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here long, so you may not know her.”
    Candy Lynn was a little intoxicated, so I asked Emily, just to be certain, “Your husband is a professor here at Ole Miss?”
    Emily nodded. She looked much more sober than her companions. “Why yes, he is. Do you know him?”
    “Oh, I know of him,” I said with a vague wave of my hand. “I think one of my nephews was or is in his class.”
    Emily smiled. “I’d be interested in knowing what your nephew thinks of him. I have heard some diverse opinions on his classroom . . . shall we say . . . skills.”
    “Really? Why, I’ve never asked him how he feels about the professor, but I’ve never heard him complain, either.”
    That was the truth, as closely adhered to without stepping over the line as possible. I’m not as good as Bitty at doing the “belle,” so didn’t even attempt it. She can bat her eyelashes and switch to belle mode in a heartbeat, saying the most outrageous things in the sweetest voice, smiling all the time so that the person she’s talking to or about has no clue they’ve just been terribly insulted until they stop and think about it later.
    Emily Sturgis looked to be in her forties, about five-six, I’d say, slender with a nice figure, and much prettier than I would have thought the professor could manage. Of course, I only saw him twice, and the first time he was furious, so his face was beet red, and the second time he was dead, so his face was plum purple. On neither occasion did he strike me as a particularly handsome man.
    Mrs. Sturgis laughed. “That’s very tactful of you, Miz—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
    “Truevine, and you may call me Trinket.”
    “Trinket. I just love Southern whimsy. Such colorful names.” Emily smiled at me, but I caught a hint of condescension in her tone.
    “Thank you, we love it too, obviously, or we wouldn’t do it.” I smiled back at her and again considered batting my eyelashes before I thought better of it. I’d probably look like I was having some kind of fit. “Where are you and your husband from, originally?”
    “Spencer is from the shore in New Jersey, but I’m from New York.”
    “Really? I lived in the Catskills for a while. It was lovely. Are you from around there?”
    It was true; I had lived in the Catskills one summer when my husband found a job as a waiter at one of the upscale lodges, and I worked there in reservations and at the front desk. But since we were playing a game of socialite tag, I left that part out.
    Emily said, “No, I’m from the Hamptons. Wainscott.”
    “Wainscott? That’s in Suffolk County, isn’t it? It’s been so long since I visited Long Island I just don’t remember the area very well.”
    Emily nodded politely. I figured she wasn’t that impressed with my knowledge of New York’s high-dollar real estate. I’d pretty much said all I knew about the ritzy shores where the wealthy played and the rest of us got paid to work for them.
    “Mississippi is certainly different from the Hamptons,” I remarked for lack of any intelligent comment to ease the sudden awkwardness between us.
    Emily Sturgis arched a brow. “Yes. It certainly is different.”
    Her tone left me in no doubt that the comparison wasn’t very flattering to my home state. I couldn’t help saying, “We have a more relaxed way of life down here, more time for the little courtesies so often lacking in certain areas of the country. Don’t you think?”
    Even though I smiled and didn’t attempt a fluttering of eyelashes à la Belle-mode, Emily still got my meaning. She murmured an innocuous reply, then pretended to answer a question from one of her companions, and we drifted apart. It was a big relief. Only opening my mouth to change feet can get tiresome. And embarrassing.
    I sucked in a deep breath and looked across the table to find Bitty watching me with a faint smile. She lifted her whiskey tumbler in a silent salute that let me know she’d heard at least part of