This is a love story, that is -- I think -- the most romantic thing I've written. It's about the nature of love: Who we love and why we love them. It's about betrayal and loss. It's about dignity and inner strength. Mostly it's about living with passion and loving life with all your heart.

Rochelle Hammond-Jones has returned to Charleston ostensibly to take care of her aging father. In fact, she's returning to the city of her birth to start over now that her kids are grown. The day she arrives, she meets Guinyard Tomlinson, her father's landlord. It is the beginning of the Spoleto music and dance festival. A week of dancing and romancing ensues, but the romancing doesn't stop at the end of the week.

Guinyard and Rochelle overcome enormous personal and family obstacles on their way to building a life together, but they persevere, and everyone -- including the magnificent city of Charleston -- is better for it.


Here's a sample:

Chapter 1

Daddy and I were sitting on the front porch drinking sweet tea with mint when a tall, stoop-shouldered man turned into the front walk and shuffled up the steps. He wore a felt hat. I had not seen a man wearing a hat like that in years; it looked old-fashioned but somehow elegant. His suit was well-made and well-cared for but very old. His hands were stuck deep in his pockets; I imagined he had them balled up into fists. He focused his gaze at a point on the ground about four inches in front of his toes. He struck me as one of the saddest people I had ever seen.

Daddy cleared his throat and said, “G.T., come over here and meet my daughter, Shelley. I told you she was coming to take care of me.”

The man stopped half-way across the porch. It seemed to me he was having difficulty forcing himself to look up and make eye contact with us. Eventually, he managed to rouse himself from whatever melancholy reminiscences that were haunting him. He looked up and smiled at Daddy. The smile did not reach his eyes, but it was very pleasant.

He walked over to us and greeted my father. Then he turned to me and took my hand in an old-fashioned gentlemanly gesture. He inclined his head and shoulders slightly in what could very easily have become a courtly bow. For a second I thought he was going to kiss the back of my hand.

Courtly is the right word. He was courtly, in the old-fashioned sense of someone with impeccable manners and class that revealed generations of breeding, old money that was all gone and a good education that never managed to translate into a living wage. He was perhaps only ten or fifteen years older than me, but he seemed much older.

I smiled and shook his hand daintily, “Rochelle Hammond-Jones. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tomlinson. Daddy speaks very highly of you. I hope you don't mind my staying in his apartment. If necessary we could pay a bit more rent to make up for the extra water and electric, at least until I can find an apartment nearby.”

He smiled and said simply, “Please call me Guinyard. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance.

“Finding an apartment could take you a while, Miss Rochelle. Every apartment that I know of in the historic district has a very long waiting list. In the meantime, you're welcome to stay here with Benny. He's always been a perfect tenant. Frankly, I've been afraid for a long time that he would move out because of the stairs. I'd rather have you move in with him, despite the extra water and electric, than to lose him as a tenant, and neighbor.”

“It would seem to me you could rent the apartment to someone else on your waiting list at a much higher rent.”

He nodded. “The next person on my list has offered to pay me twice what Benny pays.”

“I'm surprised you don't evict him,” I laughed.

Guinyard smiled; this time his smile was real and it lit his face. I noticed that he had beautiful aquamarine eyes. “Benny's lived here a long time. We're used to each other. I think Benny thinks of this house as his home, and I certainly think of him as a part of the household.

“Besides, I am too old and too set in my ways to break in a new tenant. Just as importantly,” he shrugged and looked almost playful just for a second, “in the fifteen years he has lived in this apartment, he has never once been late with the rent or paid me with a bad check. I don't know any other landlord in Charleston with a tenant who is so quiet and clean and who has such an impeccable credit history.”

I smiled at Guinyard, and then winked at Daddy, “Daddy's a peach! That's for sure.”

Daddy offered Guinyard a glass of tea, but he declined saying, “You two have lots of catching up to do. I don't want to butt in.”

Daddy poured him a glass anyway and said, “Don't be silly. You and I have tea every afternoon. If anything, Shelley is the one crashing the party,” he winked at me, “but I think we can learn to tolerate her, don't you?”

Guinyard accepted the glass of tea and raised it towards me, “I imagine we can.”

The men fell to chatting about the neighborhood goings-on in a familiar way that I could tell was their regular late-afternoon ritual. I leaned back in the glider, rocking absently and watching the tourists who meandered along the sidewalks of Bay Street. Horse-drawn carriages competed with cars for ownership of the street and the horses were winning. I found it to be something of a surreal experience, sitting there watching tourists snapping pictures of us. I wondered how many families would take home photos of the three of us sitting on the porch. I was tempted to fetch my camera and take my own retaliatory photos of the tourists.

I had not visited Charleston in many years. For most of the last two dozen years my father visited me in New York. My excuse for our failure to come to Charleston was that my family was very busy, what with with the kids having dance classes and sports practice nearly every night. The real reason we did not visit Charleston, at least in the beginning, was because my ex-husband hated the South and taught our children to despise it as well. As with so many other things in our relationship, I'd given in to him. A fat lot of good that did in the long run!

Sitting there soaking up the sounds, smells and aura of the city of my birth, I felt myself beginning to relax, shedding layers of anxiety I had built up around the prospect of coming back here alone after so many years. I hoped it would not be long before I was roaming the city as I had done as a youngster, discovering amazing and wonderful sights, smells and sounds on every corner.

I was uncertain how I would take to being the care-giver for my father, but I thought it might not be such a difficult transition. I loved him, as did virtually everyone else who had ever met him. He was not yet in need of constant care, so I would be free to roam at will for at least a part of every day. On the other hand, after so many years of separation, I rather looked forward to the opportunity to spend a lot of time with him.

Sitting there on the porch that afternoon, I realized that I might not be as alone in the task of caring for Daddy as I had feared. I was sitting in the shadows where people on the sidewalk couldn't see me. While Daddy and Guinyard talked, one by one the neighbors stopped to chat and to check in on their way home from work. It was very clear that the full-time residents of the Battery were a close-knit bunch. If I needed anything, I probably could turn in any direction and find neighbors who would be ready to pitch in and help. I don't know why that had not occurred to me before, other than the fact that I'd been away from the South too long.

The South was changing. It was becoming more like the rest of the country. It was becoming urban and industrialized. The towns and cities of the South were filling with WalMarts, which more or less fit in culturally, but also with chain restaurants and other “big box” stores that made them look like towns and cities everywhere else in America. Fortunately, thanks to the ossified and backward-looking tendencies of one of the last bastions of the Old South, Charleston was one of the last places to experience the changes.

The Historic District, with its rigid building codes and preservation-minded residents, was all but untouched by the New South that was rising all around it. Some of the residents' families had occupied the same homes for generations and they resisted virtually all change. They may not have been very welcoming to outsiders but they cared for their own. My father had become one of them, at least as much as was possible for someone whose family had not lived in Charleston for several generations.

Fifteen years before, my dad sold my mother's family home to her younger sister and moved into an apartment on the East Battery. The Hale House, where I was born, stood on the western side of Charleston, with a view of the Ashley River – from the second floor, anyway. It was a magnificent old antebellum mansion, but Daddy had always wanted to move to the East Battery with its fabulous views of Charleston Harbor.

When the apartment in the Beaulieu House on Bay Street came available, Daddy jumped at it. At the time, I told him I thought he was nuts. Indisputably, the house was beautiful, and the East Battery is the loveliest part of Charleston, but it was in the heart of the Historic District. The traffic congestion and parade of tourists were incessant. I couldn't believe he would give up my mother's family home in its quiet neighborhood that was off the beaten path for a rented apartment in someone else's house.

He did it anyway because he loved the East Battery and because he never listened to anybody else, anyhow.

It was apparent from the behavior of the folks who stopped to chat that afternoon, his new neighbors had come to love him as well. I was happy for him.

I was happy for me, too, because I was home. I was somewhat surprised to discover that it felt wonderful.

Guinyard went inside and came out a few minutes later, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. He handed one to my father and sat on the porch rail, warming the other glass in his palm. I loathed bourbon, but I resented the fact that it never occurred to the men to ask me if I wanted to join them in their toddies. My sentimental reverie about the joys of Southern life, was interrupted momentarily by a brief reality check regarding the patriarchal and, to an extent, misogynistic elements of Southern society.

I knew that, while the gentlemen were having their afternoon cocktails, I would be expected to hie my ass into the kitchen and rustle up some dinner. A part of me rebelled at the notion, but we “Girls Raised In The South” know our place. Despite my pique, I stood and announced my intention to start dinner. I invited Guinyard to join us. He inclined his shoulders and shook his head, “No, ma'am. Thank you for asking, though.”

I shook Guinyard's hand again and turned to Daddy, saying, “I'll call you when dinner's ready. If you want to come up earlier, call me. I'll come down and help you up the steps.”

Daddy snorted irritably, “I can still get up the stairs under my own power.”

I chose not to argue with him on my first day home, but I did virtually stomp up the stairs, slamming the door behind me. I hoped my stride and demeanor registered my displeasure. I heard the men chuckling behind me, which only irritated me more. Their laughter underscored the futility of my objections to such ingrained Southern folk-ways. I rattled around my father's tiny and virtually unused kitchen in an almost hopeless effort to put together an edible meal. Obviously, he ate most of his meals out. I decided the first order of business tomorrow would be a visit to the grocery story, and – by the looks of the pitiful collection of pans and dishes – to the kitchen gadget store as well.

I managed to find a piece of ham in the freezer to which I added a can of green beans (canned vegetables -- yuck). I cooked some rice and opened a can of black eyed peas. I wouldn't eat canned green beans, but I would eat canned peas in a pinch. I found a box of Jiffy cornbread mix, added an egg and water and popped it in the oven. Daddy walked into the kitchen just as the buzzer went off. He looked astonished. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make a meal out of the odd collection of crap in this kitchen.”

“It wasn't easy, and it won't be what you could even remotely call a 'good' meal, but it's food and you need to eat, so sit down and tuck in.”

He chuckled and sat down. “Your accent's coming back already.”

“It is not.”

“Is so.”

I laughed and decided to humor him. I could tell he was trying to get under my skin. I had spent years of determined effort ridding myself of my Low Country drawl. I couldn't believe it could begin to creep back into my speech so quickly. I admit I was a little alarmed at how readily that 'tuck in' comment came to my tongue. It was not an expression the average New Yorker would understand, much less use.

Daddy ate his dinner obediently if not precisely with enjoyment. I played with my peas and rice. After dinner, Daddy dozed in front of the TV for a little while, and then he went to bed before 8:30. I finished cleaning up the kitchen, straightened up the living room, and unpacked my suitcase. I finished by 9:30, but I was far from ready to go to bed.

It was a beautiful late spring night in Charleston. The summer humidity had not yet settled over the area for its three- or four-month period of suffocating misery. The scent of gardenia reminded me of the overpowering floral perfume my mother wore on special occasions. The traffic seemed slightly less snarled. Most of the horse-drawn carriages had quit for the night except for the few that offered “evening tours of America's most romantic city,” sometimes complete with champagne. I heard the occasional clopping of hooves as I puttered around in the kitchen. I decided to sit on the porch while I still could do so without being eaten alive by mosquitoes, no-see-ums, and the other nocturnal beasties that made sitting outside on summer evenings more trouble than it was worth.

I rummaged around in Daddy's liquor cabinet in search of a night-cap. He evidently really liked his bourbon, but not much else. After fumbling around a bit, I selected a very old and dusty bottle of Kalua. It wasn't what I would have preferred, but it was the best option I found. I poured three fingers in a glass, crept down the back stairs and slipped onto the porch. I headed for the glider where I had spent the better part of the afternoon, and was almost there when I realized it was already occupied. I jumped and gasped out loud.

A deep, low voice said, “It's okay, Miss Rochelle, it's just me. Please have a seat.”

I looked for someplace else to sit besides next to Guinyard, but then I realized he had quietly given up his seat in the glider and was sitting in the chaise Daddy occupied earlier that day. I sat on the glider and said, “Thank you. I didn't mean to run you from your seat.”

“It's quite alright. I like this seat, too, although I rarely sit in it anymore because it has sort of become Benny's chair.”

I sipped my drink. He took the glass from my hand and sniffed it. I felt rather than saw the nasty face he made. I giggled, “I take it you are not a fan of Kalua.”

“That would be an understatement. When it comes to hard liquor, if it wasn't made in Kentucky or Scotland, I won't drink it. I will drink wine with meals occasionally, particularly if I'm fortunate enough to be invited to an event where they are serving decent wine. Other than that, I stick to tea.”

“The sweeter the better, I'll bet.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, I am not much of a drinker, but after today, I felt the need for a belt or two.”

“You have had a long day. Are you sure you wouldn't like some decent bourbon?”

“No thanks. I reckon eventually I may have to develop a taste for it, since that's about all Daddy keeps on hand, but I'm not quite that desperate yet.”

He chuckled. We sat companionably in silence for a while. I noticed, with some surprise, the silence was not uncomfortable.

After a few sips, I abandoned the Kahlua and put the glass on the floor at my feet. Guinyard chuckled and asked, “Want some tea instead?”

“If it's no trouble.”

“I was just going to refill mine anyway.”

He went inside and came back a few minutes later with two frosty glasses of tea with fresh mint. I took a sip and giggled.

“What's so funny.”

“I lived in New York for a long time. I finally got used to drinking unsweetened tea. It's disgusting, but I guess you can get used to about anything. I've been back home less than a day and here I am drinking syrupy tea. I'm gonna get fat!”

Guinyard laughed, “It may not be as bad as you think. That tea is sweetened with 2/3 saccharine and 1/3 sugar. I have never been able to learn to drink it with all saccharine. It needs just a little real sugar for some reason, but over the years I've gradually increased the saccharine.”

I laughed, too, “Well, I guess that helps a bit. I'll still get fat, but it'll take longer.”

After a while, I said, “You spend a lot of time with my dad. I was very surprised that he invited me here to take care of him. I thought he was doing very well. How is he, really?”

He pondered a while before he answered, “Actually, I think he's doing pretty well. As you can tell, he's getting feeble. I wasn't kidding when I told you I was afraid he would move because of the stairs. I worry about him going up and down by himself. He can't see too well anymore. I finally convinced him to quit driving after he had that accident a couple of years ago. He doesn't share with me the details of his doctor visits, but I know he sees the doctor about once a month. His mind's still alert, and there's nothing wrong with his sense of humor. I think he'll thrive having you here.”

I was reassured. I had feared my father asked me to come back to Charleston to take care of him because he had some dire medical condition. I surmised that was still possible, but I believed that Guinyard would know if there was anything serious. His reassurance was comforting.

He interrupted my thoughts, “I think the main reason he invited you to come here was because he was worried about you. He said he thought you worked too hard. He thought once your youngest child was away at college, it would be a good time for you to make some changes in your life and maybe have some fun.”

“He told you that, did he?” I felt the skin on the back of my neck grow warm. I hated when people talked about me.

He chuckled, “Yes, he did. He also told me that you'd be really mad if you found he said that. So, in his defense, I have to tell you that was the one and only time he ever talked about your personal circumstances. He didn't tell me why he thought you needed a break or even what your occupation is. I'm telling you this so you don't clobber him for spilling your secrets to a stranger. He honestly didn't do that.”

I laughed and relaxed. “Thanks for clearing that up. However, I have to say, I don't think you qualify as a stranger. You're more like his best friend. I have the impression that virtually all of his contemporary buddies are gone.”

“Most of them are. There are two of the old fellers he still gets together with. Mr. George Birdsall lives a few blocks away. He and Benny get together almost every day. They walk along the Battery when the weather permits. They sit on one or the other porch when it's too hot or too cold to walk.

“The other man lives in a nursing home down on Edisto Island. Mr. George and Mr. Benny go to see him about once a month. Either Mr. George's daughter takes them or I do.

“A couple of times a year, Mr. Clyde-Earl Bertram comes to town for a visit. His daughter and her husband live in Richmond. They come down to visit a couple of times a year and they bring Mr. Clyde-Earl up to town with them. It is the high point of the year for all three of those old guys. Mr. Clyde-Earl is in a wheel chair and your dad and Mr. George take turns pushing him all over town.”

I laughed. “You should read my dad's descriptions of those outings. They are a hoot.”

“He writes you letters?”

I smiled,“My dad was a lawyer. He used a Dictaphone during his entire career. A couple of years ago, I bought him a computer and he started using e-mail. He couldn't type, so at first his letters were cryptic and almost indecipherable. Last year for Christmas I bought him software that allows him to dictate and the computer types the words. I have almost come to regret giving him that present. I created a monster! I receive long, long e-mails several times a day describing to the minutest detail every little experience of his life.” I paused and smiled to myself, then winked at Guinyard, saying, “I save and cherish every one of them.”

“How special!”

We were quiet for a while. Eventually he asked softly, “What are your plans?”

I thought about that and then I heard myself reply, “I don't have any.”

“You gonna make any?”

I paused again for a long time and then I smiled, “Not for a while. It's springtime in Charleston. For the first time in my life I don't have the responsibilities of either school or work or family. For the first time in decades, I do not have children at home who need me. Daddy needs me now, but he's still pretty independent and if I hover over him too much, I know it will make him mad. I plan to savor being home for a while. I plan to walk every inch of this city and reacquaint myself with my roots. I plan to take day trips to nearby places that I loved as a child. I want to visit the Ashely River plantations and wander through the gardens. I want to visit all the barrier islands and walk the beaches. I want to take the ferry to Ft. Sumter early on a summer morning. Most of all I want to walk the Battery at every hour of the day and reacquaint myself with the most lovely neighborhood I have ever known or can imagine.

“Eventually, I am sure I'll want to make some kind of permanent arrangements, but for now, my plan, if you can call it that, is to simply drift for a while.” I chuckled, “I need to recover from almost three decades of living in the North. I need to learn to slow down. I can't think of a better place to do that than in Charleston.”

He chuckled, too, “Actually, Charleston can be a busy place, but we're busy in the Southern way as opposed to the full-court-press busyness of Yankees.”

“Exactly. I need to relearn that.”

He nodded and added with enthusiasm. “You've come at at a perfect time! The Spoleto Festival is in full swing. You might start there.”

“I plan to. Daddy has tickets to some of the events. I understand that there are a lot of other things that go on during Spoleto which are not strictly part of the Festival, but which are also a lot of fun. I love music of all types and I am especially crazy about dance of any type from ballroom to out-there-experimental modern stuff.”

“Then you are in for the treat of your life, Miss Rochelle! The Spoleto Festival is a magical time. The only problem is that it is so crowded. A lot of the old-time locals sort of resent that.”

I laughed and said, “I seem to recall that a lot of the old-time locals have resented anything that brings Yankees to town since, oh, I guess along about early 1865.”

He leaned back and laughed out loud. “You would be right about that. Interesting that I never asked Benny this. Is your family an old Southern family?”

“My mother's family is. They were originally from up in the Piedmont. My grandaddy used to love to tell folks that his family had lived in that area since before the War ... the Revolutionary War, that is. Nobody ever believed him until one of the cousins did some genealogical research and found out it was true. My family backed the losing side in both the Civil War – er, I guess around here I'm supposed to call it the 'War of Northern Aggression' – and the Revolutionary War. Sad but true.”

He laughed. “Actually most of the people I know refer to that event as 'The Great Unpleasantness'.

“What about your dad? He talks a good game, but I have never figured him for having really deep Southern roots.”

“Oh, God, don't ever say that to him. You are very perceptive, however.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes and giggled, “I guess it's those ante-bellum genes of yours, or something, but you're correct. Daddy's family came to South Carolina when he was a baby. He was actually born in Rhode Island, but you did not hear that from me and don't ever say it out loud in front of him! I am not sure exactly what brought his family here. Grandpop set up practice as a doctor in Columbia.”

“I imagine there were some interesting conversations in your mother's house when she and Benny got together.”

“I suspect there probably were. There would have been a lot more resistance to that marriage except for one very significant factor.”

“Which was?”

“Daddy's family was loaded. The Hale family was one of those genteel old Southern families that lost their money in the Civil War, and were left with only a whole lot of beautiful land and way too much pride for their own good. Even when I was a kid, they were still playing the aristocratic role. My grandmother did a mean Blanche duBois when she wanted something. She objected virulently to Mama marrying a 'Yankee' (never mind he had lived in Columbia since he was a baby and had never been north of Asheville that he would have recalled) until about 10 seconds after she found out he was rich. Somehow that seemed to make it okay. Mama always said her mother spent the last years of her life trying to bag Daddy's father for herself.”

“Did she ever manage to do it?”

I shook my head and held out my fist with my thumb down. “Mama told me once that Grandpop couldn't stand her mother because he thought she was a leech. Mama admitted to me that she thought Grandpop was right about that.”

“Let me guess. Your mother's family hit your dad's family up for money to fix up the old home.”

“They probably tried, although I never heard stories about that. Actually, what happened was that after my mother's dad died, Mama and Daddy supported my grandmother for a few years while she traipsed around the state trying to land a rich husband. When she got too old for that, they put her in a very nice rest home here in Charleston and – you're suppose to gasp now –, they sold what was left of the family land in Orangeburg County.”

“'Gasp.'”

“They used part of the proceeds to buy a beach house on Edisto Island and the rest they put into a trust fund for me. They kept the Charleston house over by the Ashley River. I was born and grew up there.”

“Do you still have the beach house?”

“Oh, yes! I love that house. I love Edisto more than anyplace on earth, but I am very afraid I may have to end up selling it because property values have gone up so high the taxes are killing me.”

“I can only imagine. Have you been there lately?”

I sighed and shook my head. “I used to bring the kids down once a year for several weeks. The last time we visited was several years ago after a gap of a few years. The changes upset me so much, I spent most of my visit in the government offices raising hell. I haven't been back. The caretaker is getting old and wants to retire. I should go down there soon to look for someone else to take care of it. Failing that, I'll have to put it up for sale.”

“I hope it doesn't come to that.”

“You and me both! I should do that soon. Are Daddy and Mr. George due for a visit to their friend? Perhaps we could take a road trip.”

“That sounds like fun. You know, you don't have to include me.”

“I want to. I know how abominable Daddy is about directions. I have not driven to the island in a long time and I had no idea there was even a nursing home out there. We might get lost in the swamp if you don't come along to help us.”

I was tired of talking about myself. It was late and my curiosity got the better of my manners. I turned in the chair and faced him, “Now that I've told you my pedigree, please tell me about your family.”

He leaned back in his chair and laughed, this time his laughter was soft and gentle. “Checking out pedigrees is so uncouth but it is a hallowed Charleston tradition! Okay, here goes:

“My family is Old South on both sides. Not pre-Revolutionary like yours, but you are right, my genes are definitely ante-bellum. This house was my mother's family's winter home. It was built in 1837. Their plantation outside Columbia was destroyed by Sherman's troops, so the family moved to Charleston full-time. Daddy's family, on the other hand, was one of the old Charles Town families. They never owned a plantation. Before the War, they made their living shipping cotton. During the War, they amassed a fortune.”

“Blockade runners?!”

“Precisely. That being Charleston's cleaned-up term for smugglers. Mama always said that her granddaddy was the person on whom Margaret Mitchell based the character of Rhett Butler. There is some evidence that there may have been some truth to that story. Some people who know my mother believe that the 'evidence' was manufactured by someone in the family, quite possibly the old gal herself.” He paused long enough for both of us to savor fond memories of the marvelous old ladies of the South who lived in a past that was frequently a figment of their over-active imaginations.

“In any case, the Tomlinsons made quite literally boatloads of money during the War. Amazingly, they managed to hold onto most of it during the awful years that followed the War.

“Unfortunately, my father was afflicted with the gambling gene. He lost the entire family fortune before I was born. Mama's family fed us and paid the taxes so we didn't lose our house, but they would never give us any cash. That was wise of them because Daddy would have just pissed it away. After he died, Mama and I moved in here with her mother. This home is all that remains of the fortunes and heritage of two of Charleston's very oldest families. Like you, I am considering selling it because of the taxes and the immense cost of maintaining such an old money pit.”

I laid my hand on his arm and whispered, “How awful!” Without stopping to consider about how nosy and ill-mannered it would sound to him, I asked, “What do you do for a living?”

He chuckled, “I work for the Chamber of Commerce. I am a sort of dinosaur. I'm kind of the ambassador of the residents of the historic district to the City of Charleston.”

“Oh, my. You are an honest-to-God-for-real-Southern Gentleman.”

“Yeah. Pitiful as that sounds, I am.”

“I didn't mean it to sound pitiful.”

“Trust me: it is.”

I sighed, “Well, Mr. Chamber-of-Commerce Southern Gentleman, how do you recommend I go about getting rid of all the bad habits I've developed from living amongst Yankees for the last three decades so I can take up Southern Living again?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I figure since I live here now, I should re-adjust.”

“Personally, I think you'd do better to keep your Yankee-fied ways and not try to turn back the clock. The Old South died in the Civil War. The Reconstruction South died in the Sixties. The New South ain't nothin' like anything you've ever seen.”

“You sound resentful.”

“I try not to be. There are very, very few of my kind left. In the big scheme of things that is probably a good thing. The Old Families who have adjusted and learned to walk the line between cherishing their heritage and moving forward are thriving. The Old Families who cling to the past and refuse to face the real world are doomed. The South is filling up with Yankees who think that they have become Southerners simply because they moved to the South.”

I laughed. “How many generations does it take to become a true Southerner?”

“You know perfectly well that in these parts, ma'am, if you can't trace your genealogy back to before 1860, you are a Newcomer. If you can go back that far on both sides of your family, you get extra credit.”

“By that standard, sir, you are a thoroughbred. I suppose I qualify on the Hale side, but I will always be under suspicion due to my Yankee father, and even worse, my Yankee children. Right?”

“Exactly so.”

“I am sure that drives Daddy positively nuts. He loves Charleston more than anybody I've ever known.”

Guinyard nodded. “He does for a fact. That man knows the history of every building in this city. He knows the genealogy of every Charleston family. He knows just about everything there is to know about both the social and political past of this place. He's an absolute treasure. Despite the fact that he lived his whole life here and married into a prominent Old Family, he is still considered to be an outsider by some people. Fortunately, those people are in the minority.”

“I always had the impression that in Columbia the rules are a bit different. Even though Grandpop was a Yankee, I think his family was much more accepted in Columbia than Daddy was here.”

“That may be true. Columbia has its pockets of Confederate Crazies, too, but I don't think any place is as bad as Charleston. Charleston has never gotten past the Civil War. It has traded on its tragic past ever since.”

“Talk about 'Blanche duBois'!”

He laughed out loud and said, “Your dad and I developed a theory a few years ago – I think we were drunk at the time – that the cities of the South are like women. We chose female types from literature. Charleston is Blanche duBois. Atlanta is Scarlett O'Hara. Richmond is Melanie Hamilton. You get the idea.”

“What about New Orleans?”

“I have never considered N'Awlins to be really a Southern city. It is too cosmopolitan and diverse. You have to travel a good distance north from the bayou to reach 'the South' in Louisiana. That's another of your daddy's theories that I think is correct. He says a similar rule applies in Florida, by the way. In Florida 'the South' stops along a line that begins just south of St. Augustine and then dips to around Ocala in the central part of the state and ends just south of Apalachicola.”

“What lies south of that line?”

“Baja New Jersey.”

I could not stop laughing. “You and Daddy should write a book.”

“Actually I think your Daddy has been working on one for a while. That dictating software you gave him unleashed his creative juices or something.”

“That's awesome! I hope he lets me read it. ... Oh, my. It is late. Is Daddy still an early bird?”

“Oh, yeah. I hear him rummaging around at the crack of dawn every day.”

“I should turn in.”

He stood up and shook my hand. I noticed the intoxicating smell of gardenia wafting up from the yard. He went inside and I stood on the porch alone for a few minutes. I hated the thought of going to bed. I love the night. For me, the best hours of the day are the hours between midnight and sunrise. I sighed. I was living with a person who got up at sunrise and went to bed at sunset. That part would be a challenge to my vampirish ways.