Maximum Security by Rose Connors

strides toward us on the brick walkway, perfect crimson lips smiling, every bit as impeccably turned out as she was yesterday. Today’s color scheme is different—slacks and heels dark brown, blouse an opalescent cream. And her hair is restyled, pulled back in a French braid. But the overall effect is exactly the same as yesterday’s. Long. Lithe. Lovely.

    “Marty,” she says, checking her watch as she nears us, “you’re right on time.”

    Had I not spent so much of my life with the Kydd during the past few years, I might have thought Louisa said I was “rat on tam.” But I know better; my Southern-speak is well honed now. Besides, I’m so happy to be addressed by my given name—as opposed to darlin’ or honey chil’ —I don’t much care what she said afterward.

    I return her smile, then pivot so I can direct her attention to the Kydd. No need, though. She’s way ahead of me, waiting for the introduction.

    “Louisa, I’d like you to meet Kevin Kydd, our associate. He’s going to be working with us.”

    She takes another step toward him and extends a manicured hand. “Mr. Kydd,” she says, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. And I am truly grateful for your assistance. I cannot thank you enough.”

    Mr. Kydd looks like he’s in the midst of a beatific vision. His expression is one the shepherds might have worn upon discovering the swaddled babe in the manger.

    “Oh, ma’am,” he responds, receiving Louisa’s hand as if it might shatter at the touch of a mere mortal, “the pleasure is all mine. And please do not thank me yet. I only hope my assistance will prove useful.”

    Maybe I’m imagining it, but both drawls seem to thicken when Louisa and the Kydd speak to each other. The two of them have developed an acute aversion to contractions too. And the Kydd seems to think Louisa’s hand is his to keep.

    “Please come in,” she says, turning in her high heels to retrace her steps to the front door. “I made tea.” She glances back at us over her shoulder and flashes her wide smile again. “Iced tea, y’all say in these parts. Sweet tea, we call it at home. Or unsweet tea, for some.”

    That’s the first y’all I’ve heard from Louisa Rawlings. At least it’s a contraction.

    She faces forward again and heads for the house. I fall into step behind her, but the Kydd doesn’t move. After a few paces I pause to look back at him. “Kydd,” I say quietly.

    He doesn’t seem to hear.

    “Kydd,” I repeat, a little louder this time.

    He blinks and shakes his head, as if he’s snapping out of a trance. His expression suggests he’s never seen me before.

    I hold his gaze and walk back to him, so our client won’t hear my words. Even at this distance, I don’t dare risk more than a stage whisper. “I don’t want to be bossy, Kydd, but I think you ought to close your mouth.”

    He steals a glance ahead, at Louisa, and swallows hard before he takes my suggestion.

    “Now come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get to work. After all, we’re rat on tam.”

     

    My teeth have grown fur. One sip of Louisa’s home brew did the trick. I don’t dare take a second. Calling it sweet tea is like saying there’s a pinch or two of salt in the Atlantic.

    The Kydd is already finished his and I wonder for a moment if I can get away with switching our glasses. Too late, though. Our hostess is pouring him another. “You were thirsty,” she says.

    He shakes his head as he watches her pour. “Not especially, but this is fine tea, Mrs. Rawlings. Mighty fine.”

    That settles it. The Kydd is definitely speaking a new dialect. He’s always had a distinct drawl, but he’s never sounded like a Ewing before. I expect he’ll swagger any minute now.

    “Please,” she says to him, “call me Louisa.”

    Either my eyes deceive me or my associate is blushing, right up to the rims of his sizable ears.

    Louisa sees it too. She smiles and hands him the refill. “I’m so glad you like