylor was putting his feet up at home and still celebrating the fact that the restaurant had a back-door exit. He’d really needed to get home for that drink and cigarette this afternoon, and he wouldn’t have stepped foot into that dining room again for all the money in the world.
    What the hell was she doing in Memphis? Was it really a coincidence that she happened to be the Cooking Channel scout scoping out Aunt Pat’s? Of all the barbeque joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.
    The phone rang and Seb reached over to pick it up.
     
     
    Derrick Knight’s hurt turned into a pulsing fury, and his face returned to its regularly scheduled sullenness. Who did Rebecca Adrian think she was? He’d gone out with lots of girls— girls —not women a breath away from middle age. And they were much hotter than she’d ever been.
    Just wait, he thought. Rebecca Adrian had better watch her back.
     
     
    Sara tried tempering her fury at Rebecca Adrian. Whatever she’d done to Derrick (and he was not going to let on what that had been) was over. Sara at least needed to keep on good enough terms with her to get the art world contacts she needed and for Lulu to get a great review for the restaurant.
    She’d waited a long time to show her art. And now she allowed herself to dream a little.
     
     
    Graceland would kick her out. Kick her out and keep her out. Bar the big, beautiful doors. No more mirrored dining room. No more canary yellow TV room. No more jungle room.
    And . . . she shivered. If Elvis knew, what would he think? Oh, she knew that he was dead and gone, of course. (Although she’d swear she’d seen him, in disguise and a bit older—and wearing that unfortunate white sequined jump-suit. There was that funny business over his misspelled name on his gravestone.) What on earth would Elvis say?
    Not to mention everybody else in the town. Or the far reaches of the entire United States of America, if Miss Rebecca Smarty-Pants had her way. Having the Graces know was one thing. They swore they’d keep it a secret. A secret until Peggy Sue got tipsy, then good luck with your secrets. You’d just pray to God your private life wasn’t splashed across the front page of the Memphis paper.
    But if Rebecca oh so jauntily put her ex-con background in her story to add a smidge of local color, the whole town of Memphis would know. Not to mention her no-good ex-husband who still looked for her in the wilds of Mississippi. Flo needed to convince Rebecca, and convince her good.
     
     
    Southern Accents’s transformation was astonishing, thought Susan Meredith, eyeing the large room through her round spectacles. She’d hastily removed the black-and-white photography exhibit. Now Sara’s art covered the walls, pedestals, and shelves with a startling infusion of vibrant color.
    Sara wasn’t pacing, exactly, but jiggling a lot. She couldn’t stand still; instead, she shifted from side to side, crossed and uncrossed her arms, and twisted her curly hair around a finger. And looked a little green around the gills.
    “You should relax a little, Sara. Hers is not the be-all, end-all, final-authority opinion. Rebecca Adrian is very well connected