Waking Up in Dixie Read Online Free Page A

minister’s study at St. Andrew’s Episcopal in Whittington.” Pause. “He just closed his eyes in church and didn’t open them again.” Pause. “No. He never drinks too much.” Mitt turned to ask Elizabeth, “What medications does he take?”
    “None. He’s healthy as a horse.” At least, he had been, till this happened.
    “None,” Mitt repeated, along with the rest. He scowled. “How should I know?” He immediately reconsidered. “No. No drug use. No pot, no cocaine, no nothing.” Pause. “Trust me, I’d know.”
    Everybody who knew Howell knew he’d never indulge in anything that might interfere with his iron control of his life. The sole exception to that was his doting affection for their daughter. He’d been wrapped around Patricia’s little finger from the moment she was born. But that was his only weakness. Except for the floozies, but they were just nameless sex objects, a fact that made the situation bearable.
    “All right,” Mitt said. “I’ll be waiting for them out front. But please, ask them to cut the siren before they get here. Church is just letting out, and he wouldn’t want a scene.” Mitt hung up. “They’re on their way. Ten minutes, tops. What can I do?”
    Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s breathing. His heart’s beating. He’s just not responding.” She laid her head to his chest, the most intimate contact they’d had in years. “It’s kind of fast, but it’s beating.”
    There had been many times when she’d dreamed about the compensations of genteel widowhood, especially since she’d been seeing P.J. She’d imagined what it would be like not to cater to Howe’s rigid habits; not to have his private peccadilloes hang over her, threatening her precious respectability. But now that she faced the possibility, panic pounced on her. “Howe,” she said, maintaining a calm exterior by sheer act of will, “you’re going to be all right. The paramedics are on the way. Hang on. Don’t leave me.” She shocked herself at how frightened she felt.
    Then her husband did something he hadn’t done in years: he laughed—a sharp, disjointed guffaw. One, loud, bizarre laugh, then silence.
    I died laughing
shot through Elizabeth’s mind, and the panic tightened, but Howe kept right on breathing, his eyes closed to tiny slits, with no movement beneath his lids. She shook him. “Howe?”
    Why would he laugh?
    He couldn’t be playing possum. Howe never, ever joked.
    The door to the study opened, but it was only the priest. “Sorry,” he said, hesitating. “I didn’t know anyone was—” Father Jim registered what was going on and became grave. “What’s happened? Heart attack? Have you called 911?”
    “Don’t know what’s the matter,” Mitt said. “I already called for an ambulance. They’re on their way.”
    The priest hastened over. “I know CPR. When did this happen?” he asked Elizabeth.
    “He just closed his eyes during the sermon and didn’t openthem again,” she explained. “Out cold, sitting up. But I don’t think he needs resuscitating.”
    “Good Lord,” the priest said. “I should have listened when my wife told me that sermon was lethal.” He wrung his hands. “Not that I wouldn’t be in good company. Saint Paul bored a man to death with his preaching once—guy fell out the window—but he was able to resurrect him.”
    What?
    Appalled, Elizabeth stared at him in consternation. “Joking? Are you joking?”
    Mitt made things worse by letting out a shocked chortle, then, “It’s like the one about the Episcopalian who died sitting up during the sermon, and the paramedics had to haul out fifteen people before they found the right one.”
    “Kindly do not talk about dying,” Elizabeth snapped. “Howell is right here, and we don’t know what’s the matter yet.”
    “Please forgive me,” the priest asked.
    Penitent, the two men exchanged rueful glances, then Mitt headed for the door. “I’ll go wait for the