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I’ve got to see if I can help Robbie-Lee’s mother. She’s going to lose herhome if my stupid former husband”—I paused for a moment, regretting that I had referred to Darryl in such a mean-spirited way in front of Judd—“uh, if my former husband fills in the swamp over there.”
    Judd was quiet for a moment. “But where would all the turtles, and the gators and everything, go?” he asked.
    I was thinking Judd might be a great ally when we both heard brakes squeal. Before you could say “Sweet Jesus, protect me from whatever that is,” Jackie’s convertible slid to a halt in the wind-driven sand that always seemed to pile up on the street directly in front of my cottage. There was no one else in Naples who drove quite like that. And, there was no other car like that south of Tampa: a completely impractical, two-door, banana-yellow 1960 Buick LeSabre for which she had traded, in a moment of pure rebellion, her dull and matronly station wagon.
    We loved that car. Oh, how we all loved it. No one else in our book club owned a car, and Jackie had enjoyed driving us around. It was wonderful to see her again, right behind the wheel, which is how I usually pictured her in my mind although the effect was altered somewhat since she was indeed wearing black. A black head scarf. Black gloves. Black cat-eye sunglasses. And, of course, a black dress that was tasteful but not especially demure. Probably, from that store she was always talking about, Filene’s.
    Black is not an easy color to wear in Florida under the best of circumstances and, in Naples, it was always a signal that someone had up and died. Black was for grieving and condoling only. Of course, that might not have been true, say, in Miami or some other place where they had bona fide nightclubs. Here in Naples the only place was the Shingle Shack, and I doubt any womanever wore black unless she was coming straight from the kind of funeral that drives a woman to drink.
    Jackie leaned on the car horn, a Yankee habit that made me want to reach for smelling salts. Why in the name of Our Sweet Savior did she think this was necessary? Did she think we couldn’t see her? She was smiling and waving her arm with the kind of jaunty Northern confidence that annoys the beeswax out of Southerners. Plain Jane, the poet from our book club, was sprawled in the backseat like she was sunbathing on a chaise lounge. I almost hadn’t noticed her.
    â€œWoo hoo!” I called out, once I had recovered from the car horn. “So great to see y’all! Git yourselves out of that crazy car and come set on the porch with me and Judd for a spell!” But as soon as I raised my voice, I could feel Mama’s disapproval coming straight down from the Spirit World like a bolt of lightning, since hollerin’ was “not nice.” Mama was always talking about things that were either “nice” or “not nice.” That was pretty much how she saw the world. Judd, Jackie, and Plain Jane were probably wondering why I sprang up, rabbit-like, rather than shout again, but I knew better than to disrespect Mama. It didn’t matter than she was six feet under at the Cemetery of Hope and Salvation over by the Esso station.
    Jackie and Plain Jane had both climbed out of the car, and I thought we were going to have a bear-hug reunion, but when I got to the gate and started fussing with the latch, Jackie started screeching like a banshee on a coconut-milk binge. “Don’t open it!” she pleaded.
    I had plumb forgot that Jackie was scared to pieces of my turtles. It was a wonder she let Judd look after them while I was away. For the sake of friendship, and to keep Jackie calm, I climbed over my own fence. Jackie, Plain Jane, and me had athree-way hug like a football huddle. You know you like someone, and truly missed them, when you don’t mind embracing them in the suffocating heat of Florida in August.
    I