Dotty raised her glass. “To love and prosperity in the new year.”

Jolene clinked glasses. “I’ll settle for prosperity. I make bad choices when it comes to that love stuff.”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t judge all men by one rotten apple. And besides, you know the Magnolia has magic hidden in the walls. Sugar always told us that, and I believe her,” Dotty scolded. “Tell me, though, after all that you went through, didn’t you ever think about a therapist? I saw one after Bruce died.”

“I did see a real one a couple of times after Mama died. Just didn’t feel right. Maybe it was too soon or maybe it wasn’t soon enough. Went to a few of those Al-Anon meetings for kids a few times, too. I don’t know, Dotty. But I know one thing—it’ll take magic and miracles both for me to ever let another man into my heart,” Jolene said.

“Well, the future is what it is, and we can’t change it any more than we can change the past,” Dotty said.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Dotty said, “I wonder how far Sugar and Jasper got today.”

Jolene nodded. “They were hoping to get about halfway down Louisiana. I bet Aunt Sugar is making peas and greens, though.”

“You can count on it. We old southern women do things right.” Dotty handed a plate of corn bread across the table. “You better have another piece to go with a second helping of black-eyed peas for good luck.”

“I sure will—this is really good, Dotty. I appreciate the friendship, the food, and the job. After that meeting with Reuben, I needed all of it.”

“Oh, honey, that’s what friends are for—to share in the joys and half the sorrows.” Dotty smiled.

“That mean you aren’t going to throw salt in the shape of a cross when I leave?” Jolene asked.

Dotty laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes. “That’s a Cajun superstition for sure—I wish it would keep certain people away from my house. Are you going to get out the salt for Reuben when you get home?”

“Yep, but according to him, he will never set foot in Jefferson again,” Jolene said.

“Well, there, chère, is your first miracle, now isn’t it?” Dotty said.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Jolene left. After lunch, Dotty had shown her all the basics of the bar. The primary difference between the Tipsy Gator and the Twisted Rope was the location of the liquor bottles. At the Twisted Rope, Jolene could reach for the whiskey, the tequila, or the gin blindfolded. It would take a few weeks at the Tipsy Gator to get that familiar with things.

Five miles south of town, she turned left, inched down the lane to the big Victorian-looking inn set back in the tall pines, and parked the truck among them. She plopped down on the porch swing and set it in motion with her foot. How would it work if someone bought a half interest in the place? Would they want to live there, or would they just be a silent partner?

Lake Pontchartrain, Louisiana

Sugar clapped her hands when they spotted an RV place right close to the lake that first day of their journey. She loved being near the water, and Jasper couldn’t wait to get his fishing equipment out and see if the fish were biting.

“Before you do that, let’s call Reuben and Jolene.” Sugar touched her phone screen and brought up the contacts, hit Reuben’s name, and handed it off to Jasper. “You can go first.”

“Hello,” Reuben said over the speaker.

“Guess where we are!” Jasper’s voice sounded like a little boy’s at Christmas.

“Who is this?” Reuben sounded irritated, maybe even angry.

“It’s your uncle Jasper,” Sugar said. “We’ve started our trip. We’re camped right by Lake Pontchartrain. Have you and Jolene gotten reacquainted? She said y’all were meeting today.”

“We met,” Reuben said.

“And?” Jasper winked at Sugar.

“I listed my half with a Realtor. I hated that place when I was a kid. Why would I ever want to live there? I’ll use that money to take my colleagues on a cruise over spring break, and what’s left to buy a new car. So I guess I owe you thanks for that.” Reuben’s tone had changed from angry to sarcastic.

“I’d hoped that . . .” Jasper looked like he might burst into tears.

“You gave it to me with no strings. I did what I wanted with it,” Reuben said. “I really have to go now. I’ve got plans for this evening. And if some idiot comes along who wants to buy half interest in a money pit, then I’ll thank you again for a nice vacation and a new car. Goodbye.”

The phone screen went dark.

The RV went silent.

Sugar moved closer to Jasper and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, darlin’.”

“I should’ve given my half to Jolene. I just wanted to believe that this would . . .” Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

Sugar’s tears mixed with his, because she never could let anyone cry alone. “Let’s go fishin’ together to take our minds off this. I’ll call Jolene another time. She’s probably too hoppin’ mad to talk right now anyway.”

“I love you.” Jasper held her tightly. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You were.” Sugar pushed away from him. “You did nothing wrong. You followed your heart. Who knows how all this will turn out? We’re hurting today, but maybe tomorrow we’ll look back on this and see that it was all for the good.”

“I hope so.” Jasper wiped at his cheeks.

Chapter Three

Tucker Malone had just polished off his third beer and was reaching for another when his cell phone rang. He checked the ID, saw that it was Belinda, and ignored it. He wasn’t ready to start another job for a few days. He wanted to hole up in his tiny trailer, drink a few beers, eat bologna sandwiches, and watch old reruns on television with Sassy beside him. When he got ready to work, he’d call her.

This was a holiday, by damn, and he deserved a little time off. He looked around at the tiny travel trailer and imagined Melanie in the kitchen, like she had been that last night they were together. They’d spent every weekend they could get out of the big city camping out at the lake—doing some fishing, having a few beers, and planning their future.

He blinked back the tears. He’d lost her, all over a quart of milk. She’d needed it for breakfast the next morning and insisted on driving into town while he fished for their supper. After the auto accident that killed her, he drowned his grief in a bottle.

The weekend drinking had turned daily and cost him his job. That’s when he’d gone to the cemetery and promised Melanie he’d only drink on Friday and Saturday nights. The next day he’d brought the trailer from Dallas to Marshall, Texas, the area where she’d grown up, where her parents and two brothers still lived, and where she was buried. He’d thought that living close to where she was raised would help.

It didn’t.

But her old school friend, Belinda, a Realtor, had kept him in enough remodeling jobs to buy beer, bologna, and cat food. The trailer had looked like hammered owl shit when he and Melanie had bought it, and it still did. The rust spots had spread in two years, and he’d never bothered to underpin it, but it was big enough for him and Sassy, and it kept the rain off. As long as he could come home to Melanie’s picture every evening, he didn’t care what the trailer looked like.

He carried his go-bag and a beer over to the RV park bathroom and shivered through a barely warm shower. They’d camped out in the trailer and skinny-dipped in lakes and rivers that were colder than this, but he’d had her warm body next to him in those days. He quickly dried off, got dressed in a pair of old Dallas PD sweats, and jogged from the brick building back to his trailer. Once inside, he pushed Sassy out of the way and dived under a blanket on the sofa.

“Dammit! I left my beer over in the bathroom. Sassy, darlin’, be a good girl and go get it for me,” he said.

The cat gave him her best disgusted look and settled on the other end of the sofa.

“Worthless animal. I bet a dog would fetch my beer,” he fussed at her.

He went straight to the refrigerator, got out another bottle, and headed back to the sofa. He picked up his phone and called the nearest pizza place. It rang five times before he remembered that it was a holiday. He had his finger on the “End” button when someone said, “Pop’s Pizzeria.”

“Y’all open and delivering?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. This Tucker?”

“Yep. Will you send your delivery guy out here with my regular order?”

“Hand-tossed supreme with extra meat and cheese, and a container of marinara on the side, right?”

“You got it,” Tucker said.

He meant to turn off the phone when he finished his order, but he forgot. It rang again, and he checked the ID and laid it back down. Dixie Realty, Belinda’s business—it could wait.

He picked up the remote and found a John Wayne western on television. Ten minutes into the movie, as he was reciting the dialogue with the Duke, someone pounded on his door. He stumbled to the door with his wallet in hand, expecting to see the pizza delivery kid bringing his order.

“Dammit! What are you doing here?” he asked when he saw Belinda on the other side of the door.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in out of the cold?” she replied.

“What the hell do you want? Don’t you know when I don’t answer the phone that I don’t want to work? This is a holiday,” he answered.

She pushed her way past him. “I’m not happy that I had to drive out here—it’s a holiday for me, too.” She removed her scarf and hat. “Melanie was my best friend, and I know she’d hate to see you living like this. Why don’t you get out of this trailer and let me find you a decent apartment?”

“It keeps the wind and rain off, it reminds me of the good times Melanie and I had, and it beats paying rent. But come right in. Make yourself at home. Do the dishes while you’re here,” he said.