"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of the two-hundred-year-old rooms that were filled, from the heart pine floors to the sky-high plastered ceilings, with historical reference books on the old oak bookshelves.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 pte 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!"