The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,25

complaint after complaint in to the city and got nowhere. This eyesore is bringing down home values on the whole block.”

Felicia, who had that particularly southern gift for ignoring any unpleasantness, smiled sweetly. “Celia, allow me to introduce you to Happy Browder. Happy moved here from Atlanta a couple of years ago and bought the Drakes’ old house.”

Felicia gestured next door, toward a 1950s-era home constructed in a French colonial style, clad with green stucco and sporting a mansard roof and black shutters. As I said, Harleston Village can be a mixed bag, architecturally speaking, but it was a pretty house and much better kept than it once had been, with perfectly trimmed hedges and a newly laid brick driveway in which no blade of grass would dare to sprout.

“Of course, the Drakes haven’t lived there for years,” Felicia continued. “They sold it to the Edelmans, who sold it to the Walshes, who sold it to . . .” She wrinkled her brow, trying to summon the name. “Well, I can’t remember anymore. There have been so many changes in the neighborhood. I read somewhere that twenty-nine people move to Charleston every day. Can you imagine?”

Happy Browder was one of those people whose name absolutely didn’t fit. Grumpy Browder, Cranky Browder, Disapproving Browder—any of these would have been perfect for her. But Happy? It just didn’t work. I wondered if she’d always been like this or if something had happened to create a personality so much at odds with her name. Happy let out an impatient cough before I could give it much thought, prodding Felicia to move things along.

“But Happy lives here now. And we’re so pleased,” Felicia trilled, beaming a smile that looked absolutely sincere. “She’s an interior designer; turned that old carriage house into a showroom for her business. Wasn’t that clever? If you need decorating advice when you move in, you’ll know just who to ask.”

Move in? Felicia clearly misunderstood my intentions. “Oh, but I—”

Before I could say anything more, Felicia gripped my elbow and steered me toward the next neighbor. “And of course, you remember Mr. Laurens.”

I did remember Mr. Laurens. He was famous for two things, being a descendant of the Mr. Laurens who had signed the Declaration of Independence for South Carolina, and being the snobbiest, crankiest old man in Charleston, a man who despised children, Yankees, and anyone who worked for the government. Mr. Laurens did not, however, appear to remember me.

“You’re the new owner?” His voice was gravelly and his drawl as thick as sorghum. He fixed me with his beady eyes; I thought about Jurassic Park and the piercing gaze of the raptors just before they bit the heads off whatever sad, unfortunate human had crossed their path.

“Yes, sir. I suppose I am.” It was still hard to believe, let alone say out loud.

The old man scowled. “Just what we need. ’Nother damn Yankee moving into the neighborhood.”

Felicia put her hand on my forearm. “Now, Charles, Celia is not a Yankee. She’s Calpurnia’s niece. She was born here, a native Charlestonian. Remember?”

He shook his head so hard I thought his glasses were going to fly off.

“Not anymore. She left. Moved to New York City.” He said each word separately, spitting them out like expletives. “No true Charlestonian would ever leave Charleston. And if they did? Well, they’d just be a damn Yankee. And we’ve already got too many of those,” he said, shoving his glasses back up onto his nose and beaming out the raptor stare, first at me, then at the petite woman who was standing next to him.

She appeared to be in her early thirties, was thin to the point of being delicate, with freckles across her nose, pixie-short auburn hair, and the most amazing legs I’ve ever seen on anyone who wasn’t a professional gymnast. I know that seems weird. I’m not generally in the habit of noticing other women’s legs, but the two stems that extended beneath the pleats of her breezy blue cotton skirt were shapely and muscled and basically spectacular. Was she a professional gymnast? Or had she simply won the genetic leg lottery? I was dying to know but this isn’t the kind of thing you can ask a stranger and I had other matters to deal with just then, like cutting Mr. Laurens off at the knees.

“I’m sorry,” I said, raising my hand like a sixth grader requesting a hall pass, “but did you just say that anybody who was born here