“If my beautiful wife had sold the jewelry I’d bought her or gotten a job and taken care of us until I could ride out the storm, it would have been different, but no. The lady walked. You didn’t give me the money I asked you for, Philip. Instead, you offered me a job and a second chance. If you ever need me, just call. You will always know where I am.”

“Thanks, friend,” Philip said. “Just stay in close touch. I know you’ll be back on top. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

They embraced each other, and Reid gazed around him at the prosperity that was Dickerson Estates, cultivated land as far as he could see; fruit and nut orchards. He painted in his memory the big white Georgian mansion, stables, barns and the dormitory he had designed that allowed the eleven men who lived and worked on Dickerson Estates to have privacy within the context of communal living—men of different races, languages and religions whose lives Philip Dickerson had turned around when he gave them a second chance.

It had been his home for six years. Years during which he’d come to accept that the woman he’d loved, who’d sworn that she loved him and who bore his name, had divorced him because he could no longer care for her in the manner to which he had made her accustomed. He gripped Philip’s shoulder and, for a moment, stared into the man’s eyes, sky-blue eyes that he’d always seen as gentle and caring.

Without another word, he walked away. As he headed down the lane to the big iron gate that bore the letters DE, Max, Philip’s foreman, drove past him and stopped.

“Hop in, Reid. Where you headed?”

“The bus station. Trains and planes don’t go to Queenstown, North Carolina, where I have a job.”

“Never heard of it. What part of the state?” Max asked as he drove through the gate.

“It’s over on the Albemarle Sound toward the border with Virginia.”

“It won’t be the same here without you, man. We’ll all miss you. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks, Max.”

Two hours later, Reid sat on an interstate bus headed for the next chapter in his life.

Kendra drove through the sleet and slush to get to the post office. No matter how many times she asked the court clerk to send her mail to her home address, the man sent it to the post office box that she used only to prevent certain people from knowing where she lived. To her delight, she found the clerk’s letter and opened it before she closed and locked her box. “Dear Judge Rutherford,” he wrote.

I am happy to inform you that as of January eleventh, you will preside at criminal court in Queenstown. If I may be of any further assistance, please let me know.

Ethan Sparks, County Clerk

Hmmm. So she had only to ask. It was a lesson she did not plan to forget. Inasmuch as she’d had few reasons to spend her salary, apart from rent and a few personal items, she decided to buy a house. She packed her belongings, had them stored, drove to Queenstown and rented a room in a bed and breakfast, then began her search for a house. After a week, she settled on a town house in Albemarle Gates, a new, elegant Queenstown community on a hill overlooking the Sound and within walking distance of Courthouse Square where she would work. The back of the house afforded an un-obstructed view of the Sound. Delighted with her choice, she signed and received the deed, had her furniture and other belongings moved to her new home and settled in at Number 37A Albemarle Heights, Albemarle Gates.

The second morning Kendra was in her new home, exhausted from moving and arranging furniture, the sound of drums, at least one bugle and a trumpet brought her to her second-floor window facing the street. She dropped the pillows she had been changing on the bed and raced down to the front door to see what she thought was some kind of ceremonial parade. Native Americans, some in full tribal regalia, danced along in traditional tribal steps, and as many African-Americans, including the bugler and the trumpeter, danced with them. When they stopped in front of Albemarle Gates, she was delighted, but when a neighbor standing nearby groaned, “Oh, Lord. Here they are again,” she got a feeling of apprehension.

“What’s the problem?” she asked the young woman.

The woman rolled her eyes and threw up her hands as if in exasperation. “Honey, you don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“They’re picketing the builders, Brown and Worley, because they built this community on top of sacred Indian burial grounds, and in this town, whatever riles the Indians upsets the blacks and vice versa. They stick together, and they get things done, but not this time. Nobody is going to tear down Albemarle Gates. Besides, I hear Brown and Worley are fixing to build another one of these communities over near the park. Where you been you don’t know about this?”