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filled his plate. “I don't have time to make yeast rolls,” Della said belligerently. She'd wear the uniform, for the right price, but she'd be damned if she'd take the same shit she'd had to take before Rosa Parks. “You got to let it rise and beat it down and let it rise again and I don't have time for all that nonsense. Not if you want me to make a pot roast, too.”
    “In point of fact,” Virginia said icily, “I did
not
want you to make pot roast. I wanted you to make
Boeuf Bourguignon
.” She'd gone to all the trouble to put together a menu, complete with recipes, and Della hadn't followed a single one. Instead, she substituted whatever simple fare she saw fit to substitute.
    Della put her hand on her ample hip, but before she could say anything, Redmon said, “I like biscuits. I like pot roast.” He grinned like an idiot withhis mouth full of biscuit, and winked at the black woman. She smirked at Virginia and left the room.
    Virginia counted to ten. How was she supposed to bring culinary culture to this house when her husband insisted on siding with the help? When his idea of fine dining was baked possum stuffed with sweet potatoes, and turnip greens? Virginia counted to ten again, wondering how in the world Myra had stood it all those years. She stared down at the glass dining table with its gold ram's horn base surrounded by chairs upholstered in faux zebra skin, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.
    It's not like she hadn't been warned. It's not like she'd gone into this marriage with blinders on. She had known Redmon for years, of course. He had been married to her staunchest comrade-in-arms, Myra (Virginia did not have female friends, only allies), and Virginia had pegged him correctly within ten minutes of their first meeting—he was socially uncouth, and as loud and unsophisticated in his dress and manners as only a nouveau riche redneck can be. Still, when Myra was killed in a tragic tennis accident, and Virginia's own fortunes took a tumble thanks to a portfolio overly invested in growth stocks and growth mutual funds, not to mention the demise of Boone & Broadwell, she had begun to look differently at Redmon. He was rumored to be one of the wealthiest men in Georgia. And she
had
managed, after several years of steady, patient work, to civilize the Judge.
    But she had underestimated Redmon. She saw this now. Behind his Gomer Pyle exterior there lurked the wily, stubborn nature of a street- smart hillbilly—the kind of man her father used to call “smart as an outhouse rat.” And to make matters worse, it seemed Redmon had been carrying a secret torch for Virginia for nearly thirty years, and not only insisted on actually consummating their marriage, but insisted on consummating it nightly.
    Virginia spent a good part of her time these days trying to avoid her marriage bed and cursing the chemist who had discovered Viagra.
    “We're going to that wedding,” Virginia said curtly.
    Redmon chewed steadily and watched her with a crafty expression on his big red face. “What you got up your sleeve, Queenie?” he said. “What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?”
    “I don't know what you mean,” she said stiffly, avoiding his gaze. She raised her voice and said, “Della, more tea.”
    There was no sound but for the steady
clomping
of Redmon's bicuspids chewing through a rather large piece of pot roast.
    “Della,” she said sharply.
    Nothing.
    “Della, I know you hear me.”
    The door swung open violently and Della came back in carrying a pitcher of sweet tea. “I don't know why some folks can't eat in the kitchen,” she grumbled. “I don't know why some folks can't think of other folks and their bad feet every once in a while.”
    Redmon, of course, fell for it. “You want us to eat in the kitchen, Della?” he said. “We can if it's easier on you.” Della put the pitcher down and went out, still grumbling.
    Virginia stared at Redmon. She insisted on