Rivera had fallen in love with the house on Magnolia Street where the Bragg sisters lived at first drive-by, and was so eager to see the inside of it that she got out of bed without complaint. In Caroline’s car she asked one question after another about the street and the houses on the street, small and neat, a working neighborhood with swing sets in the yards and vegetable gardens. Caroline, animated, answered her questions and volunteered a spontaneous genealogy, naming Miss Zula’s neighbors, many of whom were Bragg cousins. Marilee Bragg, who had come to visit them their first weekend in Ogilvie, waved to them from a front porch littered with toys.

“It’s like Hoboken,” Rivera said. “Angie’s got more than fifty blood relatives on one block.”

“Doesn’t look anything like this,” Angie said.

The man pruning roses in the garden across the street raised a hand and touched his brow in greeting as they got out of the car.

“Wait, let me guess,” Rivera said. “Second cousin three times removed.”

“No, that’s Mr. Jackson. He runs the power plant at the university, but he’s protective of Miss Zula and Miss Maddie. Everyone in the neighborhood is. And there’s Thomasina Chance, do you see there, the woman in the vegetable garden? She owns the restaurant across from campus.” The next few minutes were taken up with a discussion of local restaurants, but Angie didn’t catch much of it; she was too busy sketching a rough map of the neighborhood and writing down names.

The Braggs’ house was set back in a small garden in the full flush of summer, heavy with blossom, alive with bees. There were sunflowers and beans on trellises and young tomato plants tied to stakes with lengths of old nylon stocking. Louie slept in a patch of sunshine, opening one eye to appraise the young women and then snuffling himself back to sleep.

At least Rivera’s mind was on business. She stood at the gate with one hand pressed to her mouth and the other to her heart, a pose that meant she was seeing camera angles. This was about work, after all. Angie repeated that to herself as they went up on the little porch. There was a brass plaque on the wall that read MAGNOLIA HOUSE 1880. Below that, a small typewritten card had been tacked into place.

By order of her physician, Miss Bragg may no longer entertain unannounced visitors seeking autographs. Do not ring the bell. Dr. Calvin Bragg.

In neat, slightly wavering handwriting the word please had been inserted before the last, rather abrupt directive.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Rivera said.

Miss Maddie set an old-fashioned breakfast table, one covered with a flowered tablecloth and crowded with heavy, thick plates and platters. Delighted, Rivera helped herself to flapjacks and eggs and bacon and ham and drizzled syrup over the whole.