In my bedroom, I turned on the radio, shrugged off my clothes, climbed into Jackson Ledbetter’s bed.
One of my all-time favorites, Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight,” floated out of the speakers of Jackson’s spiffy stereo.
His bed was comfy. Telling, but that’s how I thought of it: Jackson Ledbetter’s bed. It wasn’t my bed. He’d purchased it when he first moved here, along with a sofa, recliner, a kitchen table and chairs, a microwave, pots and pans, the whole kit and kaboodle. He’d come to Mississippi to start over, make a new life, “Try something new.”
Most everything in the apartment was his because, let’s face it, as a pediatric nurse with a real job, he had a real salary. Now, apparently, he had an inheritance to look forward to.
One of the uses to which he had put his charmed
