But that times-of-yore grip has slipped uptown, where the theme is concrete, glass, and steel. Those same Charlotteans who sip martinis on magnolia-shaded patios in the evening take pride in their city’s skyscraper core during the working day. In fact, it is the preservationists who are on the run uptown.

One circle out from the nerve center lie four wards, three of which have undergone modernization in recent decades.

Though not exactly Wil iamsburg, Fourth Ward is the city’s version of an historic district. The neighborhood is whimsical Victorians, tasteful brick condos and town homes, narrow streets with towering shade trees. There is even a faux colonial tavern.

In First and Third Wards there was no pretense at historic preservation. During the eighties and nineties, the old was bul dozed for the new, and run-down bungalows, shabby repair shops, and seedy diners gave way to the modern multiuse concept. Offices and homes above, specialty shops below. Condos, apartments, and lofts proliferated, al with views of man-made ponds, and names like Clarkson Green, Cedar Mil s, Skyline Terrace, Tivoli.

Lija’s town house was in Third Ward’s Elm Ridge, tucked between Frazier Park and the Carolina Panthers practice fields. The complex consisted of double rows of two-story duplexes facing each other across grassy courtyards. Each unit featured a wide front porch with a swing or rockers, bird feeders and hanging ferns optional.

In the early dusk, Elm Ridge looked like a pastel rainbow. In my mind I heard the architectural planning session. Charleston yel ow. Savannah peach.

Birmingham buff.

Lija’s was the last unit in the eastern row of the middle pair. Miami melon with Key West hol y-berry shutters.

Ryan and I climbed to the porch and I rang the bel . The doormat statedHI,I’M MAT!

As we waited my eyes were drawn to the swing, and my heart seemed to drop to my toes. My gaze darted left then right. Was the stalker out there, even now, watching us?

Sensing my apprehension, Ryan squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, forced my lips into an upward arc. I would give Katy a heads-up when I had her alone, but I would not transmit the ful extent of my fear to her.

My daughter hugged me, stated approval of my look, the black linen number with a slapdash iron job. Then her eyes went to Ryan.

My date had chosen an ensemble of ecru pants, blue blazer, pale yel ow shirt, and yel ow and navy polka-dot tie.

And high-top sneakers. Red.

With an almost imperceptible cocking of one eyebrow, Katy smiled at Ryan and relieved him of the hors d’ouevres. Then she led us inside and introduced us to the other guests, Lija’s current boyfriend, Brandon Salamone, a woman named Wil ow, and a man named Cotton.

And the irresistibly handsome Palmer Cousins.