Southern

“Sorry, Aunt Wilhelmina,” Aaron said. “I’m all butterfingers this morning.”

His aunt fumed. “I have to be at the spa in fifteen minutes. It’s all the way up in Beaufort.”

Maybe there wouldn’t be any traffic on the Hilton Head Expressway. Maybe everyone will have slept in late this morning. Maybe white southerners would vote for Obama. And maybe dogs could talk.

Thank goodness they couldn’t talk, Aaron thought, looking at the sly Bowzer. If he did, Aunt Wilhelmina would’ve learned a thing or two about what happened when she went to Switzerland. That damned dog had it in for him.

“Hurry up, Aaron. Lurlene will be waiting for me. She’s got the best facial creams even if she does sound like Scarlett O’Hara.”

Aaron fired up the Cadillac and crossed his fingers about the traffic.