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happy to show it to ya whenever you like,” Jiff said. Then he pointed beyond. “And there’s the mountain.”
    Collier could still see it, even at this distance, its peaks and edges ghosted by mist that looked purple. But past the garden stretched an endless scrubland that wasn’t much for scenery. “How come no one farms all that land out there?”
    “Used to be one of the biggest cotton plantations in the South,” Jiff said, “back before the war.”
    “World War Two? Or do you mean—”
    “The War of Northern Aggression, sir.”
    Collier smiled. He struggled with more distraction when Lottie listlessly leaned over the rail and looked down, and was just able to resist overtly looking down the top of her denim frock. “So it’s just wasteland now? Surely it’s been farmed since then.”
    “No, sir. Not a square foot.”
    “A developer’s sitting on it?”
    “No, sir.”
    The deflection of the issue intrigued Collier. “Well then why not use all that valuable farmland?”
    Lottie looked at him. She slowly shook her head.
    “Folks think the land’s cursed is all, Mr. Collier,” Jiff informed. “Lotta old legends and ghost tales ’round here, but don’t pay ’em no mind. Man who used to own that land was Harwood Gast. The cotton his slaves harvested clothed most’a the Confederate army, and the soybeans he grew out there fed it. bet’cha didn’t know they had soybeans back then, did ya?”
    “Actually…no.” But Collier delighted in ghost stories. “And why is the land supposedly cursed?”
    Jiff crooked his head. “Aw, you don’t wanna hear that silly talk, sir. Oh, look, there’s them folks from Wisconsin.”
    He sure changed that subject fast. Collier’s eyes darted down and, indeed, there walked the married couple he’d seen downstairs. The woman seemed to sense Collier’s eyes, and jerked around to wave.
    “Can’t wait for that autograph, Mr. Collier!”
    Jesus… Collier nodded and smiled. “Let’s go back inside.”
    Lottie skipped ahead of him; he couldn’t take his gaze off the toned, gymnastlike legs. But then his loins surged when the spry girl leaned over for his suitcase. Jackpot! Collier thought. The action afforded only a glimpse, butas the top edge of the frock dipped from gravity, Collier noted breasts the size of peaches, and probably as firm. Good God …This sudden thrill of voyeurism left him mystified; it simply wasn’t like him. Nevertheless, the glimpse made him feel as though he’d received a wonderful surprise gift.
    She hauled the suitcase atop the bed, opened it, and began to hang his clothes up in the wardrobe.
    “Thanks, Lottie, but that’s really not necessary…”
    “It’s our pleasure, Mr. Collier,” Jiff offered.
    Next, Lottie grabbed a pair of shoes from the case, then turned and bent down to place them at the bottom of the wardrobe. Collier got an adrenaline jolt from a perfect shot of her white-pantied bottom.
    Jiff gave her a hard smack. “Have some respect, girl! Mr. Collier don’t wanna look at your scrawny bee-hind!”
    Yes I do! Yes I do! Collier objected. The girl stood straight, grinned sheepishly.
    But it was just more incomprehension. Even the air seemed gorged with desire; he inhaled it like smoke. Collier had all but forgotten such sexual awareness, but all of a sudden…
    His chest felt tight. He felt antsy.
    “So what was that you was sayin’, Mr. Collier?” Jiff repaired the awkward moment. “You come here to work on a beer book?”
    “Uh, yes, Jiff. I’m writing a book about classic old American beers, and the reason I’ve come to Gast is because I heard some fellow connoisseurs speaking particularly of a beer brewed in this town, at a place called—”
    But Jiff was already nodding, arms crossed. “Cusher’s, ya mean. Next words out’a my mouth was gonna be how the Prince’a Beer surely must throw a few back at Cusher’s.”
    “It’s a restaurant and tavern, right?”
    “Sure is, and a fine one. Old-time