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know.
    “Like she always looks.”
    “Wanna expound upon that a bit?”
    “What can I say? She’s not my type.”
    “Ted, pardon my French, but fuck your type. Now, what was she wearing? What’d she have for dinner, et cetera?”
    “God, you’re pathetic.”
    “Please.”
    “Okay. She was wearing something blue. She had the Tennessee quail. Dickhead brought in a couple of predictable wines. They all had the blackberry cake for dessert and went home. Jesus.”
    “Now was that so hard?”
    “How do you sleep with a Republican anyway, and a married one at that?”
    “When did you get detail-oriented? And by the way, Nancy is my first married Republican.”
    “Bullshit.”
    He was right. It was bullshit, but that was hardly the point.
    “Ted, be honest. This isn’t about politics. What’s really going on here is that you’re still pissed about Casey at Camp Shawnee.”
    There was a long, long pause.
    “Do you always have to bring her up? That was only a million fucking years ago. And, for your information, Ms. Studwad, I never thought she was all that hot.”
    “Just as well. She didn’t think you were all that hot either.”
    “Thanks for putting it all in crystalline perspective.”
    “You’re very welcome.”
     
    We went on like this for a while. Then we talked some restaurant business and I promised Ted I’d be back in Gatlinburg as soon as things were squared away with Evelyn, at least as squared away as things could ever get with my mother.
    “Hurry home,” Ted said, relighting his cigar. “You’re so much better with fascists than I am.”
    “Guess you could say I’ve got the touch.”
    “Shit,” Ted said, and hung up.

 
    Chapter 9
     
    That night I dreamed that Nancy was in her TV studio kitchen processing tart dough in her shiny Cuisinart. The Nancy Merit’s House camera crew was rolling. And just like in real TV life, between the noisy whirrs of the machine, she made very personal eye contact with the camera as she explained and demonstrated each recipe step in her confident, altogether affable Nancy Merit TV persona.
    At this point in my dream, unlike in real life, I come onstage. I tell the crew to pack it up, get lost. Although Nancy is protesting, I see a twinkle in her eye. She knows what I’m up to.
    When everyone is gone, we shut off the studio lights and then it’s just Nancy, the Cuisinart and me. For several long, sensual moments there is only the sound of our breathing and the refrigerator humming.
    Finally, I say, “C’mere, beautiful.”
     
    At this point Nancy and I proceed to make hot and nasty love all over the set of Nancy Merit’s House . After finding ourselves in a few less than optimal lovemaking locations (beware of a preheated oven), we slide onto the kitchen’s floating island which is fine by me. But Nancy, ever practical when it counts, communicates to me via primal sounds and gestures, indicating that she’s pushing for the floor. Without much fuss I give in. I aim us toward the fluffy rag rug (a gift from a viewer) in front of the kitchen sink which, all in all, turns out to be a very good idea.
    After a much needed breather and not of the capital B variety, Nancy turns to me and sighs the satisfied sigh of a sated, Southern woman. Playfully, she kisses my nose, then smiles, baring her rows of lovely white teeth. Despite my protests, she hops up, throws on her robe and goes back to her dough in the Cuisinart. Resigned, I pull part of the rug over me and settle in to watch a professional at work.
    After some scraping with a spatula and a few more whirrs, Nancy glances over in a sexy way and says, “Get up, Lazybones. Make us two perfect capuccinos.”
    I do and, hips touching, Nancy’s bare foot resting on mine, we lean back against the counter and sip our cappuccinos while a beautiful peach tart bubbles in the oven.
     
    At that point, in actual real life, my blissful reverie was interrupted by a retching sound. I opened an eye and noted that