Gordon stirred. The dog was evil, but her late husband Emmett had loved him, so Sugar Beth felt duty-bound to keep him until she could find a new owner. So far, she hadn’t had any luck. It was hard to find a home for a basset with a major personality disorder.

The rain was coming down harder now, and if she hadn’t known where she was going, she might have passed the overgrown drive that lay on the other side of the tall, privacy hedge that formed the eastern boundary of Frenchman’s Bride. The gravel had washed away long ago, and the Volvo’s worn shocks protested the bumpy approach.

The carriage house looked shabbier than she remembered, but its mossy, whitewashed brick, twin gables, and steeply pitched roof still gave it a certain storybook charm. Built at the same time as Frenchman’s Bride, it had never held anything resembling a carriage, but her grandmother had considered the word garage common. Late in the 1950s, the place had been converted into a residence for Sugar Beth’s Aunt Tallulah. She’d lived there for the rest of her life, and when she’d died, the carriage house had been part of her legacy to Sugar Beth, truly a mark of the desperate, since Aunt Tallulah had never approved of her.

“I know you don’t mean to be vain and self-centered, Sugar Beth, bless your heart. I’m sure someday you’ll grow out of it.”

Tallulah believed she could insult her niece however she wanted as long as she blessed her heart while she was doing it.

Sugar Beth leaned across the seat and pushed open the door for Gordon. “Run away, will you?”

The dog disliked getting his paws wet, and the look he gave her indicated he expected to be carried inside.

“Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”