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21 The untrained eye might think this is a guest room. Or that, even if it was Audrey’s room at one time, it’s long since been emptied out and converted to the sparse little office with the fold-down Murphy bed that Hayden and I are standing before. The untrained eye would be wrong. This is exactly what Audrey’s

20 “They did their best,” Margaret says. “The truth is, I think all my mother ever really wanted was to make her art. And I think all my father ever wanted was to be my mother’s husband. When either of them felt like those things were being challenged…well, they never really learned to compromise. Not until

19 Margaret answers her own door on Saturday morning, and I’m so caught off guard that for three seconds after she greets me, I just stare. “Where’s Jodi?” I finally ask when I step inside and slip my shoes off. “Day off,” Margaret says shortly, and leads me down the hallway. “Too hot to be outside

18 Old Mo’s Sugar House is a hit from the beginning. For one thing, the entire exterior is painted in three separate shades of frosting pink. It’s a little grungy from the passing of time, but still looks like the setting of my childhood dreams. It’s the same kind of fare as Ray’s or the Atomic Café,

17 We wander the quaint streets of Savannah, past old stone buildings and Greek revival homes with porches stacked up three levels, live oaks sweeping low and draped in Spanish moss. It’s late, but we’re not alone. Pockets of revelers spill out of a redbrick bar on the corner, and a woman on the steps of

16 “My mother,” Margaret says, “was a magnificent woman.” “Everything I’ve ever read about her agrees,” I say quietly, matching Margaret’s volume, trying not to jerk her from the memory fogging over her eyes. I want her to linger. We’ve finally reached the people who shaped her most, and I want to stay here. “My father

15 Normally I don’t have trouble sleeping, but Thursday arrives, for me, well before the sun rises, and no matter how many times I turn over beneath the top sheet, the bed feels too warm, and I can’t drift back off. Around four thirty, I finally flick on the bedside lamp, the buttery glow hitting the

14 On Monday, I’m working over dinner at Rum Room when I find something strange. I’m prepping for tomorrow’s interview with Margaret, to continue her grandfather’s story after his affair with the actress Nina Gill ended, and I come across a news item, in Vanity Fair, covering the opulent 1949 wedding of Gerald’s niece, Ruth Allen. The little

13 My last text from Theo came in at three p.m.: Finishing up here soon. One good thing about Theo Bouras is that he is, like me, a social creature by nature. Not only was he delighted at the thought of going to Cecil’s not-birthday party, but he’d offered to meet me there, so I didn’t have

12 “The mystery illness,” I say. “I remember reading about that. Two years where Nina Gill couldn’t work. Right as talkies started coming out.” “And she was in the news more than ever,” Margaret agrees. “I can guess what your Dove Franklin had to say about all of that in his so-called book.” “Since when am I responsible for him?”