herself felt at a disadvantage walking down the street next to him. He was elegant and beautiful and strong, and next to him she often felt like a puppy that needed grooming.
Angie thought of going home to change, or at least finding a store where she could buy a cap or scarf or something to cover her hair, but then she had no money on her, even if any of the shops along this part of Main Street would offer something so mundane.
The merchants of Ogilvie, it was clear, catered to tourists who came for day trips from Savannah and to the wealthy parents of its undergraduates. She passed Thomasina’s, which seemed to be doing a brisk brunch business; an artisan jeweler; a crowded café-bakery; a clothing boutique with a linen sheath in the window that glimmered in the light. It was made for a long, thin woman who had no bust and no hips, and Angie would have looked like a sack of potatoes in it, which was beside the point: she couldn’t afford a dress like that, and she had no place to wear it. It was an elegant dress, for cocktail parties at the dean’s house or an evening in Savannah at the theater. An Audrey Hepburn, a Jackie Kennedy, a Caroline Rose kind of dress.
Next came a shop called Shards, which advertised itself with a scattering of paper-thin china teacups over a tumble of black velvet in its single window. We buy antique china, porcelain, and glassware was written in fine calligraphy on a small card in the window, and under that: Con-stance Rose Shaw, Proprietor. Appraisals by appointment only. The Rose sisters might have the unruliest sons in all of southeast Georgia, but they were good at other things. Next to Shards was an antique shop, Re-Runs (Eunice Rose Holmes, Proprietor), and beyond that, Fat Quarters (Pearl Rose McCarthy). Connie, Eunice, and Pearl monopolized a full half of the choicest block on Main Street, directly across from campus.
Angie passed a real estate office and an old-fashioned drugstore with large colored-glass vials in the window and then came to Ogilvie Books. A banner spanned the full length of the window: OGILVIE CELEBRATES FIFTY YEARS OF DIVERSITY.
Every book Miss Zula had written was here, in first and more modern editions, many of the jackets sporting silver or gold embossed medallions for one literary prize or another, a galaxy of small stars. Angie wondered if Tony had already been here to shoot stills. The truth was he probably had been, but she should have been with him, making contacts and setting up interviews. Instead she had been hiding in Ivy House. That would have to change.
In the middle of the display of books was a photo of a very young Zula in a cap and gown, accepting a diploma from a portly man. A newspaper article dated 1952, matted and framed, stood beside it on a carved oak easel. The headline was still dark and clear: “Ogilvie College Awards Diploma to Local Negro Woman.”
“What a difference fifty years make, eh?”
Angie jumped, a hand pressed to her heart, and then stepped back against the window.
“Rob.”
Rob Grant, a younger, darker, and more easygoing version of his brother, had never been one to stand on formalities. He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug that smelled of the bakery bag he held in one hand, yeast and dark sugars and cinnamon.
“Angie, I was wondering when I’d run into you. Don’t you look good.”
“So do you. So you ended up back in Ogilvie after all.”
“Where else, for one of Lucy Ogilvie’s boys? And Kai—my wife?—Kai is on the math faculty here.”
“I heard that someplace. You look happy.”
“I gave up on the law and I married well. What’s not to be happy? Hey.” He held up the bakery bag. “I’m on my way home for a late breakfast. Kai wants to meet you, and there’s coffee on. Unless you’ve already had breakfast?”
“I ate with Miss Zula and Maddie.”
Rob raised an eyebrow. “The Rose girls’ monthly
Angie thought of going home to change, or at least finding a store where she could buy a cap or scarf or something to cover her hair, but then she had no money on her, even if any of the shops along this part of Main Street would offer something so mundane.
The merchants of Ogilvie, it was clear, catered to tourists who came for day trips from Savannah and to the wealthy parents of its undergraduates. She passed Thomasina’s, which seemed to be doing a brisk brunch business; an artisan jeweler; a crowded café-bakery; a clothing boutique with a linen sheath in the window that glimmered in the light. It was made for a long, thin woman who had no bust and no hips, and Angie would have looked like a sack of potatoes in it, which was beside the point: she couldn’t afford a dress like that, and she had no place to wear it. It was an elegant dress, for cocktail parties at the dean’s house or an evening in Savannah at the theater. An Audrey Hepburn, a Jackie Kennedy, a Caroline Rose kind of dress.
Next came a shop called Shards, which advertised itself with a scattering of paper-thin china teacups over a tumble of black velvet in its single window. We buy antique china, porcelain, and glassware was written in fine calligraphy on a small card in the window, and under that: Con-stance Rose Shaw, Proprietor. Appraisals by appointment only. The Rose sisters might have the unruliest sons in all of southeast Georgia, but they were good at other things. Next to Shards was an antique shop, Re-Runs (Eunice Rose Holmes, Proprietor), and beyond that, Fat Quarters (Pearl Rose McCarthy). Connie, Eunice, and Pearl monopolized a full half of the choicest block on Main Street, directly across from campus.
Angie passed a real estate office and an old-fashioned drugstore with large colored-glass vials in the window and then came to Ogilvie Books. A banner spanned the full length of the window: OGILVIE CELEBRATES FIFTY YEARS OF DIVERSITY.
Every book Miss Zula had written was here, in first and more modern editions, many of the jackets sporting silver or gold embossed medallions for one literary prize or another, a galaxy of small stars. Angie wondered if Tony had already been here to shoot stills. The truth was he probably had been, but she should have been with him, making contacts and setting up interviews. Instead she had been hiding in Ivy House. That would have to change.
In the middle of the display of books was a photo of a very young Zula in a cap and gown, accepting a diploma from a portly man. A newspaper article dated 1952, matted and framed, stood beside it on a carved oak easel. The headline was still dark and clear: “Ogilvie College Awards Diploma to Local Negro Woman.”
“What a difference fifty years make, eh?”
Angie jumped, a hand pressed to her heart, and then stepped back against the window.
“Rob.”
Rob Grant, a younger, darker, and more easygoing version of his brother, had never been one to stand on formalities. He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug that smelled of the bakery bag he held in one hand, yeast and dark sugars and cinnamon.
“Angie, I was wondering when I’d run into you. Don’t you look good.”
“So do you. So you ended up back in Ogilvie after all.”
“Where else, for one of Lucy Ogilvie’s boys? And Kai—my wife?—Kai is on the math faculty here.”
“I heard that someplace. You look happy.”
“I gave up on the law and I married well. What’s not to be happy? Hey.” He held up the bakery bag. “I’m on my way home for a late breakfast. Kai wants to meet you, and there’s coffee on. Unless you’ve already had breakfast?”
“I ate with Miss Zula and Maddie.”
Rob raised an eyebrow. “The Rose girls’ monthly
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