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accepted the cook, but didn't go out of their ways to be friendly. But I'd always kind of liked Lafayette
because he conducted what had to be a tough life with verve and grace.
I looked down at the cutting board. All the lemons had been quartered. All the limes had been sliced.
My hand was holding the knife, and it was wet with juices. I had done it without knowing it. In about
thirty seconds. I closed my eyes. My God.
When I opened them, Lafayette was staring from my face to my hands.
"Tell me I didn't just see that, girlfriend," he suggested.
"You didn't," I said. My voice was cool and level, I was surprised to note. "Excuse me, I got to put
these away." I put the fruit in separate containers in the big cooler behind the bar where Sam kept the
beer. When I shut the door, Sam was standing there, his arms crossed across his chest. He didn't look
happy.
"Are you all right?" he asked. His bright blue eyes scanned me up and down. "You do something to your
hair?" he said uncertainly.
I laughed. I realized that my guard had slid into place easily, that it didn't have to be a painful process.
"Been out in the sun," I said.
"What happened to your arm?"
I looked down at my right forearm. I'd covered the bite with a bandage.
"Dog bit me."
"Had it had its shots?"
"Sure."
I looked up at Sam, not too far, and it seemed to me his wiry, curly, red-blond hair snapped with
energy. It seemed to me I could hear his heart beating. I could feel his uncertainly, his desire. My body
responded instantly. I focused on his thin lips, and the rich smell of his aftershave filled my lungs. He
moved two inches closer. I could feel the breath going in and out of his lungs. I knew his penis was
stiffening.
Then Charlsie Tooten came in the front door and slammed it behind her. We both took a step away
from each other. Thank God for Charlsie, I thought. Plump, dumb, good-natured, and hardworking,
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Charlsie was a dream employee. Married to Ralph, her high school sweetheart, who worked at one of
the chicken processing plants, Charlsie had a girl in the eleventh grade and a married daughter. Charlsie
loved to work at the bar so she could get out and see people, and she had a knack for dealing with
drunks that got them out the door without a fight.
"Hi, you two!" she called cheerfully. Her dark brown hair (L'Oreal, Lafayette said) was pulled back
dramatically to hang from the crown of her head in a cascade of ringlets. Her blouse was spotless and the
pockets of her shorts gaped since the contents were too packed. Charlsie was wearing sheer black
support hose and Keds, and her artificial nails were a sort of burgundy red.
"That girl of mine is expecting. Just call me Grandma!" she said, and I could tell Charlsie was happy as a
clam. I gave her the expected hug, and Sam patted her on the shoulder. We were both glad to see her.
"When is the baby due?" I asked, and Charlsie was off and running. I didn't have to say anything for the
next five minutes. Then Arlene trailed in, makeup inexpertly covering the hickeys on her neck, and she
listened to everything all over again. Once my eyes met Sam's, and after a little moment, we looked away
simultaneously.
Then we began serving the lunchtime crowd, and the incident was over.
Most people didn't drink much at lunchtime, maybe a beer or a glass of wine. A hefty proportion just
had iced tea or water. The lunch crowd consisted of people who happened to be close to Merlotte's
when the lunch hour came, people who were regulars and thought of it naturally, and the local alcoholics
for whom their lunchtime drink was maybe the third or fourth. As I began to take orders, I remembered
my brother's plea.
I listened in all day, and it was grueling. I'd never spent the day listening; I'd never let my guard down for
so long. Maybe it wasn't as painful as it had been; maybe I felt cooler about what I was hearing. Sheriff
Bud Dearborn was sitting at a table with the mayor, my grandmother's friend Sterling Norris. Mr. Norris
patted me on the shoulder, standing up to do so, and I realized it was the first time I'd seen him since
Gran's funeral.
"How are you doing, Sookie?" he asked in a sympathetic voice. He was looking poorly, himself.
"Just great, Mr. Norris. Yourself?"
"I'm an old man, Sookie," he said with an uncertain smile. He didn't even wait for me to protest. "These
murders are wearing me down. We haven't had a murder in Bon Temps since Darryl Mayhew shot Sue
Mayhew. And there wasn't no mystery about that."
"That was ... what? Six years ago?" I asked the sheriff, just to keep standing there. Mr. Norris was
feeling so sad at seeing me because he was thinking my brother was going to be arrested for murder, for
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