Yet Charlotte remains nostalgic for the Old South. In its affluent southeast quadrant, it is stately homes and tidy bungalows garnished by azaleas, dogwoods, rhododendrons, redbuds, and magnolias. It is winding streets, front porch swings, and more trees per square mile than any burg on the planet. In spring, Charlotte is a kaleidoscope of pink, white, violet, and red. In fal it blazes with yelow and orange. It has a church on every corner and people attend them. The erosion of the genteel life is a constant topic of conversation, but the same folks lamenting its passage keep one eye on the stock market.

I live at Sharon Hal, a turn-of-the-century estate in the elegant old neighborhood of Myers Park. Once a graceful Georgian manor, the Hal had falen into disrepair by the 1950s and was donated to a local colege. In the mid-eighties the two-and-a-half-acre property was purchased by developers, upfitted, and reincarnated as a modern condominium complex.

While most of the Hal's residents occupy the main house, or one of its recently constructed wings, my condo is a tiny structure on the western edge of the property.

Records indicate the building started life as an addition to the coach house, but no document describes its original function. For lack of a better term it is simply caled the Annex.

Though cramped, my two stories are bright and sunny, and my smal patio is perfect for geraniums, one of the few species able to survive my horticultural ministrations. The Annex has been home since my marital breakup, and it suits me perfectly.

The sky was resolutely blue as I entered the gates and circled the grounds. The petunias and marigolds smeled of autumn, their perfume mingling with the scent of drying leaves. Sunshine warmed the bricks of the Hal's buildings, walks, and perimeter wal.

Rounding the Annex, I was surprised to see Pete's Porsche parked next to my patio, Boyd's head protruding from the passenger side. Spotting me, the dog pricked his ears, puled in his tongue, then let it dangle again.

Through the back window I could see Birdie in his travel cage. My cat did not look pleased with the transport arrangements.

As I puled paralel to Pete's car, he rounded the building.

'Jesus, am I glad I caught you.' His face looked anxious.

'What is it?'

'A client's knitting plant just went up in flames. The case is certain to become a matter of litigation, and I've got to get out there with some experts before would-be fire inspectors muck things up.'

'Out where?'

'Indianapolis. I was hoping you'd take Boyd for a couple of days.'

The tongue disappeared, dropped again.

'I'm leaving for Bryson City.'

'Boyd loves the highlands. He'd be great company.'

'Look at him.'

Boyd's chin now rested on the window ledge, and saliva trickled down the car's outside panel.

'He'd be protection.'

'That's a stretch.'