The next morning I walked Miss JP to White Point Gardens and back, or maybe I should say we went together and, pardon the pun, stretched our dogs. At home we shared scrambled eggs and toast on the terrace in the fragrant and cool morning air. A good long stroll and breakfast had become our new habit, weather permitting. And Miss JP was such a good listener.
“So, my little furry friend? What do you think I should do about Jonathan?”
She looked at me and turned her head to one side. She seemed to be waiting for me to tell her more, as though how could she offer a worthy opinion when she didn’t have enough facts?
“It’s kind of a mess, isn’t it? A woman my age running around with an old flame? Is that really ever going anywhere? Should I call my husband and see how he’s doing? No? You’re right. He’s probably at work, and we know he hates personal phone calls at work.”
My relationship with Miss JP was evolving quickly. She looked at me intently then and stood on her hind legs, her front paws landing in my lap as if to say, Well, I don’t think you have to report in to that son of a gun anymore!
I would have sworn that dog was smiling.
“Come on back inside with me,” I said. “It’s time to get dressed, and I think today I’m going to exhume Josephine Pinckney’s past!”
As Harlan suggested, I decided to knock on the door of the South Carolina Historical Society to see what they had in their collections that pertained to her life. I’d enjoyed Three O’Clock Dinner very much, but I wanted to put it in the context of her own life and time. All the things that were so shocking in her day—cross-dressing, lesbians, women smoking, infidelity—had become commonplace in mine. But I wondered, did she view them as commonplace in hers? She came of age in the Roaring Twenties, after all. But she was a founding member of the South Carolina Poetry Society. I couldn’t reconcile flappers reading Emily Dickinson. But the changing world around Jo Pinckney must have influenced her behavior because she wrote about infidelity with such authority. Harlan was right to say that she was a bit of a wild child, but I wanted to know it for myself.
Karen Stokes, the researcher who answered the door, was extremely cordial and invited me to come in and have a seat at a table in any room as though I was an old friend coming for a visit to her house. She said she would gladly bring me a box of Josephine’s letters.
“We only ask that you sign in here and pay a small fee . . .”
I was happy to comply.
“You have an interest in Josephine Pinckney?” she said.
“Yes, sort of. I’m actually staying in her house across the street.”
“At Harlan’s?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Oh! My goodness!” Karen said. “Well, we’re so happy to have you here! Harlan is just an amazing friend to the Historical Society.”
“Harlan is amazing period. He’s the greatest brother in the world.”
“I’ll bet. Wait! Look at your eyes! I see the family resemblance. Aren’t genes funny?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
She stopped and looked at me, probably thinking about some crazy relative she’d been forced to endure out of a sense of duty. One that should’ve been locked in the attic but that very same one insisted on sitting on the front porch. In her nightgown. Harlan and I had a few of those. Didn’t most families? Well, Charlestonians did—it was all that lead that lined the old cisterns that made our grandmother’s generation batty.
“Boy, are you ever right about that. Let’s get you settled.”
I took a seat in one of the two-hundred-year-old rooms that were filled, from the heart pine floors to the sky-high plastered ceilings, with historical reference books on the old oak bookshelves. Over the next few hours, I shuffled through her correspondence with Amy Lowell, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Alice B. Toklas. There were letters from Prentiss Taylor and Dorothy and DuBose Heyward and plenty of letters from her publishers over the years. But in terms of understanding who she was? I was getting nowhere. I got up to stretch, and Karen Stokes reappeared.
“Can I bring you another box?” she asked.
“No, I think I’m all done for today. I’m not really finding what I want.”
“Well, tell me what you’re looking for, and maybe I can zero in on something.”
“Well, you know Harlan. He’s consumed with all things historic, and he adores Josephine Pinckney.”
“I know. I’ve met his dog.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “She’s the best-dressed dog in Charleston!”
“I know. I’d kill for her pearls.” Then I giggled too. “Anyway, I’m trying to get a sense of who Jo Pinckney was, if she was satisfied with her success and why she sort of disappeared from the spotlight. I mean, I grew up here and never even heard of her.”
“Ah!” Karen said. “Okay. Look, if you’re not here to do scholarly research to produce some new learned opinion on Josephine Pinckney’s life, you should read Barbara Bellows’s biography. She actually did all the scholarly research. It took her years! It will tell you plenty! Stay right here. I’ll get you a copy.”
She slipped around the corner and came back with A Talent for Living. “Hold on to your hat,” she said, handing it to me. “Josephine had some life.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, we usually don’t do this, but you can borrow it if you like, since you’re Harlan’s sister and all. Besides, it’s a contemporary book and we have about a dozen copies.”
“Wow! Thanks! I’ll return it, I promise.”
“Oh, you don’t exactly look like a flight risk to me. Anyway, Ms. Bellows spent years researching Josephine Pinckney, and I’d say her book is definitely the quintessential book to read to get a good, clear picture of Pinckney’s life.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Yep. Twice.”
“So what do you think?”
“Well, I loved it.”
“This is probably a stupid question, but has Harlan read it?” I began to flip through the opening pages.
“Isn’t he thanked in the acknowledgments? I think she gave him his own paragraph. Toward the end?”
She took the book back from me and pointed to Harlan’s name.
“My brother! He’s something else, isn’t he?”
She agreed. I decided to go back home, walk Miss JP, make lunch for myself, and curl up somewhere comfortable to read the Bellows biography.
“Thank you so much,” I said to her at the door.
“Are you kidding? I’m so happy to have met you!”
I walked across the street and down the block feeling great. I’d been given a doorway into something and someone who mattered to Harlan, and I’d have the chance to form a reasonable opinion on Miss Pinckney without a dozen years of research. After all, I could be dead of natural causes at any minute.
To my surprise, when I came home and into the kitchen, there was a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper sitting on a plate. I had not made a sandwich. I did not use waxed paper. I unwrapped it and looked inside. It was sliced ham and lettuce on buttered white bread. Every hair on my body stood on end, and a current ran through me as though I accidentally touched a bad wire. There was no ham in the house. I never used butter with ham.
I ate it and it was delicious.
After lunch and a brief escape with Little Miss JP the hound, I settled upstairs on the third floor in the sitting room opposite my bedroom. After I’d skimmed about half the book, I came to realize I was reading about Josephine in the very room where she wrote all her novels. No wonder I kept getting chills. What an eerie feeling!
The house phone rang, shaking me out of my fog. I looked at the caller ID and saw it was Harlan. A relief, to be sure.
“Hey! How’s Rome?” I said.
“We’re in Florence today and, honey, it is too grand for words! I mean, we were just in the Basilica di Santa Croce, standing next to Galileo’s crypt. Can you believe?”
“Awesome!” I said.
“You know, the pope du jour thought he was a heretic and threw him in the clink.”
“Didn’t they think everyone was a heretic?”
“Practically! So how’s the house and my dog?”
“Perfecto! Guess what? I’m reading Barbara Bellows’s biography of the real JP.”
“And?”
“Well, her momma was a pain in the butt.”
“Camilla the Gorilla. That’s what they called her.”
“So you said. Well, wasn’t she just a little bit like our mother? Interfering in our love life every chance she had?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And she, like me, never finished her undergraduate degree.”
“Hmmm!”
“And she had one brother. Like me.”
“So are you channeling Josephine Pinckney? Are you her reincarnation?” Harlan laughed.
“No, but there’s definitely something weird going on in this house. Last night my nightgown was on my bed when I got home.”
“Oh, that’s just Victoria Rutledge. She puts out my PJs all the time. She was Miss Jo’s baby nurse who stayed with Jo forever.”
“Does she make ham and lettuce sandwiches on white bread with butter and wrap them up in waxed paper?”
“Yes! Oh my word! She must really like you, Leslie! It’s only when she decides she likes you that you get fed.”
“Great. Scare the liver out of me. Go ahead.”
“Eat the sandwich.”
“I did.”
“It’s totally harmless. In fact, I think it’s kind of nice. Anyway, that house was built in 1836. Only the good Lord knows how many people that house has seen. In the Lowcountry, you’re never alone! But you’re right. It’s haunted like all hell.”
“Who’s here besides Victoria Rutledge and Jo? Or should I say what’s here?”
“I’d go with whom. Let’s see. There’s Jane Wightman, who built it, and the whole Benjamin McInnes clan, not to mention my Leonard and God knows who else! Wait till you find supper waiting on the stove. Or a whole smoked ham on the sideboard. Apparently, Old Vic was a helluva cook. Leonard still makes cocktails.”
I thought, Oh, brother, have you lost your mind? But maybe I was on the edge too.
“Harlan, the day a ham appears on the sideboard? You’ll find me at Charleston Place Hotel, okay?”
“Hmmm, well, I’m just saying, don’t be surprised. Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’m loving this book. It puts her life right into perspective.”
“Well, when I get home, we’ll discuss. So now tell me, how’s Jonathan?”
“Oh, Lord. He’s a wonderful man, Harlan, he really is.”
“Is he putting the moves on you?”
“Oh, please. On me? Be serious.”
“You listen to your brother, honeybun. Just like Jo Pinckney kept all the boys guessing all the time if she would go for it or not? Well, Jonathan isn’t going to play the celibate gentleman forever. The South will rise, if you know what I mean.”
“Dear Holy Mother, Harlan Greene! Go wash your mouth out with soap!”
“Or maybe a glass of a great Barolo! I’ll call you in a couple of days! Ciao!”
It was pretty hard to get the smirk off my face for the rest of the day. Harlan was so naughty and so hilarious. I needed more Harlan in my life. That was one certainty. How had I allowed Wesley to deny me his company? And maybe I needed more Jonathan too.
Was Wes calling? No.
It was around four in the afternoon and time to start thinking about what I was wearing that night. I decided my simple black dress would do, no matter where we were going. I went back to the Bellows biography, and all the time I was trying to concentrate on what I was reading, I kept thinking about my own mother. She knew Wesley was wrong for me. But I was so stubborn that I married him anyway, because I was pregnant and couldn’t see my way to any other choice. But why had I stayed in such an unsatisfactory marriage? Why had I settled for so little? I couldn’t help but wonder what my life might have been if I had been smarter about birth control. I might have had a life of romance and real adventure like Pinckney. She’d had lovers galore—married ones, single ones, Lord knows, you had to admire her optimism! She’d apparently even tried to make it happen with a confirmed bachelor or two. Shouldn’t I have at least one? Straight lover, that is. And, so we’re all clear about this, back in Jo’s day, confirmed bachelor was code for men who preferred their own team.
It was a big world out there, and since marrying Wesley Albert Carter IV I hadn’t seen much more of it than Las Vegas, Edinburgh, the Bahamas, and the Piedmont Driving Club. Sorry, it just wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted romance and adventure too, and by golly, I was going to have it. I wasn’t dead yet. I still wanted to see Italy and France and Switzerland and Napa, so many places. Instead of coming to some conclusion about reconciling with my husband, I found myself becoming more determined to end it. The time and distance away from Wes made it all seem completely ridiculous. I decided to send him an e-mail, a cowardly move but it was all I had the strength for.
I booted up Harlan’s computer and clicked on his e-mail program to open it.
Dear Wesley, I wrote, and then I stared at the blinking cursor for a solid five minutes. What was it I wanted to say? Did I want to tell him that I quit? No, I didn’t have the courage for that. Not yet. Did I want to say that I needed time? No, because I was taking time and no one was telling me it was past curfew. What I really wanted to say was that he should consider himself to be separated until further notice. But those words seemed too harsh and he wouldn’t know what I meant by that. Wesley wasn’t guilty of anything except being himself. A brutal, pushy, lying, philandering, manipulating, selfish, cheap bastard. I’d be an idiot to go back to that. So I began to type again.
I’m not coming back. I’m sorry to tell you this in an e-mail, but I just don’t feel like hearing you scream at me ever again. Ever. When I hear you in my head yelling like I killed somebody because the dry cleaning bill went up or I want to give a lunch for my dearest friend’s daughter’s wedding, my heart starts to pound and I feel like I’m going to be ill. I can’t take it, Wes. Not for one more day. I’m sorry. Leslie P.S. Please remind Martha to water my topiaries. Thanks.
I reread it ten times. There I was, apologizing when he’s the one who should’ve been apologizing. Was I really sorry that I didn’t want any more abuse from him? What was the matter with me? I hit the send button. My marriage was beyond ridiculous.
Jonathan arrived at six on the nose. This time I had put out some pâté and cheese with crackers in the den behind the kitchen. The den was more discreet than the parlor in the front of the house where anybody walking down Chalmers Street could peep through the windows and see me with him. I mean, it wasn’t that we had anything to really hide, but still. And it was nice to have the terrace at our disposal too. We could step outside from the den and enjoy Harlan’s tiny garden.
There was still at least two hours of daylight left, but I had switched on a couple of small lamps so that when we got home it wouldn’t be pitch dark. Coming into dark houses made me nervous for some reason. Maybe a few lights would keep the ghosts at bay. Anyway, there stood Jonathan, wearing a multicolored striped seersucker suit, and he smelled like something so delicious it was all I could do not to bury my nose in his neck.
“You smell so good!” I said. “Come in!”
“Thanks! And you look beautiful!”
“Well, thanks! Do we have time for a glass of champagne? Or something else?” Like a big make-out session?
“Why not? Our table’s at seven. What are you grinning about?”
“Oh, nothing! I was just wondering how all your seersucker will fly in California?”
“Good question.”
We smiled. “And where are we headed tonight?”
“FIG. Very groovy restaurant on East Bay. All the groovy people go there. It seems that if the restaurant has just one name, it’s a groovy place. You know, like Cypress, Husk, McCrady’s, FIG, Fish . . .”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say because you also love the Restaurant at Charleston Place and Grill 225 and Rue de Jean and High Cotton and need I go on? And they’re all pretty cool, if you ask me, Dr. Groovy. Now, about that drink?”
He smiled at me and said, “Hmmm. I think I feel like a vodka and tonic. It’s been so muggy all day.”
“That sounds great! You know where the vodka is. I’ll dismember a lime.”
I could see him smile in my peripheral vision.
“You do that,” he said.
He filled two highball glasses with ice from the door of the refrigerator and pulled the vodka and a bottle of warm tonic from the liquor cabinet. Jonathan went about fixing our drinks, and I squeezed two wedges of lime into the glasses.
“So how was your day?” he asked.
“Awesome. Yours?”
“Two torn Achilles and a bunch of sprained wrists and ankles, but wait! I did have a chance to give an opinion on four, count them, four knee replacements! Ain’t nobody on the planet who can do a knee like me!”
“Four different patients?”
“Yep! Pretty exciting, those knee replacements. Not as interesting as shoulders, but better than hips. Cheers!”
“Cheers. Would you like a little pâté?”
“Sure! So what made your day awesome?”
I walked over to the coffee table in the den and spread some pâté on a cracker and handed it to him. “I spent the day reading a biography of Josephine Pinckney.” And I sent an e-mail to Wes telling him it was over. And a ghost made me a sandwich.
“So Harlan made you drink the Kool-Aid too? Thanks.”
“I guess. But, heck, this was her house. Seems rude not to care, doesn’t it?”
“You see, this is what I always loved about you.”
“What?”
“That you care. You actually honestly and truly care about other people besides yourself to the point you’d remark on how to be considerate of a woman who’s been dead for how long?”
“Early 1950s.”
“That’s over sixty years. Can I help myself to another?” He cut a piece of pâté and spread it on a cracker.
“Sure! Yeah, but not when you read about her life. Seems like she could just walk in here from another room, and she’d fit right in with everything in 2012.”
“A woman ahead of her time.”
“Way ahead of her time.” I stopped and watched him drain his glass. He was staring at me. “What are you looking at?”
“I’m looking at you.”
“Why? Is my mascara running?” I wiped under my eyes, but my fingers were clean. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”
“No, you silly girl! You’re perfect. I was just thinking about messing up your hair.”
Well, here we were at the moment of truth. Harlan was right.
“Don’t you dare! Do you know how long it took to blow it out?” I was playing dumb for the moment. I looked at my wristwatch. “Whoops! It’s getting on to six thirty! We’d better start going, right?”
He looked at me with one of those male confident smiles that said, I’ve got the hook in you, my little tuna, and I’ll reel you in when I’m ready.
“Sure, let’s start moving,” he said and laughed a little.
I took the last sip of my drink and handed him my glass. Wait, wasn’t it less than an hour ago that I said I wanted romance and adventure? I decided that therein lies the difference between dreams and reality. Dreams made your eyes sparkle over the possibilities of doing something new and exciting. Reality made the rest of you break a sweat in panic. I was terrified.
The restaurant host took us to our table right away, and to my surprise we were seated next to the mayor of Atlanta, Kasim Reed, sitting with Mayor Joe Riley of Charleston and six other men. I wondered what Mayor Reed was doing here. It probably had something to do with tourism. Somehow, Charleston seemed to ooze a feeling of well-being and prosperity, despite all the reports of economic reversals around the country. And there was so much to do here it boggled the mind. Perhaps most important, the city was organized around every kind of activity a tourist could want—golf, tennis, water sports, fishing, eco-tours, plantations, shopping, museums, and historical events—the list went on and on.
“What do you think he’s doing here?” I said to Jonathan.
“Maybe he’s just here for dinner,” he said. “The food is really great.”
“Very funny,” I said.
We ordered our meal. I was having the rutabaga soup and the tilefish, and Jonathan ordered the scallops and the fish stew.
“This calls for a hearty white or even a light red. Do you have a preference?”
Did I have a preference? When on earth was the last time someone asked me about my personal preference?
“Oh, why don’t you just choose something?”
“Well, do you feel like California or Italy?”
“To be honest, I’ve never been to either place.”
He lowered the wine list and stared at me. “Really?”
“Yes. I know, pitiful.”
“Do you hate to fly or something?”
“Not at all. And I’d love to go to California and see the wine country and to Italy to see, well, thousands of years of history. Maybe throw a coin in a fountain, eat a bowl of pasta, ride a Vespa?”
The sommelier came over and stood at Jonathan’s side waiting patiently.
“We’ll have a bottle of the Luigi Ferrando,” Jonathan said.
“That sounds so great! Do you know that wine?” I said.
“Nope. I just picked the one that had a name I could pronounce.”
We had a good laugh at that. I loved that he wasn’t so pretentious.
“You are so adorable,” I said.
“I’m going to whisk you away to Italy and to California too.”
“Okay. Let’s go!” I giggled at the thought of it.
The sommelier returned, Jonathan gave the Chateau Whatever He Ordered a sniff and a sip and a nod. The sommelier poured two glasses for us. I sat back, sipping and dreaming about traveling all over Italy with Jonathan. Why, I knew I’d have a wonderful time! Wonderful! When had I ever said that?
“You have the funniest look on your face! What are you thinking about?”
Having crazy sex all over Italy with you. Which I did not say. I simply said, “Oh, nothing. You know, Italy, I guess. And how much fun we might have.”
“How much fun we will have!” He raised his glass. “Cheers! So tell me some more about our Miss Pinckney.”
This is what I loved about Jonathan—he remembered how I had spent my day. He actually wanted to hear about it. Wes would have harrumphed and looked to Harold to discuss the Braves or some golf course he had heard about and wanted to play.
“Well, I’ll tell you this much. She was predestined for infamy,” I said.
“How so?”
“To begin with, she was the very first student enrolled at Ashley Hall.”
“Your alma mater.”
“Yes. But she also started their literary magazine—she was just a young girl.”
“Why is that so unusual?”
“Well, because she stood up for what she wanted when she was merely fourteen? And later on, in only her twenties, she became a founding member of the Poetry Society of South Carolina. However, she spent the next fifteen years fighting to maintain credit for that and many other things she did. In those days, the gentlemen had a tendency to swallow up the accomplishments of the ladies.”
“Not so in today’s world. At least not in my practice. And you know what? Sometimes women make better doctors, especially when the patient is a child or geriatric. Women just naturally have more compassion.”
It was a slightly sexist remark, but I ignored it. If anything, Jonathan was always well intentioned.
“I agree, but it’s how it was then. Anyway, at some point she broke away from the Poetry Society and began to travel with her mother all over the place. She spent a lot of summers in Massachusetts, and she got her heart completely broken by a fellow her mother adored and was dying for her to marry. His name was Dick Wigglesworth.”
“That’s some name.”
“Yes. Unfortunate. Old Boston family, he was the seventh-generation Harvard Law School graduate. His mother’s brother-in-law was Oliver Wendell Holmes. I mean, we’re talking about some seriously pedigreed Yankees.”
“I have to imagine there were and still are more than a few,” Jonathan said, laughing.
“There are scads of them, and we both know it.”
“Yes, but would our grandparents have admitted it?”
“In a pig’s eye, honey. Anyway, she takes old Dick out . . .”
“What a curious string of words.”
“Jonathan Ray! Hush your mouth! In a canoe! A canoe! Let me rephrase! She goes for a canoe outing one day and she suggests they elope.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Please! So he said something terrible to her like he felt unable to screw up enough enthusiasm for something so, so . . . what was the term he used? Irrevocable! That’s it!”
“Jeez. Not the most sensitive way to put it. She must’ve been pretty unhappy to hear about his lack of enthusiasm!”
Our appetizers arrived. “This looks delicious! Well, of course, but wait; he moved to Berlin with some government job and came out of the closet.”
“That must’ve been a shock.”
“I’ll say, but you see, that’s the whole thing. She didn’t have the greatest judgment in the world when it came to men. And the parade of men was impressive in its numbers. More than a couple of them were married, and there is a long list of her short-term affairs. But the one man she was really serious about, besides Dick Wigglesworth, was Thomas Waring.”
“From the Post and Courier newspaper?”
“Yes. Even though he was married and they made every effort to be discreet, their love affair was pretty well known among their friends. It went on for years until he died.”
“Love affairs are supposed to be discreet when you’re married.”
“What are you telling me?” I said, caught off balance. Does he think we’re lovers? “Aren’t we discreet?”
“Are we having a love affair?” Jonathan was now grinning all over in delight.
For whatever crazy reason I had, I decided to take the leap and be bold.
I said, “Yes, although it’s kind of an Abelard and Heloise business at the moment, I’d say we are!” And then I mumbled, “Sort of.”
We both laughed then, and he leaned across the table, covering my hand with his.
“Listen, I know you’re still married. I don’t want to mortify you by being too forward. But I am going to tell you this. As much as I swore off any more commitments of a romantic nature years ago, I’m not letting you get away again. But I’m not in a hurry, either. You have a lot to sort out. I want to be the one you lean on.”
“Oh, Jonathan, thank you . . .”
“No. This isn’t about thanks. I’m not doing you a special favor. I happen to love being with you. Just like when we were kids, I feel so great when I’m with you. And when I’m not with you, all l can think about is seeing you again. I’m like a twenty-year-old idiot! I mean it, Les. I’m going to get you through whatever you have to do to be free of Wes, and then, well, I guess we’ll see how we feel. I mean, come on, so far this is pretty wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Yep. It sure is.”
“And you’d come visit me in Napa, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course!” Was he really going to do this?
The people at the table with the mayors started taking pictures of one another, and some of the guests hopped over to them to get a picture with the mayors too. I looked back at Jonathan and thought for a moment about all the things he had just said to me.
“Yes, but while I’m so uncertain about many things, I know this much for sure. We’re here together for a reason. Fate, call it what you want. Wasn’t it Fate that threw me in a manhole in Scotland to wake me up from my stupid life?”
“I’d say so.”
“Horrible. Anyway, I think that sometimes opportunity is awfully hard to recognize. Because isn’t timing important? How’s our timing?”
“Well, if our children were still little, I’d say lousy. But I think at this point, we’re old enough to do what we want to do. Would you like dessert?”
“No, no. Rarely touch the stuff. Why don’t we go back to Harlan’s and have a nightcap?”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
We walked back to Chalmers Street arm in arm, our gait perfectly matched, and the night air was as sweet as mortal sin. When we got home, Miss JP went flying to Jonathan. I took this as a good sign. I let Miss JP out into the garden and while I waited for her to do her best, Jonathan poured us a little cognac in Harlan’s gorgeous Waterford snifters.
He brought me mine, put his arm around my waist, and I knew I was about to be kissed. But he started with my neck (which as you might imagine was practically virgin territory) and, sugar, that’s all I’m saying. It was like an episode of The Young and the Restless combined with the Old and the Determined. I perspired. I have not perspired in a bed since I had the flu ten years ago. Even Miss JP ran inside and up the stairs. We found her the next morning in Harlan’s room under his pillows curled up with a pair of his socks.
“How old are we?” Jonathan asked me over coffee, looking shameless and happy.
“Old enough to do whatever we want,” I said and smiled like Mona Lisa.
Maybe I’d move to Napa, too.