Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up Cakewalk. Please know that this is not a plot-driven book. You will not be breathlessly turning pages to find out who killed whom, etc.

Cakewalk is you and I sitting out back watching the sun set behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, horses grazing in emerald fields, hounds asleep at our feet, and far, far too many cats imperiously surveying all.

I’m recalling stories told to me by mother, my aunts, Dad, his brothers, and uncles when I was seven, eight. Stories about people then in their sixties, seventies, eighties, and even a few in their nineties, stories about my people. Given that everyone was an honorary aunt or uncle this included multitudes. Often, the storyteller, bourbon and branch in hand, added flourishes.

Such close connection between the generations doesn’t seem to happen much these days. What passes for communication, especially electronic and public communication, is pitched to the lowest common denominator.

I am not pitching to the lowest common denominator. I am pitching to you.

Come, let us sit a spell to chat, ponder, laugh, lots of laughter. Let us bow to the silent power of Time until we, too, walk into the Sweet Bye and Bye.

Ever and always,

Rita Mae Brown