Divine Evil

Saturday.”
    “A parade.” His face lit up. “With marching bands and pretty girls tossing batons?”
    “All that and more. It's the biggest event in town.” She nodded toward a house they passed where a woman was down on hands and knees, busily painting her porch. “Everybody spruces up and drags out their folding chairs. They'll put up a grandstand at the town square for the mayor and the councilmen and other dignitaries. We get school bands from all over the country, this year's Farm Queen, horses, the Little League.”
    “Whoopee,” Angie said and earned a poke in the ribs.
    “The Fire Department shines up the trucks or pumpers or whatever the hell they're called. We'll have balloons and concession stands. And,” she added, looking up at Jean-Paul, “majorettes.”
    “Majorettes,” he repeated with a sigh. “Do they wear those little white boots with tassels?”
    “You bet.”
    “Jean-Paul, we're supposed to go back on Thursday.”
    He smiled at his wife. “Another day or two, in the vast scheme of things, can hardly matter. In any case, I want to arrange for Clare's finished work to be shipped to the gallery. I'd like to oversee the packing myself.”
    “You want to drool over little white boots,” Angie muttered.
    He kissed the tip of her nose. “There is that as well.”
    They stopped, waiting for a light stream of traffic before crossing the street. Glancing down, Angie noted a bumper sticker on a pickup.
    GOD, GUNS, AND GUTS MADE AMERICA WHAT IT IS TODAY.
    Jesus, she thought, closing her eyes. What was she doing here?
    As they crossed, she listened with half an ear while Clare told Jean-Paul about past parades. If pressed, Angie would have to admit the town had a certain charm. If one was into country cute.
    She certainly wouldn't want to live here and wasn't even certain how much of a visit she could tolerate before the quiet and the slow pace drove her crazy, but Jean-Paul was obviously delighted.
    Of course, he didn't notice the stares, Angie mused. Though there were plenty of them. She doubted people were admiring her clothes or hair style. They sure as hellnoticed her skin. There was a secret and-she couldn't help herself-superior smile on her face when she followed Clare into Martha's Diner.
    There was music on the juke. What Angie always thought of as drunken cowboy songs. But the scents were as seductive as any Jewish deli in New York. Grilled onion, toasted bread, fat pickles, and some spicy soup. How bad could it be? Angie thought as Clare waved to a waitress and slid into a booth.
    “A cherry Coke,” Clare decided. “They still serve them here.” She passed her friends plastic-coated menus. “Please don't ask for the pasta of the day.”
    Angie flipped the menu open. “I wouldn't dream of it.” She scanned her options, tapping the menu with a long cerise-tipped finger. “Why don't we leave the verdict to you?”
    “Burgers all around, then.”
    Alice stopped by the table, pad in hand, and did her best not to stare at the two people seated across from Clare. They looked as out of place in the diner as exotic birds, the man with his long, curling hair and big-sleeved shirt, the woman with her coffee-colored skin and light eyes.
    “Did you come in for lunch?” she asked.
    “Absolutely. Alice, these are my friends, the LeBeaus. Angie and Jean-Paul.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Alice said. The man smiled, putting her at ease. “You visiting from New York?”
    “For a few days.” Jean-Paul watched her eyes shift from him to his wife and back again. “Today Clare's giving us a tour of the town.”
    “I guess there's not a lot to see.”
    “I'm trying to talk them into staying on for the paradeSaturday.” Clare took out a cigarette, then pulled the metal ashtray in front of her.
    “Oh, well, it's a pretty good one. Not like that one Macy's has on Thanksgiving or anything, but it's pretty good.”
    “Alice was a majorette,” Clare told them and had the waitress flushing.
    “About a hundred years ago. Are you ready to order, or would you like some time?”
    “We're more than ready.” Clare ordered for the table, then watched Alice hurry off. “Look at the way she moves. I really want to capture the motion, the competence of it. In clay, I think.”
    “I'm surprised you haven't convinced your sheriff to pose.” Jean-Paul took out one of his slim black cigarettes.
    “I'm working up to it.”
    “I liked him.”
    She smiled and touched his hand. “I know. I'm