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of hurt that comment inspired—the immature part of me wanted her to say If he’s related to that stupid ex-husband of yours, Harper, he must be a real ass.
    But no, BeverLee was off and running. “Christopher seemed real nice when we spoke on the telephone! Such good manners, and I think that says something about a man, don’t you, Jimmy, honeypot?”
    My father didn’t answer.
    “Dad? You got anything here?” I asked.
    My father glanced at me. “Willa’s an adult, Harper. She’s almost thirty.”
    “She married an ex-con and a gay man. Perhaps one might suggest that she’s not the best judge of character when it comes to men?” I said, trying to stay pleasant.
    “Oh, listen to you, Harper, sugar! Don’t you believe in true love?”
    “Actually, no, not in the sense you mean, BeverLee.”
    “Bless your heart, Harper, you don’t fool me. I bet your big ol’ Dennis has something to say on the matter of true love! You’re just fussing. I think you’re a secret romantic, that’s what I think. You just fake bein’ all cynical ’cause of that job of yours. So lavender’s fine, then? I’ll do your hair, of course. You know how I love to do hair.”
    There was really no point in talking to BeverLee. Or Dad, whose failure to have an opinion was a well-documented trait. “Lavender’s fine.” I sighed. Hopefully, Willa would see sense before then.
    “Should we all fly out together? Willard and her young man are getting out there a week from Wednesday, and your daddy and I, we want to get out there ay-sap! He’s just dyin’ to see his little Willard, aren’t you, Jimmy?”
    “Sure am.” That was probably true. Dad had always gotten on better with Willa than with me.
    “So we’ll make a reservation for you and Dennis, how’s that? We can all sit together, God willin’!”
    While technically I did love both my father and BeverLee, the idea of being trapped on a plane with them for five or six hours was as appealing as, oh, gosh…being locked in a sweatbox by al Qaeda. Plus, if things went well, I wouldn’t have to fly anywhere. “The wedding’s on a Saturday?” I asked. BeverLee nodded. “I think Dennis and I will probably fly out Thursday or Friday, then.”
    “Come on, Harper, honeybunch, it’s your baby sister!”
    “And I’ve been to two of her weddings already!” I said, smiling to soften the words. “I’ll come as soon as I can, how’s that? Now, I hate to be rude, but I have work to do,” I said, standing up.
    “Sure now, you are a grade-A workaholic! We get the hint! We don’t have to be told twice!” BeverLee hugged me against her breasts, which were the size and consistency of bowling balls, kissed me twice on the cheek, leaving a smear of frosty pink, fluffed my hair and managed to sneak in one last blast of Jhirmack. “Let’s grab us some lunch this week, okay? We can talk about all the details. Should we get a stripper for her bachelorette party? Do they have Chippendales out there in…where is it again?”
    “Glacier National Park, she said.”
    “I wonder if they have male strippers out there.” Bev pursed her lips thoughtfully.
    “I’m guessing not in the park itself,” I said. “Teddy Roosevelt would’ve frowned on that.”
    “Then I better get on it,” she said, and left, my father in tow, a miasmatic cloud of Cinnabar in her wake.
    Three seconds later, she was back. “Honey, now may not be the time to discuss, but sweetie, I need a favor.” She glanced furtively behind her. “Um… Okay.”
    “I need to unburden myself, shall we say, on someone.”
    “Sure.” I took a deep breath, assumed good listening posture and braced for the worst.
    The worst came. BeverLee wrung her hands, her acrylic, orange-painted nails flashing in the dimming light. “Your daddy and me…we haven’t had sex for quite some time. For seven weeks, in fact.”
    “Oh, God,” I said, flinching.
    “I’m just wonderin’, do y’all have any idea why?”
    I choked.