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his oily lips. “Now, baby doll, you know I can't tell you that. You know what happens in Montana, stays in Montana.”
    Virginia gritted her teeth and looked down at the carpet. It was called Elvis Red and Virginia had never seen the color in any decorator's catalog or carpet showroom. She was pretty sure Redmon must have paid thousands of dollars extra to have it specially dyed so it could look as gauche and tacky as it did.
    He knew what had happened in Montana because he'd been there. But he wasn't talking. At least not now. Not only had she not been able to pry the secret of the Montana hunting trip out of him, but she'd also been unable to do anything about this monument to bad taste that they lived in. He seemed determined to keep a tight rein on their personal finances, giving her an allowance so small she could barely buy groceries, much less entertain, or redecorate the garish mansion Redmon called home. Just yesterday she had been forced to host her bridge group at the house and she had overheard Lee Anne Bales and Worland Pendergrass giggling and whispering over the gold-plated fixtures in the master bathroom with its marble floors, marble walls, and crushed velvet draperies. Not to mention the built-in, lighted cabinet in the master bedroom highlighting Redmon's collection of Elvis memorabilia, and the king-size bed that was actually suspended from the ceiling by four gold-plated chains. Virginia had glanced in the bedroom door to find Lee Anne and Worland laying on their backs on the gently swaying bed, looking up at the huge ceiling mirror and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.
    “My God, it's like a New Orleans whorehouse,” Lee Anne said.
    Worland snorted and put her hand over her mouth. “How desperate did Virginia have to be to marry into this,” she said.
    Pretty damn desperate
. Virginia had stood just outside the door and felt her face burn with rage and humiliation. She could not bear to have people laugh at her. But looking around the great room with its huge stacked stone fireplace, big-screen TV, faux-wood furniture, and overstuffed Naugahyde seating group, complete with built-in beer cooler and remote control caddy, she could not blame them for laughing. She would have laughed, too, had it been anyone besides herself married to Redmon.
    “All I'm saying …” Redmon said, grease glistening along his top lip. “All I'm saying is you might not want to show up for that wedding after whatthem girls did to your boy.” He grinned and shook his head. “Them girls is trouble,” he said.
    “They don't know what trouble is,” Virginia muttered, staring balefully at the Elvis Red carpet.
    “What?” Redmon bellowed.
Good God
, he had hair growing out of his ears. She could see it clearly beneath the glare of the gold-plated crystal chandelier.
The Big-Ass Chandelier
. It was how Virginia referred to the monstrosity in the privacy of her own mind. It was on her long list of things that would have to go.
    “Nothing,” she said.
    The swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen swung open and Della Smurl came out carrying a plate of biscuits. Della was the only African-American woman in Ithaca, Georgia, still willing to don a maid's outfit and do domestic work—for the right price, of course. She'd struggled to send three children to graduate school before she figured out that white folks—white folks like Virginia, anyway—were willing to pay any price just to feel like they were back in the good old days before civil rights. Before an uppity little black woman by the name of Rosa Parks rocked their world forever and brought the good old days crashing down around their ears.
    Now Della made close to six figures a year, took vacations to the Bahamas, and had a retirement account she could live on for thirty years.
    “I told you to make yeast rolls, not biscuits,” Virginia said sharply.
    Della set the platter of biscuits down, loudly, on the table in front of Redmon. He greedily