“I’ll tell my own story, when it’s time,” Alex said.

“Suit yourself. Meantime, I wouldn’t open my door to strangers.”

Frank interposed himself between Alex and Sam. “I believe this interview is over.”

Sam stuffed his notebook into his back pocket. He hadn’t written a line. “Tom Clawson would like a word with you, when you have time.”

“I’m a busy man,” Alex said ruefully. “Tell the man I’ll pay him what I owe. Word of honor.”

Sam was confused. “Pay him?”

“Never mind,” Frank said. “Business.”

Sam nodded. He turned to go. Apparently, Saffron was staying. She unfolded a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and hooked them over her little ears. Behind the lenses, her dark eyes bloomed large and bright.

Sam said over his shoulder, “Tell Mrs. King that David will be home for supper.”

Saffron didn’t answer. He had hoped to hear her sweet, tremulous voice just once more.

Alex escorted him to the front door.

“What you’re doing here,” Sam said. “It takes gumption.”

Alex Manly said, “We‘ll see.”

By one o’clock, Sam handed Clawson a story about Alex Manly’s return. The headline read, “Back in Business at Free Love Hall.” Clawson read it quickly, then telephoned Walker Taylor at his office.

Chapter Five

There is a black vampire hovering over our beloved North Carolina.

C H A P T E R   F I V E

Sunday, August 21

THE CHURCH BELLS WOKE HIM. The sunrise carillon at St. James Episcopal, scarcely three blocks away down Market. He’d married three different women in that church. Hands folded across his chest, Alfred Moore Waddell lay with his eyes closed against the early, dim light filtering through the lace curtains and limning the drawn shade of the Gibb door, lighting it in a sharp rectangle.

This was the best part of the morning. He opened his eyes a crack and listened, as if squinting would help him hear better. His hearing was not sharp, as in the old cavalry days. Then, he could hear a horse high-stepping across a gravel ford half a mile away and tell the regiment of the rider.

The mosquito netting draped on frames over his four-poster reminded him of sleeping under a tent during the War. He must remember to take his quinine capsule—it had been a wet summer, and malarial fever was breaking out all up and down the river. They hadn’t had quinine in the army.

In the adjoining bedroom, nothing stirred. Gabrielle must still be sleeping. What if he were to wake up one morning and find her here, curled in bed beside him?—but the longing passed in an instant.

Gabrielle was an odd, quiet girl, he thought. She had that faraway look in her eye, as if, wherever they were together, everything that mattered in the world were happening someplace else.