It’s a little more than two weeks until Bucky’s family comes for the reunion, but I still haven’t gotten through to Julius about what I’m sure he left in Brett’s room. He hasn’t broken down and admitted anything yet, but I think that’s only because Bucky is giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“You need to have a long talk with him.” I look Bucky in the eye without blinking, something that never fails to get to him. Even after all the things he said about kids trying things, he says he believes our son.

He glances down at the floor as he shakes his head. “If Julius says he didn’t do it, then I believe him.”

“Brett says he doesn’t know where it came from.”

“He’s the one who’s probably lying.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not convinced.” The fact remains, I don’t trust my own son because he has such a habit of lying to me that I rarely believe anything he tells me anymore.

Bucky finally looks directly at me as he lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to him.”

“What are you going to say?”

He blows out a sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know. Prob’ly something like your mama doesn’t believe you.”

“That’s not good. You need to ask him what they did in Brett’s room, what they talked about, and if he saw anything on Brett’s dresser when he first got there.”

Bucky squints as he shakes his head. “Why don’t you talk to him? I can’t remember all that.”

“Okay, I think I will. It’s just that you said he was better with you.”

“He is.” Bucky lifts his chin and glances away again. “But you’re the one with the bone to pick. I’m fine with what he says—that he had nothing to do with that weed on Brett’s dresser.”

As he turns to leave, I run after him. “Where are you going, Bucky?”

“To a place where there are no nagging wives.”

I know what that means. He’s going to Bud’s Bar and Pool Hall in Hattiesburg. “I don’t want you drinking and driving.”

“I’ll just have a few beers.” He pulls his jacket together in front and makes a production of zipping it. “I’ll be home for supper.”

As he leaves, I slink back against the wall behind me. Bucky was never a drinker before, but when one of his friends he met when the oil company was putting in the oil rigs invited him out for a beer, he said it would be a nice goodwill gesture. And now he goes a couple of times a week. Last time he went, Bud called and told me to come pick up my husband because he’d had too much to drink to drive home.

It all seems to come back to the money—something I’m constantly reminded of. I realize that money itself isn’t the root of all evil, but loving it too much sure can bring out the worst.

I was perfectly fine with the split-level house we have in Hattiesburg. It has four bedrooms, two baths, and a two-car garage—what I still think is plenty of room for our small family. But no, Bucky just had to spend some of that oil money that started burning a hole in his pocket the minute we got our first check. Every once in a while, I drive by the old house and long for the good old days.

The sweet little family road-trip vacations we used to take are now first-class flights to Europe or weeklong cruises in luxury cabins on some swanky cruise ship. Sure, I enjoyed seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris and the Parthenon in Greece the first time, but I don’t want to keep going back. It dilutes some of the joy and wonder. Bucky, on the other hand, gets a kick out of saying, “Last time we went to Paris . . .” It doesn’t matter what he says after that, since he’s going for touting the fact that we keep going back.

Before we came into so much money, I could always find something to do. Now I find myself getting bored. With everything.

Bucky talked me into joining the Pinewood Junior League. I have to admit I was excited about it at first. Now that I look back on the three years I went to meetings, baked cookies for the Junior League bake sale, participated in their annual ball, and did lunch with some of the ladies close to my age, I know I don’t fit in. They speak a language I’ll never understand, no matter how much money we have or how much I try to be like them.

Don’t get me wrong. Most of them are very sweet women who are often misunderstood by those who have never been part of their group. If they come across as snobby, it’s more the result of being uncomfortable around people they don’t know well than being uppity. Granted, there are some who are too big for their britches, but they’re the minority—and unfortunately the ones who are the most vocal and visible in town.

It makes me sad that my old friends from before money have forgotten about me. Bucky says not to fret about it because they’re not worth worrying over and they’ll feel awkward in our world. I disagree, but I do know things will never be the same for me here in Pinewood. I’ve actually talked to Bucky about selling everything and moving to a place where we don’t know anyone so we can start over. He laughs and says everything will get better if I learn to accept who I am now.

The only problem with that is I don’t know who I am. Deep down, I think I’m still the bargain-hunting, thrift-store-shopping woman who doesn’t mind diving to the bottom of a pile of clothes to find that one wonderful piece that will make me happy for years. I miss bragging about the deals I’ve snagged off the Walmart clearance racks.

I’m relieved when Bucky comes home from Bud’s an hour later. “The place was dead. No one good was there.”

I give him one of the looks he hates and leave him standing there. Our communication is at an all-time low because there’s nothing left to talk about. I search the shelves for a book to read.

Bucky appears in the doorway and stares at me until I look up at him. “When ya goin’ shopping for some new stuff to spruce this place up?”

I sigh. “I don’t think we need anything new.”

“But you love a good shopping trip. What’s wrong with you, Marybeth?”

Now that folks are coming to our house for the next reunion, Bucky wants me to go out and get some brand-new pieces of furniture and shiny knickknacks. He’s been working on me for weeks. Granted, I don’t particularly care for the stuff we have in the living room, but the thought of putting that much energy and money into something that’ll probably get ruined when one of Bucky’s uncles gets carried away with one of his hunting stories and splashes sweet tea all over the place makes my stomach hurt.

“Everyone’s seen all this stuff before. We don’t want their tongues waggin’ about how we’ve fallen onto hard times.”

I don’t really care what they think anymore, but I can’t tell Bucky that. So I shake my head and counter. “A few colorful pillows, a new burnt-orange throw, and a couple of extra lamps will make it seem like a whole new place.”

Bucky squints. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I cross the room and pick my jacket up off the back of the sofa that I hate sitting in but can’t bear to replace. That thing cost more than our entire living room set in our last house.

“Want me to go with you?”

“No.” The word comes out a little too fast, so I hope he’s not suspicious.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll leave the décor up to you.” He snickers. “If I had my way, one of these rooms would have a whole wall of wild turkey, deer heads, and whatever else I can shoot.”

You can take the redneck out of the woods . . .