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Miss Julia-that proper lady of a certain age with a backbone of iron and perfect steel magnolia poise, not to mention the sharpest tongue south of the Mason-Dixon Line-always likes to nip any little problems in the bud. Not this time. Miss Julia is increasingly concerned about her gentleman friend, Sam, who has suddenly started wearing cowboy boots, sending flowers, and writing bad poetry. When he shows up on a Harley-Davidson one day, she's convinced that he's lost his mind-or is at the very least wrestling with a particularly intense midlife crisis. Meanwhile, Miss Julia's invaluable housekeeper, Lillian, and all her neighbors have been evicted from their homes by their greedy landlord, who has bigger plans for the property. So off Miss Julia rides (in the sidecar, naturally)-wearing a Leslie Fay shirtwaist and a black-visored helmet-risking life and limb on a poker run, a motorcycle fund-raiser to save Lillian and her friends' home. Hitting a few bumps on the way, Miss Julia still manages to maintain the impeccable manners and irresistible charm that keep her readers coming back again and again.

Ann B. Ross, who taught literature at the University of North Carolina at Asheville, is the author of six novels, including the first three in this series: Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind, one of the most popular Reader's Digest Condensed Books of 1999 and one of Book Sense's Top Ten Recommended Books; Miss Julia Takes Over, which appeared on The New York Times Extended Bestseller list; and Miss Julia Throws a Wedding, which was a SEBA bestseller.

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Chapter 1Pushing through the swinging door from the dining room, I started talking before I got into the kitchen good. "Lillian, I need to ask you something, and I want a serious answer. What in the world is wrong with Sam Murdoch?" She turned away from the sink and squinched her eyes at me. "They's not one thing wrong with Mr. Sam. An' what I think, Miss Julia, is you ought not be pickin' on him." "Well, he's acting strange, if you ask me." She turned back to the sink, mumbling about not having heard anybody ask anybody. Lillian was bad to mumble under her breath whenever she disagreed with somebody, namely me. I didn't mind, though, since I'd been known to do a little mumbling myself on occasion. She'd been taking care of my house, my meals, and me for so long now that we pretty much knew what the other was thinking, whether we spoke up or not. And I knew she never liked hearing anything against Sam, which was why I hadn't brought up my concern about him before now. "Lillian, please," I said, "Would you just come sit down and help me with this?" "If you want these green beans for supper, you better let me finish stringin' 'em." "For goodness sakes, you can do it easier sitting down. Bring them over here and let me help you. "Maybe the first thing I ought to do," I went on, as she brought the plastic bag of beans and the bowl of snapped ones to the table, "is ask what's wrong with you. I declare, Lillian, neither you nor Sam have been yourselves lately." "I don't know nothin' 'bout Mr. Sam," she said, busying herself with spreading the morning's newspaper on the table. "He actin' like he always do, far's I can tell." "No, he's not. You just don't know the half of it." I took a handful of beans and began stringing them on the newspaper. "He's been sending flowers, for one thing. Well, you've seen them. They're all over the house." "That's 'cause he know you sad an' lonesome with Miss Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd gone to live with that Mr. Pickens. He know you miss 'em, an' he tryin' to cheer you up." "That's probably true." I nodded in agreement. "But one arrangement and one potted plant would've been a gracious plenty for any cheering up he wanted to do." I dropped snapped pieces into the bowl and reached for another handful of beans. "About the time one arrangement begins to wilt, here come two more. And the notes, Lillian, you just haven't seen those notes." "No'm, 'cause you won't let me." "No, and I'm not going to. Or anybody else, for that matter. Embarrassing is what they are." Lillian cut her eyes at me, then laughed in the old way, her gold tooth shining. It struck me that she'd done precious little laughing since Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd had packed most of their belongings and moved in with Mr. J. D. Pickens. Just to see if it'd work out, Hazel Marie'd said. Mr. Pickens was that private investigator I'd once hired, who set about winning Hazel Marie's heart without one word being said about making the situation legal. Except by me, who'd had plenty to say on the subject. Believe me, I won't ever employ a handsome man with a roving eye and an aversion to matrimony again. "What them notes say?" Lillian asked. She got up to turn down the heat under the pot where she'd put a chunk of streak-of-lean on to boil. "Never mind what they said. But you'd be worried about him, too, if you knew." I took a trembling breath, recalling some of the poetic passages that had accompanied the flowers, all in Sam's handwriting. "Then, Lillian, he calls me every day, just wanting to talk, he says. Now, you know how I hate talking on the telephone when nobody has anything to say. At all hours, too, as if some people aren't already in bed or busy with important matters." I stopped, then went on to tell it all. "And another thing. He drops by to see me without a by-your-leave or anything, just shows up right out of

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Miss Julia Hits the Road

Miss Julia Hits the Road

0670032077

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