"The drunken Toad tried to dance cheek-to-cheek," Betty says.

"Lust does funny things to a man, Betty," I tell her.

"A pretty song," Molly says. "I know-it was 'Wonderland by Night.'" She rises from her chair and walks the length of the room. "Bert Kaempfert, right?" She opens a cabinet, places a record on the turntable, and we find ourselves shot back through time to our high school years. Ike and Betty begin to dance, melting into each other's arms; Niles and Fraser lift off their chair. Soon Molly and I are dancing cheek-to-cheek, as though we were born to dance with each other. She waltzes me away from the others into the mansion's great room, between the grand piano and the harp. Her body feels good against mine, and her breath is sweet against my ear as she whispers, "Did you really have a crush on me in high school, Leo? Everyone said you did, even Chad."

"No. I can say that honestly too."

"Liar," she says. "You know the answer I need tonight. And you know why I need it."

I was silent.

"Then tell me the truth. I need to hear you say it. You're the best friend I've ever had-male or female-Leo King. And you and I are the only ones who know it. As your best friend, I need the truth from you: did you have a crush on me in high school?"

"No, I didn't. And that's a kind of truth. The whole truth is this: I've been in love with you my whole life. It started at the yacht club. It ends with 'Wonderland by Night.'"

"Sorry, Toad," she says. "It begins with 'Wonderland by Night.'"

Then she kisses me, a long, deep kiss that I want to last forever, but the song ends and so does the kiss.

I look up and see a face staring at us through one of the tall windows that faces out to the piazza. Looking maddened, drugged, and a stranger to herself, I see Sheba Poe studying Molly and me with the concentration of an actress preparing for her next part.

CHAPTER 10.

Hangovers.

The next morning I wake in my solitary house on Tradd Street with a slight hangover and a sense of irritation when I realize it is five in the morning and the sun has not even begun to rise. Because I am married to a wandering and importunate wife, I never know when I will hear from Starla or where she might be calling from. I clear my head and let the phone ring four times before I answer it. Then I hear Chad's voice asking me with perfect control, "Leo, sorry to bother you so early in the morning. But could I speak with Molly, please?"

I switch on the lamp beside my bed and try to gather myself together to make some kind of sense out of this. As long as I have known Chad, he has never done anything so gauche. Though my brain feels like it is covered with mosquito netting, I answer him. "There must be some mistake, Chad, old chum. The last time I checked, Molly seemed to be married to you, not me."

"Try not to be a comedian this time of the morning." Chad's voice registers anger for the first time. "I'd like to have a few words with my wife."

Now my voice hardens. "Chad, I can't tell you how much I'd like for Molly to be in bed with me. I'd love to shake her gently, wake her up, and say, 'Sweetheart, it's Chad on the phone.' But Molly happens to be a decent woman and a fabulous wife. I know you've never noticed that. Molly's got it in her head that you're working too hard. She thought you should've stayed for all of Sheba's homecoming party. Fancy that."

"I do work hard for my family, Leo. I've got pressures that I keep from Molly. I let her fret over silver patterns, the place cards for dinner parties, the parties we will or won't attend, the cutthroat politics of the Junior League. She has a full life, and she plays an important social role because of the long hours I put in at the largest, most important law firm in this city. I don't do anything without thinking about the best interests of her and the kids."

"That's all peachy keen, Chad. But why're you calling my house asking to speak to the woman lucky enough to be married to such a swell guy?"

"Let's be grown-up about this," Chad says. "Just put Molly on the phone."

"Kiss my royal red Irish ass. How many ways can I say it, Chad? She ain't here. She's never been here, and she never will be, much to my regret."

"I envy you, Leo." Chad's voice rises a pitch toward meanness. "You've got a wife who's never there, and you write a gossip column that ruins someone's life every six days."

"Well, you're at least halfway to happiness, pal. Seems like your wife isn't at your house, either. Your sister's having a picnic for Sheba on Sunday evening. See you there."

"I can't promise anything. I'm up to my ass at work."

"I'd be there," I say. "That's advice from a friend, Chad, a guy who loves you, though goddamn, you make it heavy lifting sometimes."

"I didn't realize it was so early in the morning. I just panicked when I found out Molly wasn't here."

"You want to talk to Sheba?" I ask. "We just spent the night making passionate, animal-like sex."

Chad laughs loudly. "She's passed out in our guesthouse. I already looked for Molly there. I'm really sorry, Leo."

"I like waking up early on Saturdays," I say. "So I can gloat over all the lives I ruined during the week."

Chad hangs up. I fall into a brief but fretful sleep. At seven I hear the satisfying plop of the News and Courier News and Courier as it hits the privacy door of my Charleston single house. It pleases me that I live in a house that I once served as a paperboy, the type of house I never dreamed of owning. When I step out onto the street, the first fingerlings of sunlight are waking the drowsy silver in the crepe myrtle trees in front of my house. The houses of Tradd Street always look like an exquisite yet mismade chess set to me, where one cannot execute a queen's gambit or a Sicilian defense because the maker of the set has lined the street with variations of rooks, bishops, knights, and kings, but has neglected to include a pawn. The original architecture resembles the finest lacework; the gardens are hidden but generous with delicious smells. as it hits the privacy door of my Charleston single house. It pleases me that I live in a house that I once served as a paperboy, the type of house I never dreamed of owning. When I step out onto the street, the first fingerlings of sunlight are waking the drowsy silver in the crepe myrtle trees in front of my house. The houses of Tradd Street always look like an exquisite yet mismade chess set to me, where one cannot execute a queen's gambit or a Sicilian defense because the maker of the set has lined the street with variations of rooks, bishops, knights, and kings, but has neglected to include a pawn. The original architecture resembles the finest lacework; the gardens are hidden but generous with delicious smells.

I read the paper in my garden with my first cup of coffee like I do every morning. First, I read my column, cringing with embarrassment when I come to any sentence that appears flaccid or lazy. My work for this Saturday seems tiresome, the attempts at humor forced. But I know the ebb and flow of column writing as well as I know the tides of Charleston Harbor. And I possess the secret that I will be the talk of the city when my article on Sheba runs in the Sunday edition.

I am checking the batting averages of my favorite National League players when I hear my back door open. I look behind me, and I'm surprised to see Ike Jefferson entering the garden. He has already fixed his own cup of coffee.

I check my watch. "You're an hour early, Ike."

"Needed to talk," Ike says as he sits down. "You're the only one I could talk to."

I can tell Ike is troubled as he starts to read my column instead of revealing what is on his mind. I breathe in the aroma of the sun-shot gardens that surround my home. As we sit in silence, I can feel the power of the earth's fertility enclosing us; you can almost hear things growing. The green roots are shouldering through the black earth of the peninsula. I walk to the end of the garden, where my yard receives the lion's share of the sun's exposure, and select three perfectly ripe beefsteak tomatoes I grow in a small greenhouse against the far brick wall. I retreat into the kitchen, wash and slice the tomatoes. They glisten with their red-faced, pink-seeded perfection. I bring a salt and pepper mill, and hand a plate to Ike. He forgets the news of the day once the first bite of tomato bursts along the seams of his palate.

"Damn, these tomatoes are good," Ike says, closing his eyes.

"Chief of police," I say, "in the most beautiful city on earth."

Ike grins. "Black folks couldn't even vote when I was born. You and I couldn't have bought a milk shake together at Woolworth's on King Street."

"Look at you now, big guy. Guess I'll be bringing all my parking tickets to you. You've earned the job, though. Nobody's worked harder than you. That's what worried me about last night. You should've arrested Sheba. She put you into a bad dilemma."

"Yeah, I know. I do know that, for sure. And if you're doing your job, you'll write a column about me not arresting her."

"That's not going to happen."

"I know, and so does Sheba." Then he says, "I do have something serious to talk to you about."

"Let me guess," I say. "It's about Chad."

"How'd you know?"

"I write a column five times a week," I say. "Eventually, I hear everything."

"Chad's dicking a secretary down at his law firm. She's got an apartment at Folly Beach."

"Is it the paralegal from Greenwood? Or the Brazilian girl?"

"It's the girl from Ipanema. His mistress," Ike says. "She's nineteen. Just out of high school. Comes from a nice family."

"How do you know?"

"Janitor at her apartment complex goes to my church. How'd you know?"

"Anonymous letter," I answer. "I get lots of those." "Who you think sent it?"

"Someone who doesn't know whether the lucky girl's from Greenwood or Brazil."

"Greenwood was last year," Ike says. "You white folks are weird."

"Yeah, we need lessons from you black folks about how to live decent, fulfilling lives."

"Molly doesn't deserve this, Leo."

"She should be used to it. This ain't the first. You want another cup of coffee?" I ask, then add, "Chief?"

I walk back into the kitchen and see Niles pouring himself a cup of coffee. He has already made quick work of his plate of tomatoes. He turns his blue-eyed gaze on me, his eyes appraising and unreadable. He has also come too early. I know he has come either to give me advice I don't want or to tell me something I don't want to hear. His guilelessness is what I most admire in Niles, but his need to share truths that can contain the seeds of despair has frayed intimate connections. Basically, he is a quiet, intuitive man; the only time I fear him is when he becomes talkative.

"Excuse me, sir," I say. "But you look like mountain scum to me. Did you wash up here during a flash flood along the Appalachian Trail?"

"I always love to hear you talk, Toad." He sips his coffee. "It may be bull hockey, but it's bull hockey of a very high quality."

"Ike's in the backyard."

"Saw his car," Niles says. "I didn't like last night."

"I've been to better reunions," I agree.

"Sheba put on quite a show," Niles says. "So did your mama."

"My mother hates women like Sheba."

"Did Chad call you this morning?" Niles asks.

"Five A.M."

"What'd he want?"

"To know who won the Braves game." I pour another cup of coffee for myself, though I can tell my flip remark has angered Niles. "Go out in the garden. I want Ike to hear this."

Ike is still reading the paper when Niles and I join him. He looks up and nods. "You here early too, Niles," Ike says. "Why'd you want a private audience with Leo?"

"Chad woke us up early this morning. Fraser answered the phone. Chad believes that Leo here is sleeping with Molly," Niles explains.

"The Toad and Molly did go dancing off into the dark," Ike says. "You and Molly get it on last night, big fella?"

"We most certainly did not."

Niles sips his coffee slowly. "He's married to my sister, Ike. Starla called me this week, Leo."

"Thanks for telling me," I say.

"That's what I came over for," Niles says. "I didn't think Ike would beat me over here."

"I can leave," Ike snaps, "same way I came."

"No, stay," says Niles.

I ask, "You guys want any breakfast?"

"Yeah," Niles says. "I need to get my thoughts in order. I'm not fasttalking like you and Ike."

"You're a dumb-ass white boy from the hills," Ike says, going back to his newspaper. "Like you've always been."

As we eat, we talk about sports, the white noise that men use to express their abiding feelings of friendship but without the sense of violation that often accompanies deeper journeys. Of all my friends, Niles has erected more stop signs and warning signals along the pathway to his heart than anyone else. His hurt childhood made silence his first instinct and place of refuge. But when Niles talks, you can bet he has something to say. He is one of those dreadful gunnysackers who lets it build up inside him until he dumps its entire deposit on the floor for your inspection.

"Thank you for that mighty fine meal, Leo," Ike says, leaning back in his chair. "Now, why don't you spill your guts, Niles, and get it over with?"

"I think Sheba Poe's more trouble than she's worth."

"Let me run in and get my reporter's notebook," I say. "I can't let a news bulletin like that go unquoted."

"What's your point?" Ike asks him.

"Chad's over at my house raising hell with Fraser," Niles says. "He says he's going to throw Sheba out of the guesthouse as soon as she wakes up. He went nuts when he heard about the cocaine."

"Tell Sheba she's welcome to stay here with me," I say. "I've got a nice guest room on the third floor."

"She can also come to my house. Betty would love it, and so would my kids," Ike says.

"Hell, Fraser told Chad that Sheba could stay at our house for the rest of her life if she needs to," Niles says.

"Then who cares what Chad thinks?" Ike says. "That boy loves to run his mouth. He's always been about noise. All thunder, no lightning."

"Leo, Chad just found out that you call Molly every day and talk," Niles tells me.

"A small correction," I say. "We call each other. Sometimes I call Molly, but she often calls me. And this is not exactly top secret. We've talked to each other every day since we were in our twenties. By the way, Niles, I talk to Fraser and Betty all the damn time too."

Ike says, "He's always trying to fish for stories from our girls."

"Those girls know everything that's happening in Charleston," I say.

"Well, Chad doesn't want you calling his wife anymore." Niles's discomfort is obvious.

"Then Chad can tell me that face-to-face," I say. "And a small piece of advice, Niles. You don't need to be Chad's messenger boy."

"I did it because I thought you might beat Chad's ass if he said it to you. He was pretty strung out."