THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING EADIE WOKE UP EARLY, BORROWED Lavonne's car, and drove out to the office supply store at the mall. She bought herself a sketchbook and some charcoal pencils and then she dropped the car off at Lavonne's and walked down to the River Park and sat and sketched families throwing Frisbees, families picnicking in the sun and Rollerblading along the concrete sidewalks. She hadn't worked in nearly eighteen months but today it just poured out of her. She filled page after page of the sketchbook.

Around twelve-thirty, Lavonne called. “Hey, where are you?” she said, still sounding sleepy.

“I'm down at the River Park, sketching.”

“Sketching? Really? Stay right there. I'll go by the store and pick up a couple of double lattes and some cream cheese muffins and meet you there.” Lavonne was happy to have the day off. The deli was closed on Sundays and Mondays. Usually she just sat around working on her laptop, but Eadie was flying back to New Orleans tomorrow so Lavonne was glad to spend the day with her.

Eadie put her cell phone down and thumbed slowly through the sketch book, amazed at the work she had done. It was as if something inside her had suddenly let down like rainwater through a clogged gutter. Eadie didn't believe in therapy but she could imagine a therapist making much of her sudden flow of creativity. She could imagine a guy who looked like Freud saying, Go back to your hometown and find out why it is the source of your unhappiness. Find out why you feel disconnected and disjointed when you are away from it.

Far out on the river a barge passed, its metal decks gleaming in the sun. Swallows darted in the deep blue sky. Eadie thumbed through the sketchbook and tried not to think about Trevor.

Driving through the outskirts of Ithaca a few days ago, she had felt the baggage of her childhood settle through her like sediment. It had stunned her to feel that old familiar feeling of dread returning. She had made Lavonne turn right on Tuckertown Road and drive slowly through the Shangri-La Trailer Park, past the lot where the Wilkenses' trailer had stood, past the sandy creek bank where Eadie had sat as a child and dreamed of a life better than the one she had.

Trevor was responsible for all this somehow. She wasn't quite sure how, but it was easier to blame him than it was to crash through all the barricades she had long ago erected inside herself. He was the one who'd insisted they could go away and start over again. It had been easy for him. He'd had every opportunity: money, looks, family connections, a safe and happy childhood. Talent. It was hard loving someone so damn perfect.

Eadie saw Lavonne's car pull into the parking lot and a few minutes later, Lavonne was crossing the lawn, carrying the double lattes in a cardboard tray with one hand, and the bag of cream cheese muffins in the other.

“Hey, look at you,” Lavonne said, sitting down on the bench. “You're working again.”

Eadie closed her sketchbook. A slight sheen of perspiration glistened across her forehead. She looked tired but happy. “It just came over me,” she said, reaching for one of the lattes. “I got up this morning and knew I had to work.” She took the plastic lid off the coffee and sipped carefully. “I think it has something to do with this place,” she said, looking around the crowded park.

“I know, isn't it great? They finished it right after you moved to New Orleans.”

“No. I don't mean the park. I mean Ithaca. I mean running into Virginia and Lee Anne Bales at the wedding. It has something to do with conflict. I need conflict to work.”

“What,” Lavonne said, opening the sack of muffins, “you don't get enough conflict married to Trevor?” She offered one to Eadie.

Eadie shook her head sadly. “We don't fight like we used to,” she said. “He's always working. And when he's working, he's happy.”

Lavonne chewed slowly and stared at her for several minutes. “You poor thing,” she said. “Your husband's happy and you don't fight anymore. How do you stand it?”

Eadie made a wry face and sipped her coffee. “It's hard to explain,” she said. “It's complicated.”

She had met him her freshman year at the University of Georgia, where he was a second-year law student. They were from the same small town but Trevor was six years older and he came from money and the land-owning aristocracy. Eadie came from people who had only recently embraced the joys of indoor plumbing, people whose idea of moving up was a double- wide trailer instead of a single-wide.

Their attraction for each other smoldered for a few weeks and then erupted into a blazing love affair, more like a wildfire than a controlled burn. She met him in September and by Thanksgiving he had proposed. Eadie was aware that everyone in Ithaca thought she married him for his money, but the truth was, this never occurred to her. She married him because she had never met anyone like him. Until Trevor Boone, she had never met anyone she felt had the stamina, courage, and strength of character to survive loving her. Not to mention his all-American good looks and the fact that he was an absolute pervert in bed. Eadie was crazy about him and would have married him if he'd been penniless. The family name and money was just a bonus.

His mother, horrified, put her foot down but it did no good. The wedding was held at a small Episcopal chapel near the UGA campus, and Maureen Boone attended because she could not bear for the rest of Ithaca to gossip about Boone family squabbles. She could not air the family linen in public. Still, she could, and did, sit in the front pew sobbing so loudly the priest had to raise his voice to be heard. When this didn't work, she fainted. Eadie, looking over at her prone mother-in-law, thought grimly, So that's how it's going to be. Trevor, accustomed to his mother's histrionics, smiled calmly at the rector, and in a deep voice said, “Proceed.”

“There's a solution to your problem,” Lavonne said. “It's called therapy.”

“Therapy's for whiners and weaklings,” Eadie said. “Therapy's for poor slobs who don't know how to make a good vodka martini.”

A slight breeze blew across the river, bringing with it the scent of fish. Over by the picnic pavilion a young man took out a guitar and began to play. Lavonne pulled another muffin out of the bag. She chewed thoughtfully and watched the sunlight playing along the surface of the river. “I guess I'm just caught up in the irony of your situation,” she said to Eadie. “It's what you always wanted. To get away from Ithaca. To make Trevor be faithful to you and his art.” She looked at Eadie. “And he has been faithful, right?”

“Yes.”

“So what's the problem?”

Eadie tapped the rim of her latte with her fingernails. “Like I said, be careful what you wish for.”

Lavonne squinted her eyes and looked at the sky. A kite floated motionless, its tail curling in the breeze. “It's not as if Trevor's being inattentive,” she said. “He's called a dozen times since you've been here.”

Eadie shrugged. “I think he's nervous. He knows I'm bored. He's afraid I'll relapse.”

“He's afraid you'll sleep with someone else?”

“No. He knows I won't do that.” Eadie repressed a sudden, graphic image of the young po'boy sandwich maker stretched out, naked, in her bed. She sighed. “The only thing he's going to catch me in bed with these days is my vibrator.” She told Lavonne about the unfortunate incident involving Milton.

Lavonne dropped her jaw in amazement. She put her head back and laughed. “Oh my God, are you telling me your husband caught you using your vibrator? How humiliating.”

“Right,” Eadie said. “Like your husband never caught you.”

“Eadie, I don't even have a vibrator.”

She twisted her head and looked at Lavonne in astonishment. “What? You were married to Leonard Zibolsky for twenty-one years and you don't have a vibrator? No offense, Lavonne, but I know Leonard.”

Lavonne didn't look offended. Leonard was pretty much universally unappealing to women. “Celibacy is an underrated virtue,” she said.

“Are you crazy? That's not healthy. When was the last time you had sex?”

Lavonne didn't like being reminded of the barrenness of her so-called sex life. “I don't know,” she said. “Big hair was in. Princess Di was still in love with Charles.”

Eadie didn't think this was funny. She sipped her coffee and looked at Lavonne the way she might look at a crippled dog that had been run down in the street. After a while she said, “Okay, we're going to fix this problem.”

“What problem?” Lavonne said nervously. “There is no problem.”

But Eadie was on a mission. There was no stopping her now. “I was going to order a replacement for Milton anyway,” she said. “They've come out with a new and improved version. The Love Monkey II. When we get back to your place, we'll get on the Internet and order two, one for you and one for me.”

“Are you crazy?” Lavonne said. “I can't have the postman delivering a package to my door with a return address that reads Love Monkey II.”

“It comes in a plain brown wrapper,” Eadie said. “Everything from Fleshy Delights comes in a plain brown wrapper.”

“Fleshy Delights?”

“It's an Internet sex shop where you can order sex toys and marital aids. You know. Vibrating panties, flavored skin lotions, strap-ons, handcuffs.”

“There's a whole portion of your life I don't want to know anything about.”

“Don't worry. I'll show you how to use it.”

Lavonne groaned and put her head in her hands. After a minute she tried again. “Look, Eadie,” she said evenly. “I appreciate your concern over my sex life, but you don't need to worry about it. I'm doing just fine, even without the Love Monkey II. I'm older than you are. I'm forty-seven years old. I'm nearly fifty. I'm too old to be ordering stuff from a porn web- site.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Fifty is the new thirty. Look at Goldie Hawn. Look at Meryl Streep and Susan Sarandon.”

“Hey there.” They both turned around. A man dressed in biking gear stood about twenty feet away in the shade of a boxwood hedge. He perched on the bicycle seat with one foot resting on the bike path and the other resting on a pedal. “How're you doing?” he asked, still trying to be friendly. Men were always trying to pick Eadie up. Lavonne was used to it by now.

Eadie, obviously thinking the same thing, stretched her legs out in front of her. She yawned and put her fingers over her mouth. “Do I know you?” she said.

“Hey, Lavonne,” he said, taking off his helmet and his sunglasses.

“Joe,” she said, sitting upright. “I didn't recognize you.” A sudden unpleasant realization came to her. She wondered how much of their conversation he had overheard.

He swung his leg over the bike and walked it toward them. It made little clicking sounds, like a cricket stuck in a closet, like a time bomb ticking down to destruction. Lavonne handled the introductions as best she could. She felt him studying her and her face flamed. “Joe Solomon, this is Eadie Boone. Eadie, this is Joe.”

Eadie looked from one to the other. She grinned slowly and stuck her hand out. “Hi, Joe,” she said in a sleepy voice, giving him the full effect of her eyes. This was usually the point where the man in question fell instantly and irrevocably in love with Eadie. Lavonne tensed, waiting for this to happen.

He quickly let go of Eadie's hand. Behind his head, a box kite climbed slowly up the sky, trailing its tail like a broken limb. “I forgot the deli wasn't open today,” he said, smiling at Lavonne. His eyes were green with flecks of gold around the iris.

“What?” she said.

“I went by the deli but it was closed. I needed a cream cheese muffin fix.”

Lavonne held up the sack. “You're in luck,” she said. He seemed pretty relaxed. Maybe he hadn't heard anything after all.

“You're kidding me,” he said, looking down into the bag. “You mean you read my mind?”

“She's a mind reader,” Eadie said. “Ask her what I'm thinking right now.”

“There's only one left,” he said.

“Go ahead, take it. There's plenty more where that came from.”

He grinned and took the sack from her. He zipped it into a small pouch on the back of his seat. “I'll eat it later,” he said.

“That's a nice bike,” Lavonne said.

“Thanks. I built it.”

“Really?”

“It's a prototype. It's a carbon composite that's lighter than titanium. Do you ride?”

“No.” Conversation 101. Avoid dead-end statements if at all possible.

“She's thinking about learning to ride,” Eadie said innocently.

“Really?” Other than his first glance at Eadie, he hadn't looked at her at all. He wiped his forehead with the back of one of his racing gloves. His biking shorts left little to the imagination. “Do you have a bike?” he asked Lavonne.

“She's thinking about ordering one off the Internet,” Eadie said coolly. “We were just talking about that.”

“You need to do it, Lavonne,” he said, putting his helmet back on. “Then we could ride together.”

Eadie lifted one eyebrow and looked at her. “Did you hear that, Lavonne? Then you could ride together.”

Lavonne ignored her. She glanced at Joe, trying to think of something clever to say. Something smart and flirtatious. “Wednesday is half-price cookie day,” she said. It was the best she could do, given the circumstances.

“Really? Half-price cookie day? I guess I'll have to check that out.” He put his foot on the pedal. “Nice to meet you, Eadie.”

“ 'Bye, Joe,” Eadie said.

“I'll see you Wednesday,” he said to Lavonne.

“Okay.”

He pedaled a few paces and then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Fleshy Delights doesn't sound like much of a bike site,” he said. “You might want to try Biker's World.” He grinned.

Lavonne tried to hold his gaze, but could not, naturally. “I'll remember that,” she said. She looked at her feet, listening to the clicking of his bike getting farther and farther away.

“Damn,” Eadie said. “He's cute.”

THE WEEK FOLLOWING HER WEDDING, NITA WENT OUT TO THE Suck Creek Retirement Home to visit Leota Quarles. She had found Leota quite by accident, several months after she began her women in servitude project. Caught up in the excitement of trying to finish the paper, Nita had almost decided not to visit Leota. But then one of the other ladies had said, “Oh, you have to talk to Miz Quarles. Her people come from over on the island and she worked for your mama-in-law's people, the Kellys. Miz Broad- well was a Kelly before she was a Broadwell.” It had taken Nita a minute to realize she was talking about Virginia. Her curiosity aroused, she had decided to keep the appointment with Leota Quarles. Virginia had never said much about her childhood. It was hard to imagine her as anything other than a strong-willed, self-assured woman. It was hard to imagine her as anything other than an adult, hatched from an egg, fully formed, like a Greek goddess of old, or some alien life-form.

The home was crowded today with visitors. Nita smiled at the young nurse who showed her into Leota's room. The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair, facing a window that looked out over the parking lot. Leota was ninety-four years old and she was hard of hearing.

“Look, Miss Leota, you have a visitor,” the young nurse said. The elderly woman continued to gaze out the window, a pensive look on her face. Nita smiled at the nurse who went out, closing the door behind her. Nita took out her notepad and tape recorder, and pulled a chair closer to the window. She touched Leota's arm and the old woman turned her head and smiled, showing a set of large white dentures.

“Are you Miz Broadwell?” she said.

“Yes.” Nita smiled apologetically. “I hope I didn't startle you.” The room smelled of disinfectant and mothballs. “We talked a little bit on the phone, Mrs. Quarles, about Virginia Broadwell. Do you remember?”

“Virginia Kelly?”

“Yes. Virginia Kelly.”

“Of course I remember.” Leota looked out the window. A high-flying jet left a thin vapor trail across the blue sky. Nita had learned from interviewing the other elderly women that it was best to just let them talk. If she asked too many questions, their minds might wander and they might drop off to sleep. Talking to them was like panning for gold: you had to sift through a lot of dirt and rough stones to get to those gleaming bits of information, but what you came up with was pure gold.

After a while Leota cleared her throat and began.

“Miss Virginia always was a pretty girl. She had long gold ringlets and big blue eyes. She had a bad temper but her papa thought it was cute, I guess, because he seemed to encourage her. Her mama couldn't do nothing with her. She'd walk around the island carrying a peach switch like she was carrying a riding crop and anybody that crossed her got the stinging end of that switch, I tell you. She was something. Tiny as a china doll and just as pretty. Spoiled and pampered her whole life, I guess, on account of the fact she come so late in her mama and papa's life.”

Leota smiled and closed her eyes. Her lids were nearly transparent, heavily veined and wrinkled like damp parchment. They fluttered for a moment and then flew open again.

“When she was real small, before she went to school, she'd play with all the little colored children on the other end of the island. She was the Queen Bee, that's what her papa called her and it stuck, and she'd boss everybody around and make them do whatever she said. The colored folk were left over from the olden times, from slave days, back when the island had been a cotton plantation and the Kellys owned everybody. Back then there was a natural bridge from the mainland, it weren't really an island but more like a fist at the end of a long arm stretching out into the river. And the old Kelly house was a showplace, they say. But then the earthquake happened, right before the silver war, and the river swallowed up the land bridge and after that you had to take a rowboat over. All that was long after the first Kellys come down and settled the island, long after the Old People had gone.”

Nita looked puzzled. She wrote down “Old People” and put a question mark next to it.

“We had no electricity back then, back before the PWA workers brought it to the island. Nineteen forty-two it was, not too long before the war ended. Miss Virginia was just a little girl then, about seven years old, but she'd started school in town and was ashamed we didn't have electricity or plumbing on the island. The kids at school used to tease her about that— about no lights or indoor plumbing and us all using outhouses still. She'd come home crying about us being a bunch of ignorant swamp hicks and I'd have to lay her down in her little bed and put cold washcloths on her head to quiet her down.”

The old woman put her head back against the rocking chair. Her slippered feet tapped the floor softly as she rocked.

“If you stand on the shore and look, there's this hump in the middle of the island. That's the Big Ridge. That's left over from the Old People, and my grandmother and the other grandmothers would tell us not to play up there when we was kids. They said the Hungry Spirits would get you.”

She laughed, seeing Nita's face.

“A Hungry Spirit is kind of like a ghost.”

Nita got up and went to the bureau and poured them both a glass of water. Then she sat back down, handing a glass to Leota.

The old woman smiled and sipped her water, and then set the glass down on the small table beside the bed. She stretched her hands along the arms of the rocking chair, her filmy eyes fixed on the shimmering green fields beyond the parking lot.

“The Quarles were always house servants. Our cabin was up close to the Big House. All the rest were field hands and their cabins were at the other end of the island, past the Big Ridge and closest to the fields. The land was rich, on account of the river, and we grew cotton and corn and potatoes. But once every twenty years or so the river would rise and flood us out and then everything would be ruined. Then the starving times would come. In the old days, the colored folk would go to the beach and hail the passing steamboats for food. That's why all the houses are built up on stilts, even the Big House. 'Cause of the floods.”

Nita was quiet a moment, imagining how it must have been. Somehow she'd pictured a more aristocratic background for Virginia. Her mother-inlaw had always been careful to imply, without actually coming right out and saying it, that the Kellys were gentry. “Were Virginia's parents educated?”

Leota clasped the neckline of her flowered robe with an arthritic hand and pulled it tighter around her throat.

“Maybe at one time the Kellys were sent off to school, but after the silver war they fell on hard times just like everybody else. The war and the floods took a toll on the Kellys. The Grandpapa Kelly rode away on his fine-blooded horse with his little servant boy, but after the war he come back without the boy or the horse or his right arm. The Big House was in ruins then. Some renegades from Sherman's army had camped out on the island and built a campfire right in the middle of the dining room floor. They took whatever they could carry away in a rowboat and burned most of the rest.”

She blinked her eyes several times. Her face relaxed into a dreamy, faraway expression.

“After that the Kellys were dirt poor just like everybody else. Old Jennings Kelly, Miss Virginia's papa, worked for the railroad. Her mama's people come from somewhere over by Moultrie. They were small farmers.”

Her head drooped. She lifted it again, fighting sleep.

“Everybody always said Miss Virginia was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but Miz Kelly said she didn't know how that came to be since the Kellys had been living on tin for generations. Old Mr. Kelly said Virginia was a throwback to better times. He named her after his grandmother Virginia, whose people had been big landowners over by Valdosta before the silver war.”

Leota's head dropped on her chest. She began to snore softly.

Nita turned off the tape recorder and quietly gathered her purse.