BareBones by Kathy Reichs

Author:Kathy Reichs [Kathy Reichs]
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-09-14T01:47:06.392111+00:00

Charlotte is neighborhoods. Elizabeth. Myers Park. Dillworth. Plaza-Midwood.

Most cling to the past like Boston biddies gripping the genealogy charts that

identify them as Daughters of the American Revolution. Zoning is enforced. Trees

are protected. Nontraditional architecture, if not banned outright by a

homeowners’ ordinance, is viewed with disapproval by obdurate residents.

But that times-of-yore grip has slipped uptown, where the theme is concrete,

glass, and steel. Those same Charlotteans who sip martinis on magnolia-shaded

patios in the evening take pride in their city’s skyscraper core during the

working day. In fact, it is the preservationists who are on the run uptown.

One circle out from the nerve center lie four wards, three of which have

undergone modernization in recent decades.

Though not exactly Williamsburg, Fourth Ward is the city’s version of an

historic district. The neighborhood is whimsical Victorians, tasteful brick

condos and town homes, narrow streets with towering shade trees. There is even a

faux colonial tavern.

In First and Third Wards there was no pretense at historic preservation. During

the eighties and nineties, the old was bulldozed for the new, and run-down

bungalows, shabby repair shops, and seedy diners gave way to the modern multiuse

concept. Offices and homes above, specialty shops below. Condos, apartments, and

lofts proliferated, all with views of man-made ponds, and names like Clarkson

Green, Cedar Mills, Skyline Terrace, Tivoli.

Lija’s town house was in Third Ward’s Elm Ridge, tucked between Frazier Park and

the Carolina Panthers practice fields. The complex consisted of double rows of

two-story duplexes facing each other across grassy courtyards. Each unit

featured a wide front porch with a swing or rockers, bird feeders and hanging

ferns optional.

In the early dusk, Elm Ridge looked like a pastel rainbow. In my mind I heard

the architectural planning session. Charleston yellow. Savannah peach.

Birmingham buff.

Lija’s was the last unit in the eastern row of the middle pair. Miami melon with

Key West holly-berry shutters.

Ryan and I climbed to the porch and I rang the bell. The doormat statedHI ,I ’M

MAT!

As we waited my eyes were drawn to the swing, and my heart seemed to drop to my

toes. My gaze darted left then right. Was the stalker out there, even now,

watching us?

Sensing my apprehension, Ryan squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, forced my lips

into an upward arc. I would give Katy a heads-up when I had her alone, but I

would not transmit the full extent of my fear to her.

My daughter hugged me, stated approval of my look, the black linen number with a

slapdash iron job. Then her eyes went to Ryan.

My date had chosen an ensemble of ecru pants, blue blazer, pale yellow shirt,

and yellow and navy polka-dot tie.

And high-top sneakers. Red.

With an almost imperceptible cocking of one eyebrow, Katy smiled at Ryan and

relieved him of the hors d’ouevres. Then she led us inside and introduced us to

the other guests, Lija’s current boyfriend, Brandon Salamone, a woman named

Willow, and a man named Cotton.

And the irresistibly handsome Palmer Cousins.

Cousins’s outfit suggested whole colonies of homeless mulberry worms. Silk tie.

Silk shirt. Silk trousers and jacket with modest input from merino sheep.

Katy offered wine and beer, excused herself, returned and again offered wine and

beer, then asked in a whisper that I join her in the kitchen.

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