Chatham Square

"Give them to Tony," Ginny answered straight away. "Tonight. I understand your predicament. And I think Tony would too. But there's no need to get into that. Just give them to Tony and say you found them in Big George's office just now—that you've never seen them before."

"You think that'll be all right? I somehow feel that—"

"Trust me, Tony will be so happy to see those letters that he won't ask any questions. And I bet it will perk Tony right up. You'll be doing him the greatest of favors. You don't have to tell him how long you've known about them. That won't change anything. He'll just be delighted to have them."

Harold thanked Ginny and picked the letters up and headed for the backstage area.

Ginny hoped that he'd at least wait until Marie Antoinette had done her set or they'd never see the French queen on stage tonight—and apparently that was the case, because Tony appeared and was brilliant.

And the next day, when she appeared at William's Café, Tony was full of life and sass and walking on air. So Ginny was sure that had all worked out well in the end.

Chapter Five

"There now, you've got it. I think you're ready to help with Marie's smile."

"It's her eye, isn't it? It's her eye I'm putting in. You said this was the eye."

They were sitting at the workbench in Ginny's apartment. Samantha was all attention and seriousness and care, and Ginny wanted to both laugh and cry as she looked upon Samantha's concentration to get the blue pupil of the eye "just so" on the practice template.

"Yes, it's her eyes you'll be putting in—or, rather, the very center of the eye. We call that the pupil. When someone is happy, Samantha, they smile from much more than the mouth. You can see it in their eyes—and you can feel it in places you can't see."

"In places you can't see?"

"Yes. You can feel it in the heart as well. Now, it's time you gave this Marie Antoinette doll the smile in her eyes—that's what the sparkles in the paint will do. Careful now—but don't worry, if it doesn't come out just right, we can take it off and do it over."

"Do it over. We can do that?"

"Yes, with dolls we can do that." Ginny knew it was time. She released the precious doll into the hands of the little girl. Then she sighed. "Sometimes I wish it was that easy to do over in real life—for people to do that."

"My mamma says people can have do overs," Samantha said without even considering what she was saying. All of her concentration was on the doll as she approached its face with the tip of the charged paint brush. "She says that's why we go to church—so we can be given do overs."

"Your mother's a wise—and patient—woman, Samantha. You're lucky to have her. There, that was perfect. Just perfect. Now, let's charge the brush with more of the glittery paint and we can do the second pupil."

"My mother smiles a lot. Even when I don't think there's anything to smile about."

"That's a gift your mother has then, Samantha. Here, here's the brush again. Turn her head just a bit that way. It's a secret of the art, but if the paint is just a bit heavier on this side, the eye will look more realistic—it will seem she's looking right back at you."

"My mamma gots a letter yesterday. It was from my daddy. She cried. But then when she saw I was there, she looked right back at me and she smiled."

Ginny had to look away. It wasn't that she couldn't bear to watch Samantha put in that last pupil—because Samantha was doing it just right; her hand was steady and her aim was true. It was because she just couldn't bear to think what was in that letter from Samantha's father and what strength Samantha's mother must have needed to smile.

"I like my mamma's smile. I think she smiles from the heart. You have a nice smile too. Are you smiling in your heart?"

"I wish. I only wish." It was not what Ginny said but what she whispered inside her mind; it was what she could do no more than wish for.

* * * *

"She did a good job. See how it sparkles in the sunlight?"

"I sure do like Miss Marie Antoinette smiling more than sad," Tony said, as he looked down at the Marie Antoinette doll Ginny had taken out and propped up on its box in the café seat. Tom looked over at the doll from his adjacent seat in William's Café and smiled. "And you say that little girl, Samantha, painted on those eyes herself?"

"Yes, well the pupils, she did. And I let her do a few stitches on the hem here in back. She was delighted to do it—and just as careful as she could be. She's really a delightful little girl. I wish there was something we . . . I could do for her."

"Me too," Tom chimed in. "You can keep that 'we.' I've given her some books from the shop in exchange for some light dusting and shelving, but she deserves better than what the world is throwing at her."

"Do you think her father will ever come back?" Ginny asked.

"Not likely," Tony said with a snort. "How many men go to New Orleans to make their fortunes when they've facing off with all those folks leaving New Orleans because of the afterfall of that Hurricane Katrina. But, bite my tongue for being a spiteful bitch."

"How so?" Ginny asked, looking up at Tony, startled.

"Well, I knew of that Rodney Johnson before he left. He did blow a mean horn—down in some of the clubs downtown. And at the time of his leaving, I didn't mark him for a man who would leave his family. But then maybe he was trying and the world just got too heavy a burden for him. This ain't no make-believe world we live in. We have to do with what we got and smile at it—and accept it."

"My, that's a long, noble speech," Ginny said. "Did you hear that down at Club One?" She was glad that she had slid into a comfortable relationship with Tony like this. He was refreshing to talk to. Not that Tom wasn't nice to talk to also. She really did like meeting Tom here for breakfast—or for lunch, as she was doing today. But discussions with him were more serious—about books and art and such. And they still avoided the type of topic that Ginny increasingly was interested in getting to with Tom.

"Nope. My momma done told me that."

"Your mother?"

"Yep. In her last letter. Got it yesterday."

"Oh," Ginny said, feeling a warm glow deep down inside her. Tony indeed had been a whole new, much sunnier—and, of course, even more flamboyant—character since he'd gotten that stack of letters from his mother.

"Harold couldn't keep it in," Tony continued. "He told me it was you who told him to just march right in and give me those letters as I come off stage at Club One. You know, every day here, you seem to be more and more like that Aunt Marie of yours. And speaking, of which, look and see what we have here. Why, as I live and breathe, I do think it's you, Mr. Richards. Out and about."

Ginny and Tom looked up, surprised to see Arnie Richards outside of his apartment.

"Arnie!" Ginny exclaimed. "Please. Please come and join us. What brings you out?"

"Thanks. Don't mind if I do. A cup of that swill you call coffee here, Tony, if you please. What brings me out? Well, that doctor you got me to—thanks, Tom, for taking me there—said that as soon as I could put weight on my foot without my ankle wincing, I'd best give it some exercise or it will lock up on me. And this far is about all the exercise I could manage today."

"Here, here, sit by Marie Antoinette."

"It's a beautiful doll, Ginny. Did you say you were going to let that little girl, Samantha, help you finish it out?"

"I did. And if you can't tell what she did to it, then I guess she did a very good job."

"Think she'll grow up to be an artist?"

"She wants to be a doctor," Ginny said.

"Too bad. Not much of a chance of that with the beginning she's getting," Arnie said.

"More the pity that," Tom interjected. "I just wish there was something that could be done for that leg of hers."

"There is, of course," Ginny said.

"But can you imagine the money it would take for that?" Tom said.

Arnie reentered the conversation in a thoughtful mode. "I know a surgeon here—but, no, that would still take a small fortune. That's too high a dream."

"Are any dreams truly too high?" Tom asked. Ginny saw his hand move to the inner pocket of his jacket and half pull an envelope from there. She wondered if it was the same letter he'd referred to the other day—and, if so, why he was still carrying it around. This wasn't the same jacket.

And when she thought of the jacket, it occurred to her that she was shivering a bit, in spite of the sweater she was wearing. It was usually OK out here, but occasionally a breeze went through that reminded her that she'd been told not to toss all of her fall and winter things when she'd moved down here from Richmond—that it could get pretty cool in Savannah later in the year too.

But then she was struck by how this bantering conversation was running much deeper than she realized when Arnie said, "Some dreams—when they reach too high—can bring all dreaming crashing down where some smaller dreams might have been achieved if you just didn't aim too high. I gave up dreaming some time ago."

"But it's never really too late to start building dreams up again, is it?" Tom asked in a soft voice.

"For some people . . . sometimes . . . I think it is." Arnie answered.

And Ginny knew it was Anne he was thinking of, and she reached out and took Arnie's hand in hers . . . and he let her.

"So, what's in the other box?" Tony was back and the sun overhead must have broken free from a cloud, because he was standing in a beam of light and Ginny didn't feel the chill in the air anymore.

"The other box? Oh that. The box here next to Marie Antoinette in the chair. That's another doll. I'm taking them to display at the college—showing the range of subjects you can do with dolls. A reporter from the Savannah Morning News is supposed to come down to cover our new exhibits."

"So, the other doll isn't a tragic historical queen destined to lose her head?"

"A queen of sorts—at least from around here," Ginny said with a giggle. "Here, I'll show you. You can tell me who that is." She opened the box and set the second doll down beside the Marie Antoinette doll in the chair. "There. Who is it?"

Tony was laughing as Tom and Arnie leaned over, scrutinizing the doll of an entirely different time and place as the first one, and shook their heads.

"I don't know. You, Tom?" Arnie said.

"Haven't a clue, although it does look strangely familiar," Tom answered.

Tony was still laughing.

"Tell them who that is, Tony," she said, knowing he would know.

"Why, honey childs, that spatula she's got in her hand done gave it away. That's our very own Paula Deen."

"Oh, that's right," Tom said. "I should have seen it."

Arnie still looked perplexed.

"She's our local cooking and restaurant maven," Tom explained to Arnie. "Owns restaurants all over the place and shows up all over TV cooking programs. One of our living legends. You haven't been out for a while, have you, Arnie? Good job, Ginny. I didn't know you could have so much fun with these dolls."

They all heard the snort and looked up as the man from the Greek Revival pile on the west side of the square walked by with a bunch of letters in his hand. There was a mailbox down at the corner he was headed toward.

"Ah, Mr. Grump," Ginny said after he'd passed by.

"Who? Mr. Winthrop?" Arnie spoke up. "Oh, he's pretty blunt, but he's a fine man."

"More reclusive and a bit eccentric, I'd say," Tom piped in. "He comes in the bookstore frequently. We carry his books."

"His books?" Ginny was a little bewildered.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard of his poetry," Tony chimed in as he started clearing the table of debris. "He's Clayton Winthrop. His poetry is absolutely dreamy. Don't see him much outside his house, though."

"That's the poet Clayton Winthrop?" Ginny asked in disbelief.

"Yep. Pretty scary, isn't it?" Tony chirped "I'll bet you imagined someone looking like Lord Byron. I'll have to admit that would have been nice."

"Well, I hadn't imagined someone who had been so short with me when I passed him in front of his house would write sensitive poetry."

"He's a bit prickly, but mostly harmless," Tom said. "He's been disappointed in love and isn't too trusting anymore. You can see it in his poetry when you read closely. A tragic love affair, I understand. Jilted on the way to that altar—dumped while he was off fighting in Vietnam."

"And he has a heart of gold," Arnie added. "His family owned the import business that bailed Anne and me out in Kenya. That's how we got to the States—why we settled here in Savannah. He was a good and fair employer. He treated us well."

Ginny was still processing that as Winthrop was passing back by the café after mailing his letter.

"Hello there, Mr. Winthrop," Tom called out to him. "Care to join us for a cup of coffee and some chat?"

"Yes, please do," Arnie chimed in. "I don't think you've properly met our Ginny here."

Winthrop stopped, dead in his tracks, clearly startled by the invitation. But pleased too. You could see that creep across his face. "Uh, thanks, Tom. Arnie. I believe I'd like that."

"Mr. Winthrop," Tom was saying as the elderly man approached the table and Ginny was boxing up her dolls and moving them to a chair at an adjacent free table, "This is Ginny, a fairly new resident here. She's Marie Purcell's niece. You remember Marie. Ginny's living in Marie's apartment."

"Marie. Oh my, oh yes, I remember Marie. A great woman—and friend—was Marie."

As Clayton Winthrop settled in—as they all settled back in as if they were life-long friends—Ginny's thoughts went to Rose and why Clayton Winthrop had been so adamantly down on her. And when Ginny's thoughts went to Rose, she realized that the breeze had come up again and she was clutching her sweater about her. It would get colder than this—much colder—before it started turning warm again in Savannah. Ginny was worried about Rose and what she would do in the colder months—even where she spent her nights even now. So many worries. So little Ginny could do about it. She wondered what Marie would do.

Chapter Six

"It would just be for the cold months. I have plenty of room."

"Thanks for asking, Ginny. But no, no thank you. I can manage. I've always had more than enough."

Rose and Ginny were out in the Chatham Square park—sitting on the same bench. Rose was busy mixing and matching her bits of cloth around her two-thirds of the bench—she'd invited Ginny to sit with her, but she had remained in command of the bench—as Ginny had just finished feeding bread crumbs to the birds and was beginning to take up the sewing of the skirt for a new doll, one she'd been commissioned to do.

"But it's going to get colder—or so I've been told."

"I dress plenty warm."

"I know you do. But I worry about you out in the cold at night. And I have a perfectly fine single bed in my workroom—a studio couch, but it has a good mattress. I'd be the happier. I'd be the happier knowing you were inside, safe at night. At least for the colder months."

"Thanks. But I have my routine. I've had it for years and it works quite well for me. I live in a mansion."

Ginny was perplexed and then she looked at Rose, whose gaze was looking up and around and scanning from west to east in Chatham Square. And then Ginny had to laugh, as this, indeed, was a mansion they all lived in here in this square. The Fan district of Richmond had been very nice, but Ginny hadn't seen anything to compare with Savannah's generous pattern of squares and parks for livability.

They sat, quietly, companionable, as Ginny began to sew and Rose continued mixing and matching swatches and humming to herself in a deep, rich contralto voice.

It was Rose who broke into the mood.

"You know she offered me that room too."

"She?"

"Yes, your Aunt Marie. She said she was worried for me too. A fine woman, your Aunt Marie. And she had me going there for a short while. And when I didn't budge, do you know what she said?"

"No, what?"

"She said she wanted me to meet her niece sometime. I didn't know what that meant then, but I think I do now. Thanks for the offer, but I'll have to pass. There are people in this world who need help. But I'm not one of them."

As she said this, Ginny felt Rose was speaking with some deeper meaning, and she looked up and saw that Rose was staring across the park—at Samantha Johnson, just struggling home from school under a backpack filled with books that looked like it was almost as big as she was.

"Ah, Samantha. Yes, she is a worry, isn't she?" Ginny murmured.

"These things have a way of working themselves out. Sometimes time heals. And then sometimes it doesn't." Rose gave a snort at that.

"I feel so sad for her. She told me that her mother received a letter from her father and cried. Someone was talking at lunch today about some dreams being just too big—that maybe we should settle for smaller dreams. Do you think Samantha's dream of her father sweeping back in and solving all of her problems is a dream that's too big?"

"Well, having a father by your side, rich or not, is quite a comfort. But problems? There are no end to those. Happily, there's no end to solutions too. As for Samantha's father, I'm sure she would be a happy girl just to have him home again."

"Do you think that will ever happen?"

"You mentioned her mother getting a letter from her father and crying. You know letters can go two ways and anyone can send a letter. I could see that there might be some crying going on at her father's end of the letter chain too. And not all crying is bad. Some of it can be a joy."

Ginny looked over at Rose, who was smiling a little smile and started humming again and rocking back and forth, her hands shuffling pieces of cloth back and forth and comparing and holding them up against each other.

It was just Rose's way, Ginny was beginning to understand. She was a strongly independent, stubborn, and eccentric woman. There was no telling what she'd say or do. She'd be making complete sense at one moment and then fly off into something completely incomprehensible. And obviously that was the way she wanted to live her life; Ginny would just have to let her be.

Rose suddenly stopped humming and almost blurted out her next statement. "I think our Samantha there will be a stronger young woman for the childhood she's having. I think in the long run it will be good for her."

"I suppose," Ginny answered. The tone of her voice was full of doubt.

"And you. I sense that you have some sadness in your life, Ginny. Don't you think it has made you stronger?"

Ginny didn't say anything, but she had to admit to herself that it was something to think about. But as the silence stretched out, it was something entirely different that entered her mind—and then begged to be let out.

"Rose. Clapton Winthrop from the house over there. He seems to hold a grudge against you, and I can't—"

"Ah you've met our resident poet, have you? And I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. He's a fine poet."

"Yes, but—"

"And he told you to stay away from the Wicked Witch of the Park, I suppose."

"Well, yes, if not exactly in those words. He was pretty vehement about it."

"He's entitled, I guess."

"I don't understand."

Rose sighed and put down the swatches of cloth she had been holding up to the sunlight filtering through the sheltering limbs of the tall trees and dug into a worn leather valise wedged between her and Ginny. "Well, if we are on shared bird-feeding relations, I guess you should be privy to the deepest, darkest secret of Chatham Square," she said, as she drew forth a yellow, folded over sheet of paper.

She didn't open it or hand it over immediately, though.

"Have you heard of Clayton Winthrop's tragedy?"