Taking in my leggings and new Max Mara tunic, Charlie nodded approval. “Yessiree. She cleans up real good.” He gave the modifier at least five e’s.

“You used that same line earlier today.”

“Experience has taught me the value of moderation.”

“Moderation.”

“If I let loose unbridled wit, women show up from all over town. I once crafted three smooth lines in a single evening. Cops had to set up barricades.”

“How annoying for the neighbors.”

“I got a letter of complaint from the homeowners association.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Walk or ride?” Charlie asked.

I tipped my head in question.

“The place has four levels.”

“There’s an elevator,” I guessed.

Charlie gave a humble what’s-one-to-do? smile.

“Are we going to the top?”

“Kitchen’s on two.”

“I’ll rough it,” I said.

Leading the way, Charlie explained the layout. Office and garage down, living-dining room, kitchen, and den on two, bedrooms on three, party room and terrace on four.

The decor was Pottery Barn modern, done using a palette of browns and cream. Probably umber and ecru in designer-speak.

But the furnishings showed a personal touch. Paintings, most modern, a few traditional and obviously old. Sculptures in wood and metal. An African carving. A mask I guessed was Indonesian.

As we climbed, I couldn’t help noticing photos. Family gatherings, some with faces colored like choices in coffee, others with skin in the mocha-olive range.

Posed shots of a tall black man in a Celtics jersey. Charles “CC” Hunt in his NBA days.

Framed snapshots. A ski trip. A beach outing. A sailing excursion. In most, Charlie stood or sat beside a willowy woman with long black hair and cinnamon skin. The wife who died on 9/11? I spotted my answer in a wedding portrait on the living room mantel.

I looked away, saddened. Embarrassed? Charlie was watching. His eyes clouded but he made no comment.

The kitchen was all stainless steel and natural wood. Charlie’s culinary efforts covered one granite countertop.

He waved a hand over the platters. “Rosemary-rubbed lamb chops. Marinated zucchini. Mixed salad à la Hunt.”

“Impressive.” My eyes drifted to the table. It was set for two.

Charlie noticed my noticing.

“Unfortunately, Katy had a prior engagement.”

“Uh-huh.” Washing her hair, no doubt.

“Wine? Martini?”

Apparently my daughter hadn’t mentioned my colorful past.

“Perrier, please.”

“Lemon?”

“Perfect.”

“Nondrinker?” Spoken from behind the opened refrigerator door.

“Mm.”

Though Charlie knew I’d knocked back my share of beers in high school, he didn’t ask about my changed relationship with booze. I liked that.

“Join me on the terrace? The view’s not bad.”

I’ve never been an autumn person. I find the season bittersweet, nature’s last gasp before the clocks are turned back and life hunkers down for the long, dark winter.

Forget Johnny Mercer’s “Autumn Leaves.” In my view the original French title had it right. “Les feuilles mortes.” The dead leaves.

Maybe it’s because of my work, my daily intimacy with death. Who knows? Give me crocuses and daffodils and little baby chicks.

Nevertheless, Charlie’s “not bad” was an understatement. The evening was so sparkling it seemed almost alive, the kind you get when the summer pollen has settled and the fall foliage has yet to gear up for action. A zillion stars dotted the sky. The illuminated towers and skyscrapers made uptown resemble a Disney creation. Mr. Money’s Wild Ride.

As Charlie grilled, we talked, testing pathways. Naturally, the first led down memory lane.

Parties at “the rock.” Spring break at Myrtle Beach. We laughed hardest at memories of our junior float, a tissue-paper and chicken-wire whale with booted legs kicking from its open mouth. Whale Not Swallow De-Feet. At the time we’d thought the pun Groucho Marx clever.

We cringed at recollections of ourselves during the all-time nadir in fashion history. Crushed-velvet jackets. Crocheted beer label hats. Macramé purses. Candies pumps.

No reference was made to the Skylark.

Chops and veggies grilled, we descended to the dining room. As our comfort level grew, conversation turned to more serious issues.

Charlie talked of a teen whose defense he was handling. Mildly retarded, the boy had been charged with murdering two of his grandparents.

I discussed the cauldron bones, Anson Tyler, and Boyce Lingo’s latest showboating. Why not? Between them, Lingo and Stallings had put practically all of it out there.

“Lingo’s suggesting the cases are linked?” Charlie asked.

“He’s implying it. He’s wrong. First of all, Anson Tylor wasn’t decapitated. And, while I’ll admit that the Lake Wylie mutilation suggests Satanism, there’s no hint of devil worship in the Greenleaf cellar. The barnyard animals, the statue of Saint Barbara, the carving of Eleggua, the cauldrons. It all smacks of some form of Santería.”

“Ignore him. Lingo’s positioning for a run at a state senate seat and needs publicity.”

“Who votes for that jackass?”

Charlie took my question as rhetorical. “Dessert?”

“Sure.”

He disappeared, returned with pie slices the size of warships.

“Please tell me you didn’t make this.”

“Banana cream purchased at Edible Art. Though galactic, sadly, my powers have boundaries.” Charlie sat.

“Thank God.”

Two bites and I winged back to Lingo. This round, I really cranked up.

“Lingo’s hysterics about Satanists and child murder are going to scare the hell out of people. Worse. He could inspire the right-wing loony fringe to start burning crosses on the lawns of Ashkenazim and Athabascans. I’ve seen it happen. Some holier-than-thou nitwit hits the airwaves, next thing you know folks are organizing down at the mini-mart to go out and kick ass.” I air-jabbed my fork for emphasis. “Statues? Beads? Coconut shells? Forget it. Satan wasn’t on the A list down in that cellar.”

Charlie raised his palms in my direction. “Put down your weapon and we all walk away.”

I lay my fork on my plate. Changed my mind, picked it up, and dived back into the pie. I’d hate myself later. Tough.

“Lingo really pissed you off,” Charlie said.

“It’s one of his specialties.” Garbled through crumbs and banana.

“You done venting?”

I started to protest. Stopped, embarrassed.

“Sorry. You’re right.”

We both ate in silence. Then, “Athabascans?”

I looked up. Charlie was smiling.

“Ashkenazim?”

“You know what I mean. Minority groups that are not understood.”

“Aleuts?” he suggested.

“Good one.”

We both laughed. Charlie reached out, stopped, as though surprised by the action of his hand. Awkwardly, he pointed one finger.

“You have whipped cream on your lip.”

I made a swipe with my napkin.

“So,” I said.

“So,” he said.

“This was nice.”

“It was.” Charlie’s face was fixed in an expression I couldn’t interpret.

Awkward beat.

I rose and began gathering dishes.

“Not a chance.” Shooting to his feet, Charlie took the plates from my hands. “My house. My rules.”

“Dictatorial,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed.

An hour later I lay curled in my bed. Alone. Perhaps it was the panty-tumble incident. Whatever. Birdie was keeping his distance.

The room was silent. Slivers of moonlight slashed the armoire.

Given the calm of the room and the demands of the day, I should have fallen asleep quickly. Instead, my thoughts spun like whirligig blades.

I’d enjoyed Charlie’s company. Conversation had been easy, not strained as I’d anticipated.

Sudden realization. I’d done most of the talking. Was that good? Was Charlie Hunt the silent, pensive type? Still waters running deep? Shallow waters barely running at all?