The Sassy Belles. Beth Albright

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      My name is Blake O’Hara Heart and, boy, do I have a story to tell! It wouldn’t be such a story if Vivi, my best friend since forever, hadn’t done what she did. You have to understand that women in the South, women of Southern blood, just don’t partake in scandalous adventures—and when we do, it’s in a discreet manner. We have reputations to consider, after all. But since Vivi’s trouble became headline news, our lives became anything but discreet. I’m an attorney, and even I wasn’t sure I could get her out of this one.

      When I met Vivi in the third grade, we were silly nine-year-olds in ponytails and Catholic school uniforms. She was exciting and confident. I loved her immediately. I was new to St. Catherine’s, Tuscaloosa’s Catholic academy, and didn’t know a soul. Vivi made a beeline across the room, her pale and freckled arm outstretched. “Hi,” she said. “My name is Vivi Ann McFadden. I’ll take care of you today and make sure you don’t get lost. This is my fourth year here including kindergarten. So, I’m an expert.” I loved her self-assurance, outspokenness and all that crazy, wild red hair, which she was constantly pushing from her face.

      She took care of me that day, it’s true. But from eight o’clock the very next morning I have been taking care of her. I always want to protect her, but she makes that difficult. Her huge messes are almost always of her own making. Luckily for both of us, I’ve always known how to get her out of jail, so to speak. But this particular instance, on this particular day—well, let’s just say she must think I’m a miracle worker.

      See, the problem is, in Alabama, women are most definitely…women. Vivi—well, some would call her opinionated. Others would say, “Bless her heart, that girl is just a redneck!” That’s a little secret of the South: you can say awful and insulting things about anyone, and as long as you start with “Bless her heart” you’re not really gossiping. Like, “Bless her heart, that girl looks like a pregnant heifer in that dress.” See? That makes it look like we’re so sad for her, when you know we really think otherwise. Women from Alabama are strong—well, stubborn—and, above all, we are beautiful. There’s nothing in the world a little spackle and Aqua Net won’t fix. We are trained by way of the beauty pageant system. In the Deep South, pageants aren’t just fun, they’re a way of life. With the heavy doll makeup applied to perfection, the big hair jacked up to Jesus and the princess-cut, bedazzled gowns with full crinoline and sometimes even a hoop skirt underneath—we are brought up to walk the runway. And a proper Southern girl always has a strand of pearls around her neck. That way, if anyone ever needs to be strangled, we have the perfect tool. Just remove and use.

      But Vivi never quite fit into the fru fru of it all. Her frizzy, wiry Irish curls and endless sea of freckles made her a standout for all the wrong reasons. Her skin was so white she was almost blue. But I thought she was beautiful. She had a wonderfully infectious smile, straight, pearly white teeth, ruby-red lips that never needed lipstick and I thought her green eyes were just perfect. Vivi was a real Southern blue blood, too. She came from sugar cane. Really! An actual plantation was part of her family history. And that made what Vivi did seem like the end of the world. Someone from the “uppa crust” wouldn’t dare be involved in such activities. But Vivi wasn’t quite as “uppa crust” as the rest of her family. I mean, how could a blue blood be a redneck? That’s exactly what made me love her. She was different. Unexpected. Surprising. What she did was a surprise, all right, but not the kind you hope for on Christmas morning….

      Harry, my husband and my law partner, was in the lobby of the old Tutwiler Hotel when the news came. He was waiting to meet me. It was our tenth anniversary