chortled Myra Faye Hayes, the algebra teacher. “That includes enchiladas and oysters.” A rousing chorus of laughter went up around the table in the teachers’ lounge. Dinah sat down and opened her container of tuna salad. “I can only assume,” she said dryly, “that you’re discussing Rucker McClure.” In the bright, crisp light of day, last night’s temptation seemed very removed from reality. Had she really had such a splendid time? Don Barkley, the shop teacher, nodded happily over his baloney sandwich. “He’s my kind a’ man. He wrote in that book of his, Loving a Dixie Gal, that the ideal woman is an excheerleader who majored in home ec at college. She has a beehive hairdo, and wears high heels at all times.” More laughter. Dinah’s lips flattened into a thin line. She popped the tab on her diet soft drink and frowned, not having heard this particular information about Rucker’s taste in women before. Yes, it was amazing what moonlight, fragrant autumn air, and expert masculine lips could do to her good sense.
