Amber By Night. Sharon Sala

thing about the job was putting on that little bit of red nothing three nights a week. It left little to the imagination and too much to the human eye. But the money she was saving was enough incentive to get past the embarrassment.

      She hummed to herself as she drove out of the residential area and onto Main Street. A short distance away she turned into the lot and parked beneath twin magnolias marking the spot where Cuspus Albert Marquiside had held off a band of marauding Yankees during The War.

      Sometime during the 1920s the Marquiside family had insisted on a brass marker to commemorate their illustrious ancestor’s bravery. The marker had long since turned a sickly shade of green and the family name had all but died out. Rumor had it that they’d gone north during the Great Depression of the thirties, but no one in Tulip would believe it. After all, a true southerner would rather starve to death than go live with Yankees.

      Amelia grabbed her purse and her lunch and gave Cuspus Albert’s marker a friendly pat as she walked by. It was time for the day to begin.

      Tyler Savage turned off Main Street and headed down Magnolia Avenue toward the post office. His suntanned hands were strong and sure as he gripped the steering wheel of his pickup truck. Thanks to Raymond Earl’s timely assistance, he was now back in business and mentally calculating the amount of fertilizer he needed to pick up when he was forced to brake sharply and then stop.

      Ignoring the fact that she’d just jaywalked in the middle of a through street, Effie Dettenberg scurried in front of Tyler’s truck, glaring back only after reaching the safety of the curb. Well aware of his “bad boy” reputation and what some of the more staid members of Tulip’s society thought of him, he grinned and winked, then waved as he drove away, unaware that someone other than Effie was also watching him.

      Amelia stacked the books that she’d just removed from the book drop and tried not to stare at the man behind the wheel. She knew it wasn’t proper, but Tyler Dean Savage required more than a casual glance, and she was still thanking her luck that she’d escaped last night undetected.

      Still, he was six-plus feet of the most desirable hunk of man to ever come out of Tulip, Georgia. Straight black hair that was as unruly as his reputation; blue eyes that were constantly smiling, even when that sexy mouth was not. From the time she’d been old enough to notice, Tyler Savage and his bad-boy image had never been far from her dreams.

      She sighed. Why are all the good-looking ones such rakes? But there was no one to answer her question, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Men like Tyler Savage didn’t notice women like Amelia Beauchamp.

      She picked up the books, shifting them to a more comfortable position, and smiled at Effie Dettenberg as she gained safe footing on the sidewalk.

      “Morning, Miss Effie, you’re out early.”

      Effie plastered one wrinkled, bony hand across her shapeless breasts in high dismay as if she’d barely escaped the wrath of hell. “Did you see him?”

      “See who, Miss Effie?”

      “That Savage boy! He nearly ran me down! People like him shouldn’t be allowed to roam at will.” She cast a watery eye toward the disappearing brake lights of the red-and-white pickup truck and pursed her lips.

      Amelia tried not to smile. In her opinion, that boy, who was over thirty years old, was well into prime manhood.

      “Now, Miss Effie, I saw him slow down, and you know it.”

      Effie Dettenberg sniffed loudly. “Well! He still shouldn’t be allowed out with his reputation and all.” She lowered her voice and looked over her shoulder, just to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. “You know what they say about those Savages!”

      Amelia tried to ignore the lurch her heart took, but it was useless. Whatever they had to say about Tyler Savage was always of interest to her. “No ma’am, I can’t say as I do.”

      Effie’s voice was just above a whisper. “They say that his people were smugglers. And…” she took a deep breath and readjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses on the bridge of her beaky nose “…they also say that those same smugglers cohorted with Indians. That accounts for that devil-black hair and those sharp cheekbones. That’s what they say.”

      Amelia hid a smile behind her armful of books. “But Miss Effie, that was nearly two hundred years ago. He can’t be blamed for whatever his ancestors may or may not have done. Surely you have more Christian forgiveness in your soul than to hold that against him?”

      Effie fiddled with her handbag and stared back down the street, half expecting that man to come swooping down upon them and carry them away into the swamps. Effie Dettenberg had a vivid imagination.

      “Well, maybe not,” she muttered. “But there’s no denying that he’s a rounder. You mark my words, Amelia Beauchamp, stay away from men like him. He’s trouble with a capital T.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Amelia said and ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach. Unfortunately for her, he posed no threat. “Come inside the library, Miss Effie. I’ve just received one of those craft books that you like. It had the most darling crocheted shawl on the cover.”

      That changed the subject and got Effie off the streets, but it was another thing altogether to get Tyler off Amelia’s mind.

      The clock chimed six times in succession as Amelia fidgeted with her fork. She had less than three hours to get the aunts into bed and catch her ride to the nightclub with Raelene Stringer. Thoughtlessly scraping at the streak of chocolate left on her dessert plate, she winced as it screeched loudly into the silence of the room. The aunts would have a fit if they knew she was not only working in the same establishment with Tulip’s “loose woman,” but that she was riding back and forth to work with her, as well.

      Wilhemina frowned. “Amelia, don’t scrape your plate! Surely I’ve taught you better manners than that!”

      “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered, and sighed as her fork clattered against the Spode.

      A frown wrinkled the tissue-thin skin on Rosemary’s forehead. “Oh pooh, Willy, you fuss too much. It’s not good for the digestion. I read where people actually got ulcers from unpleasant meals.”

      Wilhemina gasped. “My meals are never unpleasant!”

      “I didn’t say your cooking was…I simply meant that sometimes you can be…”

      Amelia interrupted, anxious that a sisterly squabble not break out now and slow down their evening ritual. She was on a tight enough schedule as it was. “Never mind, you two.”

      The sisters glared at each other as Amelia jumped to her feet and began gathering the dirty china from the table. “I’ll do dishes. Why don’t you retire to the parlor and turn on the television. It’s nearly time for your favorite show.”

      Rosemary’s rosebud mouth puckered with anticipation, wrinkling the faded blush of her complexion. She clapped her hands and patted her Gibson-girl hairdo back into a semblance of order. “Goody! I just love the ‘Wheel.’ Maybe someday I’ll go to California and be on the show. That Pat Sajak has the nicest smile. He reminds me of…”

      Wilhemina frowned. “Don’t be absurd! That show is next to gambling and we don’t gamble. And…” She fixed her younger sister with a pointed stare. “California is a long way off. We’d have to fly…and we don’t fly.”

      “Of course we don’t,” Rosemary muttered, as she exited the dining room. “Only birds fly. I swear, Willy. I think you’re getting senile. I read the other day where…”

      Her sister’s jaw jutted dangerously. “I’m not senile…and you read too much.”

      Amelia sighed. Casting another nervous glance at the clock, she began stacking dishes with a vengeance as the sisters disappeared into the living room.

      A couple of hours later, she was fidgeting in her chair and trying not to watch the clock, wondering if they were ever going to go into their rooms. To her relief,