One More Knight

Chapter 1

June 4, 1977

Dear Diary,

This is so dumb, writing to a book like it was a real person, but Aunt Dobie gave it to me and she says that’s how you’re supposed to do, so I guess I have to. Not that anybody will ever know, since it’s supposed to be private, and it had better be.

Anyway, today is my sixteenth birthday, and I’m really tired of people asking me if I’ve ever been kissed, haha. Like I would tell them! Personally, unless it’s John Travolta or his twin, I’m not interested. Tonight Colin and Kelly Grace and I are going to see Saturday Night Fever again. I have seen it six times so far. I swear, I could see that movie sixty more times and never get tired of it. That John Travolta is just such a fox.

Aunt Dobie says I should write down some kind of thought for the day every day, so here it is: since there’s nobody in Mourning Spring that even comes close to looking like John T., I guess that means if I never get out of here I will go to my grave unkissed.

The sign caught Charly off guard, since it was half-obscured by creeping honeysuckle vines that had managed to elude the highway department’s mowers. She rounded a bend and there it was: Mourning Spring City Limit.

A quarter of a mile or so beyond that sign she came to another that said Scenic Overlook, with an arrow pointing to the right. She pulled her rented Ford Taurus into the paved, crescent-shaped parking area and turned off the engine. She had the place to herself; dogwood season was well past and it would be a long, muggy summer before the leaves turned again in the northern Alabama hills.

She didn’t get out of the car but sat for a few minutes and stared through the Taurus’s windshield at the mountains marching off toward Tennessee, a soft June mist draped like a feather boa across their shoulders, and at the town nestled in among the cow pastures and copses of oaks in the valley at their feet. She could count five church spires from where she sat.

She’d forgotten how beautiful it was.

“Oh, God, how I hate this place.” Those words she breathed aloud, gripping the steering wheel helplessly while her throat filled and the tears welled up and ran down her cheeks.

Godforsaken. She’d called it that once, hadn’t she? Oh, yes, she had, long ago, the day she’d left it-she’d thought-forever.

If there was one place on earth Charly Phelps had planned never to set foot in again, it was Mourning Spring, Alabama. And as far as she was concerned, the fact that she was here on this lovely June afternoon was all Mirabella Waskowitz’s fault. Last Christmas her best friend in all the world had lost her mind, not to mention any sense of taste whatsoever, and had gone and fallen in love with the redneck Georgia trucker who’d delivered her baby on a snowbound Texas interstate. So now, if Charly wanted to be her best friend’s maid of honor and godmother to that sweet little Amy Jo-and she did, in the worst way-men there was just no getting around it; she had to come back to the South. She wasn’t about to call it home.

Only thing was, Mirabella’s wedding was in Georgia, and a whole week off at that. Charly couldn’t as easily explain what had possessed her to book her flight to Atlanta a week early without telling anyone, then rent a car and go driving off west to Alabama.

But then, Charly didn’t believe in explaining herself to anybody. Even herself. She’d sworn off that a long time ago.

She sat up straight, wiping her cheeks and checking her eyes and nose in the rearview mirror for telltale signs of her momentary lapse of control. Then she took a deep breath, turned the key in the ignition and pulled slowly out of the scenic overlook and onto the winding highway that, sure as God made little green apples, was going to return her to the town she’d run away from more than twenty years before. Call it Fate, or call it lunacy…she was going back to Mourning Spring.

“Are you sure?” Mirabella was asking for the third or fourth time. “I think we should go over it once more just to be on the safe side. Now, I want to make absolutely sure the ceiling fan switch and the lights are on that side of the cabinet. The intercom-”

“Marybell, honey.” Jimmy Joe’s patient drawl drifted up the stairs. “Come on, now, and leave the man alone. Twenty years in the navy, I think he probably knows how to follow orders.”

“I am not ordering,” said Mirabella.

Up on the ladder, her soon-to-be brother-in-law watched in silent appreciation as she bristled the way only a drop-dead-gorgeous redheaded woman can get away with doing.

“I’m just trying to make it clear, that’s all. After all, we’re not going to be here if he has any questions. I want to be sure-”

Troy grinned and touched his temple in a mocking salute. “Yes, ma‘am, and you can be. Swear t’ God, it’s all up here, and clear as a bell. You two just go on along, have fun in Atlanta, now, y‘hear? By the time you get home Sunday night, it’s gonna be all taken care of. Nothin’ to worry about.’

Mirabella had her hands on her hips and was staring up at him, giving him the look that always reminded him of a little cock robin. He watched it melt into a smile that would have just about knocked him off that ladder if it hadn’t been on the face of the woman who was about to make his baby brother the happiest man on earth.

“Troy, you are a lifesaver to be doing this. With the wedding only a week away, and Charly coming, I just have to get this nursery project finished. I cannot believe that contractor, flaking on me like that. Gets it halfway finished and just…disappears!’

“Well, now, you know, these things happen,” said Troy soothingly. Especially, he admitted to himself, in the South.

“Not to me,” snapped Mirabella, getting that feisty-robin look again.

Jimmy Joe appeared in the doorway with Amy Jo’s carrier seat in one hand and a suitcase in the other, and kind of a harassed look on his face. The look seemed to melt away the moment he set eyes on Mirabella, however, to be replaced by something that could only be described as a glow. It was a phenomenon Troy had observed before, and in a strange way, was beginning to envy.

“Hon, we need to be goin’. J.J.’s out in the car, and Mama’s waitin’ on us over at the house. We don’t want to be hittin’ Atlanta at rush hour.”

“Coming…” Troy noticed that Mirabella’s voice, which was normally California crisp and sort of bossy, had gone all husky and breathless, and that the smile she turned on Jimmy Joe was different from the one she’d dazzled him with. Softer, kind of misty. Then her gaze dropped to the carrier seat where her baby girl, having just recently found out what a terrific source of amusement a tongue could be, was raspberrying merrily away in a puddle of drool. The look on Mirabella’s face was a lot like the glow that had just lit up Jimmy Joe’s. It was almost embarrassing, Troy thought, watching those three together, as if he was intruding on something intensely private, some rare intimacy he could never share.

He waved them off with the screwdriver he was holding. “Go on-get! I never will get this job done if you keep standing around here jawin’ at me. Get out of here, y’all-have a good time. And don’t forget to write.”

Jimmy Joe chuckled and gave him a nod rather than a wave, since his hands were full, as he herded his bride-to-be out of the room. Troy could hear her hollering all the way down the stairs.

“…and we’ll call you with the number where we can be reached as soon as we get to the hotel. Oh, there’s plenty of that chicken left for salad or sandwiches, if you get hungry. Call if you have any questions…”

Troy waited where he was, shaking his head and laughing to himself, until he heard the front door, and a minute or two later the slamming of three car doors, one after the other. Then he put down the screwdriver and climbed off the ladder and went down the stairs and onto the front porch, just in time to watch a silver Lexus pull out onto the main road, spittin’ gravel. He noticed that Mirabella was driving, which surprised him some even though it was her car. In Troy’s experience, professional drivers like his brother Jimmy Joe didn’t usually give up that ol’ wheel to an amateur if they could help it. But then, most drivers didn’t have to deal with Mirabella.

“Bubba,” he said to the chocolate Lab who was just coming up the steps onto the porch, wet and stinking of pond muck, “I do believe my baby brother’s got his hands full…what do you say, old boy? Huh? What do you think?”

Bubba, who at ninety-five pounds was still a puppy and hadn’t figured out yet where he left off and the rest of the world began, was weaving his way ecstatically around and between Troy’s legs and leaving them well smeared with whatever it was he’d just been wallowing in. In spite of that, Troy gave him a good roughhouse and hug, partly to fill the lonely, empty place that always seemed to open up inside him when he watched his brother and his woman and her baby together.

And sometimes for no reason at all. In fact, he’d been having that feeling a lot in the past six months or so, pretty much ever since he’d made the decision to retire from the navy. It seemed all his SEAL training and experience hadn’t done a whole lot to prepare him for what came after that.

“Whoo-ee, you stink,” he said to Bubba. And now, of course, so did he. He gave the dog one last rub and went in to wash himself off. He had a nursery to rewire, and he figured if he tried he could probably stretch the job out to take up the whole weekend. Might as well, he thought. He didn’t have anything better to do.

Charly drove slowly, trying to take in everything at once and at the same time watch where she was going-not that there was any traffic to worry about; that much hadn’t changed. She didn’t know which was the greater wonder to her-the things that were different or the things that, even after twenty years, were still exactly as she remembered them.

She noticed that there was now a great big new Winn-Dixie on the outskirts of town, on a spot where there’d been nothing but a whole bunch of trees half buried in kudzu and a curb market that used to sell fresh honey, peanuts boiled or roasted and peaches and tomatoes and watermelons in their proper season. And praise the Lord, fast food had found its way to Mourning Spring! Both a Burger King and a KFC appeared to be flourishing, cunningly planted as they were, across the street from the high school.

But there was B.B.’s Barn, better known in Charly’s day as the Beer and Boogie, just as tacky as ever, still standing alone at the edge of town like the village outcast, with only the equally trashy Mourning-or Moanin’, as it was locally pronounced, with an implied snicker-Springs Motel across the road for company. And the big old redbrick and white frame Victorian houses on Main Street looked just the same, although Charly noticed that a few now had quaint, handcrafty signs like The Good Mourning Bed And Breakfast, and Mourning Glory Inn planted in beds of geraniums on their front lawns.

The butterflies in her stomach didn’t start in earnest, though, until she drove onto the courthouse square. It was still as pretty and quaint as she remembered, like something Norman Rockwell might paint, shaded by big old oak trees, with the white bandstand in the middle looking like something that belonged on the top of a wedding cake. And yes, there was still the blatantly phallic Confederate Memorial, rising out of the flower beds at the far end. And judging from the petunias and day lilies and the baskets of impatiens and ferns cascading from every light pole and street sign, the town’s two rival garden clubs were still trying hard to out-green-thumb one another.

Charly considered that pretty amazing. She’d have thought surely most of the old biddies would have died off by now.

Twice she drove past the redbrick courthouse with its imposing white columns, her heart pounding. Would he be there now? she wondered. It was after hours, but he’d often worked late in his office behind the second-floor courtroom, the one with the window that looked out toward the mountains, not down on the square. In the winter when the leaves were off the trees and the darkness came early, she’d been able to look out her own bedroom window and see the light shining in his.

Naw, she told herself, taking a deep, restorative breath. He wouldn’t be there. For all she knew, he might even have retired by now.

On her second pass around the square, Charly aimed the Taurus into one of the head-in parking places that faced the park and turned off the engine. Her palms were sweaty and her mouth was dry, and she had an idea that when she tried standing on them, her legs were going to be wobbly.

She was having major second thoughts about this whole thing. She’d been truly crazy to come. It was a bad idea. Foolish, at least.

But she’d done it, she was here and how was she going to face herself in the mirror if she didn’t go through with it now? It simply wasn’t in her to turn around and drive away without doing what she’d come here to do. Not after all this. She’d come too far, and not just in miles. She had to finish it. She owed herself that much… the closure, at least.

But before she faced him, she had to settle her emotions down. She was going to have to be calm, cool and adult about this. She couldn’t let him sense her vulnerability. She knew him. If she did, he’d go straight for the jugular.

Charly got out of the car and locked it after her-a habit born of living her entire adult life in L.A.-and then stood for a moment gazing in bemusement at the restaurant on the corner across the street. The sign above it still said Coffee Shop, in the same two-foot-high red plastic letters she remembered from twenty years ago. But in her day the smaller, hand-painted sign hanging in the big front window had said Dottie’s Diner. Now, in the identical style, it said Kelly’s Kitchen instead.

No way, Charly thought. Could it be? Emotions were tumbling around inside her like old gym shoes in a clothes dryer.

Finally, smiling for the first time since she’d passed that city-limits sign, she crossed the street to the restaurant, pushed the door open and went in.

For a moment or two the sense of déjà vu was so overpowering she felt light-headed. There was the same black-and-white linoleum set in squares, like a checkerboard, and the same Formica-and-chrome tables and counter, the same red plastic seats. Four teenagers-two couples-were crowded into a booth toward the back, boisterously socializing, ignoring an Elton John song playing on the jukebox. In the alcove off to the right near the rest rooms, another teenager was punching and pinging away at a video game. In Charly’s day it had been a pinball machine, but everything else was just as she remembered it, including the fact that in spite of the ceiling fans whirling drunkenly overhead, the air was too warm, and heavy with the smell of frying grease.

Behind the counter a pretty woman with poufy blond hair was busy stocking the glass pie cabinet. When she heard Charly come in she turned half around, her face already lit up with an automatic smile of welcome, and sang out, “Hey, there! You just go on and have a seat, hon, and I’ll be with you in a sec, okay?”

What happened then made Charly feel as if aliens had taken over her body. All of a sudden she felt herself scrunch down and lean over to one side, as if she were trying to see out from behind an invisible obstacle. Those aliens must have taken over her voice, too, because when she spoke it seemed to have gotten a lot louder and higher pitched than her normal adult speaking voice, with a stronger Alabama accent than she’d heard coming out of her own mouth in almost twenty years. “Kelly? Kelly Grace, is that you?”

At that, the blond woman sort of scrunched down herself, and stared at Charly for a second or two. Suddenly her mouth fell open, and she pressed both hands to her chest and gasped, “Oh, my Lawd, I don’t believe it!”

She advanced on Charly with open arms, at the same time cutting loose with a blood-curdling squeal that would have prompted anyone within earshot to immediately dial 911 anywhere in the world, that is, except in the South, where they’re used to that sort of carrying on. It was, in fact, completely ignored by the teenage couples in the back booth and the boy playing video games three feet away.

“Charlene Elizabeth Phelps, is that really you? Oh, my stars, I swear I’m gon’ die. You just come here an’ let me look at you-why, you haven’t changed a bit, not one little bit. Where in the world have you been all these years? Oh, God-my poor heart’s just goin’ like a freight train. Why didn’t you evah write? Oh-oh my, I b’lieve I’m just gon’ have to sit down ’fore I fall down. Charlene Phelps, I swear I could just kill you…”

Although this was all delivered with the accompaniment of laughter, tears and hugs and at a decibel level rivaling that of a factory whistle, and was certainly all the welcome any prodigal son-or daughter-could have asked for and more, Charly didn’t let it go to her head. Since Kelly Grace had been her best friend all those years ago and was prone to emotional outbursts even then, it was pretty much what she’d expected.

“It’s Charly now,” she said when she could get a word in edgewise. “I’m sorry I didn’t write…” Well. okay, she couldn’t help but be a little choked up.

Kelly Grace waved that away as if it were just an old fly making a nuisance of itself. “Oh, hey, don’t you say a thing, not a thing. I know how it is, I really do-I’m terrible about that myself. But you coulda let me know you were comin’!”

“Well,” Charly mumbled, “it was kind of on the spur of the moment.”

Kelly Grace wiped her own hands on her apron and grabbed for Charly’s. “Well, you just tell me all about everything, this minute. Charly, you say? Oh, that’s cute, I really do like that-but you know I am never goin’ be able to call you anything but Charlene. Come on over here and sit. Are you hungry? Can I get you something to drink? How ’bout some sweet tea? Oh, Lord-you used to like cherry Cokes, remember? Do you still drink those things?”

“Maybe if you put a little bourbon in it,” Charly said, not entirely facetiously.

Kelly Grace laughed and fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, my, you haven’t changed a bit.” She cocked her head sideways and studied Charly with the frankly critical appraisal permitted lifelong friends. “But look at you, there’s not a gray hair on your head!”

“And never will be,” declared Charly, “while there’s breath left in my body.”

Kelly Grace laughed some more. “Well, now, I hear that. Let’s hear it for Clairol. No, but I swear, you look just the same as you did back in high school.”

“So do you,” Charly lied as she slid into a booth.

“Go on, I do not. I’ve put on at least twenty pounds since the divorce-”

“Oh, Kelly, I’m sorry.”

“Well, yeah, me too. It’s been a while, now, though. I’m okay with it-things work out for the best, you know?”

“Did you and…?” Charly made a rotating motion with her hand.

“Bobby Hanratty,” Kelly Grace filled in for her, leaning against the opposite bench with her arms folded across her plump waist. Her smile, the dimples, were the ones Charly remembered. It was her eyes that were older-reminiscent and a little sad. She shrugged. “Yeah…you know how it was. We got married right after we graduated. Probably shouldn’t have-we were real young and stupid. Had our babies right away, too…” Her eyes suddenly darkened, and she caught herself and blurted, “Oh, God, Charlene, I’m just so sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Charly grimaced. “Jeez, Kelly Grace, it’s okay. It was years and years ago.” She put a bright smile on her face. “So, you have kids? What kind, how many, tell me all about it.”

It was the right thing to say. Kelly Grace was all sparkles and dimples again. “Oh, yeah, got two, one of each. Well, good Lord, they’re all grown up by now, though-Bobby Jr.’s graduatin’ next week, and Sara Louise is a year behind him.”

“No way!”

“I know, doesn’t seem possible, does it? Seems like it was just yesterday you and me were in high school, and it was me and Bobby and you and…oh, Lord, there I go again. Charlene, I’m just so sorry, I should keep my big mouth-”

“Hey, I told you, it’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Yeah…” Kelly Grace’s eyes rested on her, a slight frown making wrinkles appear in all the places Charly had recently begun to study minutely in her own mirror. This is too weird, she thought. How can my best friend have wrinkles? The last time I saw her we were sixteen. Sixteen.

“How ‘bout you?” Kelly Grace asked hesitantly, obviously still feeling uneasy about it. “What all have you been doin’ with yourself? Did you ever…you know?”

“Get married? Have kids?” That, of course, was the biggy. The ol’ sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “Nope,” said Charly cheerfully, “not yet. Guess I just haven’t had time.”

With that out of the way, Kelly Grace relaxed and settled herself like a nesting hen into the opposite side of the booth, from whence she resumed her artillery barrage of less important questions. “So, what have you been up to? Where’ve you been? Hey, did you ever get to California? I remember you were always talkin’ about goin’ out there.”

“I did.” Charly nodded, her head going up and down like one of those tacky little doggies people used to put in their car windows. “That’s where I live now. I’m an attorney, actually.”

“No way! Get out! You are not!”

“It’s true. I’m a lawyer,” Charly said, her own laughter feeling like rocks rattling inside her chest. “Swear to God: Who’d a’ thought, huh?”

“A lawyer! Oh, my God, the judge musta had a cow when he heard that!”

The laughter died. Charly rested her elbows on the tabletop and pressed interwoven fingers to her lips. After a moment she cleared her throat and said, “He doesn’t know.”

There was absolute silence. Then Kelly Grace leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, “You mean you haven’t…”

“Nope.” Charly shook her head. “Haven’t seen him, haven’t spoken to him. Not in twenty years.”

Kelly Grace’s eyes went wide. “Then you don’t-” She cut herself off and clamped her lips together, while her gaze slipped away and down.

Charly tried laughing it off. “Hey, give me a break, I just got into town. You’re the first person I’ve seen, much less talked to.”

“But you’re going to, right? I mean, well, for heaven’s sake, you are goin’ to go see him, aren’t you?”

“I guess I’m gonna have to,” Charly said dryly. “I’m sure the news will get to him that I’m here.” And probably already had, she thought as the door gave its warning ding, and she glanced around nervously to see who had just come in. A couple of teenagers, nobody she’d know. She shook back her hair, making a conscious effort to unclasp her hands and relax her shoulders. “Actually I was driving around the square trying to get my courage up, and I saw the sign. I wondered if that was you, and I just thought I’d stop in for a minute, say ‘Hey,’ you know, maybe give my nerves a chance to settle a little… Damn, Kelly Grace,” she burst out, “this isn’t gonna be easy!”

Kelly Grace shifted in uneasy sympathy. “I guess not.”

“Hey,” said Charly brightly, “I don’t suppose you’d happen to have a bottle of Black Jack tucked away someplace?”

Kelly Grace put a hand over her eyes and groaned. “Oh, Lord, does that bring back memories! Remember that Fourth of July… Lord, I thought I was gon’ die.”

So many memories, Charly thought. So many years. And maybe…not nearly enough. Because if it still seems like yesterday to me, and to her, then it probably does to everyone else, too.

“I should be going,” she said, covering an involuntary shiver as she slid out of the booth.

Kelly Grace followed, but when Charly glanced over at her, she saw that her friend had her hand clamped over her mouth and that above the hand her eyes were way too bright Somehow Charly knew that the brightness wasn’t laughter.

A new thought and a terrible fear clutched at her heart. She halted, touched Kelly Grace’s arm and said airlessly, “He’s okay, isn’t he? I mean, he didn’t…die or anything?” And tried to laugh, as if it were of no consequence to her one way or the other.

Kelly Grace blinked, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. “The judge? God, no. I guess there was some talk he was goin’ to retire a year or so ago, and I b’lieve he has cut back some. But…no, the judge is still-” she shrugged “-the judge.”

“And Aunt Dobie, is she…?”

“Aunt…you mean miz-” Once again she stopped herself. She swallowed, nodded, and her eyes slid away. “Oh, yeah, she’s still goin’ strong.”

“The Stewarts?” The word caught, and emerged in a croak.

Kelly Grace’s lips twisted in a little half smile of sympathy. “No, hon, they’re gone. Mr. Stewart, he passed on a few years back, and Miz Stewart, she sold the old place and moved down to Mobile to be closer to her grandkids. Becky and Royal-the girls, remember them?-they’re both married and livin’ down there somewheres.”

They were at the door. Charly paused, looked over at the woman, now inexplicably middle-aged, who at the age of sixteen had been her best friend in all the world. Save one. She searched for something to say. But so many emotions were backed up inside her that she couldn’t say anything at all. Kelly Grace seemed to be having the same problem. She wiped away a tear, and they both laughed.

“It was so great seein’ you again.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Sniffling, Kelly Grace said, “Charlene, you come on back here later on, now, y‘hear? After you’ve been to see him. We have catchin’ up to do. You just have to meet my kids… come up and see Mama…”

Charly tried clearing her throat, but the ache there obviously meant to stay awhile. “Oh, Kelly, I wish I could, but I can’t. I have to get back to Atlanta. I just came to…” She made the mistake of looking at Kelly Grace’s face again. She turned away, saying tightly, “You know people in this town aren’t going to be exactly thrilled to see me back. I doubt that’s changed, even after all this time.”

“My Lord, it’s been twenty years!”

Charly drew a breath and let it out in a snort of ironic laughter. “Kelly Grace, fifty years wouldn’t be enough. You haven’t forgotten anything that happened, have you? Don’t kid yourself-neither has anybody else.”

It had been a good many years since Charly Phelps had made a fool of herself in a public place, and here she was, not thirty minutes back in Mourning Spring and trembling on the brink of doing just that. I’ve got to get out of this town, she thought. Do it, get it over with and get out of here. God, I hate this place.

“I’ll stop and see you before I go,” she finally promised, desperate to escape. She gave Kelly Grace a quick hug and pushed her way through the door.

Looking neither right nor left, she hurried across the street. She unlocked the Taurus, got in, started it up, backed out of the parking space and drove off, all without allowing herself to think even once about what she was about to do. She’d conquered skydiving pretty much the same way, come to think of it. And if I did that, she told herself, teeth clenched with determination, I can do anything. I can do this. I can.

Her courage thus bolstered, her resolve fortified, she turned off the courthouse square and onto Hill Street, so named for the residential neighborhood in which it dead-ended. The Hill wasn’t much of a hill, as hills go, but it did lend a kind of exclusivity to the cluster of mansions dating back at least to Reconstruction. A few were even said to have actually survived the Yankee invasion. All the homes on the Hill had the same quiet, if rather stuffy elegance, surrounded by brick and wrought iron and shaded by oaks so huge and old they arched over the street and met in the middle, turning it into a sun-dappled tunnel.

Her destination was the second house from the end, a redbrick Victorian monster with a white-columned portico and black shutters. She turned into the semicircular driveway, shut off the engine and sat for a moment, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon’s last sunlight where it slanted through the trees. The ache in her throat felt like a betrayal.

Oh, God, I hate this place.

She opened the car door and stepped out, then closed it carefully behind her. Had she ever done anything more difficult?

Oh, yes, once. Twenty years ago.

But this was only one step…still so many more to go.

Her heart pounded and her breath came in soft, quick snatches as she mounted the steps between two concrete urns filled with bright red impatiens and yellow day lilies. She crossed the wood plank porch where white wicker armchairs and rockers sat empty, reminiscent of long, hot summer evenings, tall glasses of cold, sweet tea, and lightnin’ bugs blinking on and off in the twilight.

On the doormat she paused, looked down, and from a habit she’d thought long forgotten, carefully wiped her feet. She wiped her hands on the sides of her expensive gray gabardine slacks, wrinkled and creased now from the flight and the long drive from Atlanta. Then she took a deep breath, held it and firmly pressed the doorbell. She could hear the old-fashioned chimes go echoing through the great, high-ceilinged rooms. She bowed her head and waited, counting her own heartbeats.

The door opened without warning, thrown wide to frame the figure of the woman who stood there. She was as straight and regal as in Charly’s memory, though she seemed perhaps a little smaller. Her close-cropped hair, once pepper black with only the lightest sprinkle of salt, was snowy white now, but her mahogany skin was still without a wrinkle, stretched taut over the bones of a face that might have graced the walls of an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb.

Her deep-set eyes seemed equally ancient in that eternally young face, missing nothing. They skewered Charly where she stood, narrowed, then went wide with shock. She lifted her hands, sucked in air and whispered, “Oh, my sweet Jesus…”

It was in no way a blasphemy, but a heartfelt prayer.