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"NO. NOT FOR ALL THE banana pudding in the world." I tore my gaze from the hideous bright neon green pair of running shoes that my Aunt Ida Belle was holding and looked her straight in the eye. "It's not happening."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Church service starts in twenty minutes, Stephanie," she said. "You're wasting our time."
I took a deep breath to fortify myself for the fight ahead. I'd only known my great-aunt Ida Belle for a couple of weeks. But I'd learned enough about her to know that she was formidable. Iron curtain formidable. However, she was both my hostess and an elder relative, so I knew that proper manners dictated I be amenable to her suggestions. But there was no way I was going to ruin my outfit, not to mention my reputation in Sinful, by donning the footwear she was attempting to thrust upon me. "I'm sorry, Aunt Ida Belle, but I simply will not wear anything so ugly. Ever. Under any circumstances." I crossed my arms over chest, ready to hold my ground until the bitter end. "Period. End of conversation."
"So, that's a maybe?" Gertie asked, a hopeful expression on her wrinkled face as she looked between us. She clapped her hands together. "Hot damn, we're making progress."
"Gertie, look at what I'm wearing." I waved a hand over my white linen sheath dress, which was accessorized with my signature string of pearls and a delicate gold bracelet. "It would be an absolute crime to replace these—" I pointed to my kitten heeled white leather sandals and then to the offending sneakers that my aunt held, "—with those athletic monstrosities."
Gertie's eyebrows knit together. "Huh, shows what I know. I don't remember any laws being passed that prohibited wearing ugly shoes on a Sunday." Her face broke into a wide smile. "Hot dog, that means we can get Celia arrested because her shoes are always as ugly as a baboon's butt."
"I think what Stephanie means is that it would be a crime against fashion." Fortune, an ex-beauty queen and ex-librarian, as well as the third member of the unholy alliance that comprised my Aunt Ida Belle's inner circle, flashed me a sympathetic smile.
Like myself, Fortune was several decades younger than my great-aunt and Gertie. She was also a Yankee and a relative newcomer to Sinful, although that's where the similarities between us ended. Fortune had a predisposition toward wearing yoga pants and plain cotton t-shirts, she possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of assault weapons, and she had a tendency to drink beer straight out of the bottle. But this wasn't what made me slightly weary of her. Something was off with her story that she was spending the summer in Sinful, Louisiana, to catalog her recently deceased aunt's possessions. As far as I could tell after spending a great deal of time in her company, she hadn't inventoried anything in the last couple of weeks.
Whatever Fortune was doing in this little bayou town, it wasn't settling an estate. But then the same question could well be asked of me. What was I doing in Sinful? When I’d first arrived several weeks ago, that would have been a simple question to answer. I was hiding from a Russian mob family because they’d put a hit out on me. But that little kerfuffle had since been settled and it was now safe for me to return to my home and my job back in Boston.
Yet here I was, with no return bus ticket in hand. This had to do in great part with my growing attachment to my Aunt Ida Belle and her friends, but it also had more than a little something to do with an exciting and sexy FBI Agent named Kase Mayeux I’d met soon after I arrived.
So, really, who was I to question Fortune’s reasons for being in Sinful?
"Earth to Stephanie." Gertie waved a hand in front of my face. "Tick, tock. Time's a wastin’, girl. We need to know if you're in."
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It didn't pay to gather wool in front of these ladies. Not the way they went from zero to flat out crazy in thirty seconds or less. "Am I in what?"
"In it to win it," Gertie said, her voice hopeful.
"Win what precisely?" There was no way I was going to agree to anything without first understanding exactly what they were talking about. I could well end up mud wrestling on Main Street if I didn't keep my wits about me.
"Banana pudding!" Gertie exclaimed, holding up her two hands for Fortune and Ida Belle to high five.
I stared at the three of them as if they'd lost their minds. "I'm confused. Are we going to church to confess our sins and pray for our salvation, or are we going so that we can run a race afterward in the hopes of winning banana pudding? Because, to my mind, that really isn't a legitimate choice."
"You're right." My Aunt Ida Belle slipped a hand under my elbow and propelled me toward the front door. "There's not much of a choice when it comes down to it."
I eyed her suspiciously as we stepped out onto her front porch. "There isn't?"
"No," Gertie chimed in as she slipped past us and ran down the steps toward her rusted out old Cadillac. "Banana pudding all the way!"
Fortune followed me outside. "You might as well go along with their plans, it's easier that way."
"Why can't you race?" I asked. "You're in better shape than I am." I resisted the urge to mention that her footwear, a pair of well worn Huarache sandals, were just as ugly as the running shoes my great-aunt was trying to get me to wear. In fact, the switch might be a bit of an upgrade.
"My knees are sore from all the running I've been doing lately. I'm just going to baby them for a few days."
Not to sound callous, but I didn't see why she couldn't start babying them tomorrow.
Gertie opened the Cadillac's rear passenger door and motioned for me to get in, which I did. "Just don't turn all prim on us," she said.
Aunt Ida Belle slid in the front passenger side, slammed the door shut, and turned back to fix a stern look on me. "And don't go getting all proper, either."
But their instructions fell on deaf ears. Prim and proper defined me. Literally. I, Stephanie St. James, am a manners columnist for the Boston Daily News.
Miss Prim & Proper is my name, etiquette is my game.
Gertie's Caddy roared to life and I grabbed onto the back of the driver's seat in front of me. I'd learned the hard way that Gertie drove like a maniac. On a good day. On her bad days, she drove like a certified lunatic menace. As we peeled out of the driveway and tore off toward the center of town, I realized this was one of her bad days.
And I also wondered, not for the first time this week, if I wouldn't perhaps be just a bit safer in Boston.
***
THE SINFUL BAPTIST Church was the farthest thing from sinful imaginable. I struggled to stay awake as Pastor Don droned on about a biblical lesson that made no sense whatsoever. Something about Noah allowing David and Goliath on the ark. I'm not even wholly convinced that he understood what he was preaching. As the service wore on, and my eyelids grew heavy, I snuck a look at my companions.
Fortune sat staring straight ahead, her expression inscrutable. If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn she was meditating. Or sleeping with her eyes open. Gertie sat beside her, tapping out the refrain to Three Blind Mice with the toes of her shoes. Sandwiched between us was Aunt Ida Belle.
They'd insisted we occupy the last row and that I sit in the aisle seat nearest the doors that led out onto Main Street. Clearly, they were very confident that I'd jump out of my seat the minute service was over and run down the street toward Francine's Diner as if my very life depended on it.
I glanced down at my sandals, glad that I'd packed them when I'd fled Boston. I'd packed my suitcase in a terrible hurry, but death threat or no death threat, outfits had to be coordinated. Dressing as fashionably as possible was staying true to who I was as a person.
But being a considerate houseguest was integral to my integrity as well. I bit my lip and looked around the church. Had Gertie been right when she'd claimed that the rows full of elderly ladies, long standing members of the Sinful Ladies Society, were counting on me to win the race?
I was far from athletic. True, I played tennis well enough to hold my head high at the country club but that was about it. As a matter of fact, I preferred to play doubles so I'd have less court to cover. I just wasn't fond of sports.
On the other hand, I'd developed a certain fondness for my new friends, so perhaps I should give the race a try. After all, wasn't it my Christian duty to assist the elderly? The hungry? The weak?
I glanced over my shoulder at the double wooden doors.
"The Lord calls on us to be neighborly," Pastor Don intoned.
I wondered about the competition. How fast could the Catholics run if they were weighed down with Eucharist? Bread and wine weren't an ideal way to prepare for a race.
"He calls on us to make sacrifices for those in need—"
My great-aunt’s friends were in need of nourishment, surely. Why shouldn't it be the best banana pudding in Louisiana? They deserved that much.
"Go forth in peace—"
I glanced over at Aunt Ida Belle. I wasn't surprised to see that she was watching me intently. I gave her an imperceptible nod. I'd do it. I'd run the silly race and do my level best to reach Francine's Diner before anyone else. A wide smile stretched across her wrinkled face as she pulled the running shoes from the plastic grocery bag beside her.
Hesitating only briefly, I took them. I don't think anyone noticed that I slipped my sandals off and put the green monstrosities on in their place. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gertie flash me a thumbs up. Her response, as well as Aunt Ida Belle's obvious approval of my choice, made me feel like I'd just been inducted into a club for the super cool kids.
Now all I had to do was run down the street in the most undignified manner imaginable, burst into Francine’s diner, and fling myself into a seat before anyone else did.
"—and keep God's love alive in your heart."
The words were barely out of Pastor Don's mouth before Aunt Ida Belle elbowed me. "Go," she hissed. "And don't take any prisoners."
I jumped to my feet and bolted out through the front doors. Despite the bright sunlight, I immediately saw that this wasn't a one-woman race. The doors to Sinful's Catholic Church were open and three women were already beating a path to Francine's.
"Run, Stephanie, run," Gertie shouted. "Beat those old buzzards."
Heeding her words, I threw decorum to the wind and broke into a full-on sprint. I managed to duck and weave through a trio of Catholic ladies. The fact that I overtook them was attributable to their advanced age rather than a testament to my athletic prowess. Still, it was a winner-take-all race.
One runner pulled ahead of me but only by an arm's length. I sucked in a lungful of humid air and redoubled my efforts. I glanced over. My opponent was none other than Celia Arceneaux. This was a woman I wouldn't mind leaving in the dust, but my word, for a woman of her years and bulk, she certainly could run. I had to do something to slow her down.
"Celia," I called out to her, "your hair piece is slipping."
My words had the desired effect. Celia slowed her pace, lifted her hands to her hair, and anxiously patted her head to search for loose bobby pins. I shot past her, pleased that my hunch that all those sausage curls weren't hers had paid off. As I reached the door to Francine's, I heard her howl in outrage. I yanked the door open and flew inside.
"Hurry, just sit anywhere," Ally directed me. "Get off your feet. It doesn't matter where."
I plopped into the booth nearest me. "That's it? We win?"
Ally, a part-time waitress and good friend of my great aunt and her friends, grinned. "That's it. All you have to do now is face the wrath of Aunt Celia."
In unison, we both looked out through the diner's large window pane. A red-faced Celia was fast making a beeline for the door.
I knew I should feel embarrassed by racing through town like an eight-year-old on summer vacation but, in truth, I felt downright jubilant. I'd kept the faith, run the race, and secured banana pudding for the Sinful Ladies Society. Not bad for the new girl in town.
"Just remember, Celia's more bark than bite," Francine called from the cash register where she stood counting out cash. "Don't let her get to you."
Francine was right, Celia was all bark. It didn't take more than a few seconds of listening to her rant and rave for me to remember why I preferred cats to dogs. The yapping - how did people stand it?
Gertie approached our booth with both fists pumping the air. "Whoo hoo! Wait until old bossy-pants Madam ‘Never Gonna Be Mayor’ finds out we won." She drew to a stop beside the table and feigned shock at seeing Celia. "Oh, I didn't see you there, Celia. Have you come to praise Sinful's new champion?"
"Shut up, Gertie." Celia turned to look at Fortune and Aunt Ida Belle, who had just arrived. "Well, if it isn't a meeting of the Yankee minds. I tell you, I don't know what this world is coming to."
Aunt Ida Belle slid in the booth next to me. "Shove off, Celia."
Never one to mince words, my Aunt Ida Belle.
"Trust me, I don't want to spend a moment more in your company than I have to." She frowned at me. "Miss Prim & Proper, huh? Tearing through the streets of our town in your Sunday finest? For shame."
Gertie and Fortune slid into the opposite side of the booth. "Go away, Celia," Fortune said. "You've said your piece."
At Fortune's use of the word 'piece', Gertie howled with laughter.
Celia's face turned bright red. "I will have you know that I don't wear a hair piece. You two Yankees should go back where you came from, and you two Yankee lovers are a disgrace to southern womanhood." When no one took the bait, she turned to go, but then stopped. A smug expression replaced her look of indignation. "There's just one more thing." She reached into her pink faux-leather handbag and rustled around. "Gertie, I have your receipt for your unpaid parking tickets." She pulled out an envelope and slapped it in the middle of the table. "It was smart of you to pay up seeing as how you’ve decided to leave town."