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Hard to tell with all that hair.
    I hoped he was at least planning to put on a shirt under his overalls. I shuddered to think what else might or might not be under there.
    Kat splished toward her door, then turned to point at me and say, “Now, that is what I call a good neighbor.”
    Suddenly queasy, I waved my fingers, then rolled up the power window and backed up, then headed for my garage.
    Please don’t let anything bad happen, I prayed in general. And please don’t call tonight, I prayed in Greg’s direction. When he found out, he was going to have a fit .

Three
     
    K icking myself for what I’d done, I tucked away the fabric in the sewing station I’d set up in the closet of the third bedroom. Then I went to the guest room and put a drop of vanilla on the light bulb before turning back the seersucker coverlets and crisp white sheets on the beds. I was plumping the pillows when the doorbell rang.
    A shard of adrenaline went through me. Why had I done this?
    I did my best to compose myself on the way to the door. I opened it to find Kat wearing an almost-normal sundress, her wet hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and Zach in clean jeans and a T-shirt that was only slightly damp with sweat from the walk over.
    “God bless you fer this,” Kat gushed as I motioned them inside. She inhaled a huge breath of cool air. “Oh, man, does that feel good.”
    Smiling, Zach scanned my living room. “I swear. Betty Freakin’ Crocker.”
    Kat elbowed him, hard, in the side. “Shut up, Zach. This woman rescued us from spendin’ the night in a furnace with a million mosquitoes. Don’t make fun of her just because she’s a better housekeeper than I am.” She looked over my perfect parlor. “This is beautiful. Did you have a decorator?”
    Not a polite question, but I knew she meant well. “No, I did the whole house myself.” I stepped toward the hallway. “Let me show you to your room.”
    As they followed, Kat took everything in with wide-eyed approval. “Wow. This is gorgeous. You really got a knack.”
    When we reached the guest room, they exchanged a brief glance on seeing the twin beds, but didn’t comment, and I didn’t offer to push them together. The last thing I wanted was to hear them humping through the wall.
    “Have y’all had supper?” I asked, hoping they had.
    Zach’s eyes lit up. “Actually, we were so hot, we didn’t feel like eating.” As if on cue, his stomach growled loudly. “But now that we’re cool, I could use a little something. But don’t go to a lot of trouble.”
    What did I have on hand? Pork chops in the fridge, and butter peas in the freezer. I could make a salad to go with it. “Do y’all eat pork?”
    “Oh, yes,” Zach said eagerly.
    “Great. Y’all just relax, then.” I pointed to the little color TV on the dresser. “Watch some TV if you’d like. I’ll have supper ready in half an hour.” I started for the kitchen, preoccupied with ordering my tasks.
    Kat followed. “Please let me help.”
    Remembering what Zach had said about her cooking, I knew her “help” would only complicate matters, but it would be rude to say no, so I accepted. “Sure. Come on.”
    I heard the Braves game coming from the guest room as we entered my eat-in kitchen with French doors onto the back deck.
    “Ho-lee crap!” Kat said in awe. “This looks like a magazine.” She peered at the gleaming surfaces. “How do you keep it so clean?”
    I responded with a massive understatement. “I like things clean.” I got the butane grill lighter and headed for the deck. “Just let me light the grill, and we can start cooking.”
    “A gas grill,” Kat admired, following me to the door, but staying inside the cool as I braved the heat. “I swear, this place is perfect.”
    I couldn’t help feeling proud to hear it. Back inside, I headed for the refrigerator to take out the meat and salad things, then start the butter peas cooking. “I know you’re tired from all that heat. Why