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right?”
    â€œYessir. That I is. My great grandpappy was the overseer of this place back before the War between the States; back when they was thousands of acres of cotton and corn under cultivation. He were killed in the fightin’ ’round here. ’64, I think it were. My grandpappy stayed on, as did my pappy. I took over ’bout twenty years ago or so. Don’t rightly remember.”
    â€œDid you paint the house?” Tracy asked.
    Lige seemed to smile mysteriously, his eyes almost glowing. “House ain’t been painted in years, ma’am.”
    Man and wife looked at one another, neither of them believing the caretaker. The house had been painted, recently—by somebody. But why would Lige lie?
    Jackie and Johnny entered the ballroom, empty except for a beautiful grand piano. Tracy had already removed the sheet covering the piano and had found it to be highly polished and perfectly in tune.
    Lige’s strange eyes touched on the boy and girl. Something flickered behind the eyes. Because of the position of the man’s head, neither parent caught the odd light. But the kids picked it up. They held hands, seeking comfort in contact, struggling to keep from backing up in fright.
    â€œY’all gonna fix up the mansion and sell ’er, huh?” Lige asked.
    â€œThat is our intention,” Tracy said.
    â€œEven if you do that, it ain’t gonna get neither of you the money Lady Bowers set aside for the place,” Lige said with a grin. It was ugly and knowing and very sarcastic.
    â€œYes, it will,” Lucas said, taking some offense at the man’s attitude. “But that isn’t what we’re after.” Goddamn, he thought. Why should I explain anything to this man?
    â€œUh-huh,” Lige said, more a grunt. He pointed toward the rear of the house. “When you want me to fetch anything for you, I’ll be back yonder. Step through the kitchen and holler. I’ll come.”
    He abruptly turned around and walked away, his clodhopper shoes thudding with a hollow sound on the floor. He stopped, turned around, and said, “Y’all listen to me. The house don’t wanna be sold.”
    Lige Manning left them with that.
    Lucas and Tracy looked at each other. Both of them wore a very confused expression on their faces.
    â€œDid he say what I think he said?” Tracy asked.
    â€œWe both heard him,” Lucas said.
    â€œAnd so did we,” Jackie and Johnny said in unison.
    â€œHe’s probably senile,” Tracy said. “And afraid of losing his job.”
    â€œThat’s as good an explanation as any,” Lucas agreed.
    â€œWhat money, Dad?” Jackie asked.
    It took Lucas half a minute to fathom what she was talking about. “Tell you all what. Let’s fix some lunch and take it out on the porch. We’ll talk there and I’ll explain it.”
    With sandwiches and soft drinks, the family went onto the south veranda. Lucas could not see Lige, but the man may well have been hiding, listening behind the shrubbery.
    â€œGrandmother Bowers died when I was fifteen,” Lucas began explaining. Tracy listened as intently as the kids, for she knew only a part of the story. It had always made Lucas angry and, to her way of thinking, very bitter whenever she brought up the question. Bitter not at her, but at some unknown. After a few tries, she had finally dropped the subject. But it had always intrigued her. “She died on my birthday, March tenth. My mother and father died not too long after that; Mother died in August, Dad died in February. Six months apart. You’ve all been told I was an only child. That’s not true.”
    Tracy forgot her sandwich. She had been ravenous only seconds before. Now her hunger was forgotten.
    â€œI have an older brother. He was committed to a mental institution when he was twelve. I was six years old at the time.”
    The play of numbers triggered something in