“What is that?” My southern gal, a surprisingly young, fresh-faced, and black-haired beauty, pointed at the smart car from her front porch. “Are you driving a go-cart?”
“No, it’s a smart car,” I explained. I walked up the gravel driveway, my hand extended. Before me was a large house covered in mint-green aluminum siding. I admired the attached double-car garage, wondering if I would soon be calling it home sweet home.
“Smart, huh?” she asked, as though she begged to differ. “Well, I guess it’s good on gas?”
“Fabulous.” I mounted the front steps up to the porch, which had a black wrought iron railing, Astroturf carpeting, and an honest-to-goodness aluminum glider that reminded me of my grandma, God rest her soul. I clutched the woman’s hand. “I’m Beau St. Clair.”
She shook it with a st
