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"Oh, very tasty, Rye. I'm just not that excited about eating right now."

"Well, ole Rye Whiskey's goin' ta change that." His eyes crinkled in a smile and he nodded his head again. "So, how you-gettin' along, Miss Annie?"

"It's hard, Rye." Funny, I thought, but I felt comfortable being honest with him right from the start. Maybe it was because of the way Mother had spoken about him.

"Oh, I expect it would be." He leaned back on his heels. "I can remember the first time yer mama came ta the kitchen ta see me. Remember it just like it was yesterday. Just like you, she was so much like her own mama. She would come in an' watch me cookin' for hours, sittin' there on a stool, restin' her head on her hand and pepperin' me with all sorts of questions 'bout the Tattertons. She was 'bout as curious as a kitten who got inta a linen basket."

"What did she want to know?"

"Oh, jes"bout eveythin' I could remember 'bout this family--uncles, aunts, Mr. Tatterton's pappy and grandpappy. Whose picture was that on the wall, whose was this? 'Course, like in any family, there was things decent folk don't gossip 'bout."

What things, I longed to ask him, but I held my tongue, biding my time. Rye slapped his hands to his thighs and sighed.

"So, is there anythin' special I can make you?" he asked to quickly change the subject.

"I like fried chicken. My cook in Winnerrow makes a batter--"

"Oh, he does . . . well, you ain't tasted mine yet, chile, make you that this week. Unless your nurse says otherwise." He looked back to be sure Mrs. Broadfield wasn't there. "She come inta the kitchen with a list of do's and don'ts. Made my assistant, Roger, as nervous as the Devil on Sunday."

"I don't see how Southern fried chicken could hurt. Rye," I said, swinging my eyes toward the window, "Farthy was a much prettier place when my mother lived here, wasn't it?"

"Oh, and how! Why, when the flowers would bloom, it looked like Heaven's Gate."

"Why did Mr. Tatterton let it fall apart?"

He shifted his eyes away quickly. I saw that my question made him nervous, but that only made me more curious about his answer.

"Mr. Tatterton's had a hard time, Miss Annie, but he sho' has changed a whole lot since yourself arrived. Almost back to the way he was--talking 'bout fixie this and buildin' that. Things are comin' back to life 'round here, which is good for us aid bad for the ghosts," he whispered.

"Ghosts?"

"Well, like any big house that had so many people movin' through it, spirits linger, Miss Annie." He nodded for emphasis. "But I ain't one to challenge that, and neither is Mr. Tatterton. We live side by side with 'em and they don' bother us none and we don' bother them."

I saw he was serious.

"Are there many servants here now who were here when my mother lived here, Rye?"

"Oh no, Miss Annie. There's jes' myself, Curtis, and Miles. All the maids and grounds helpers are gone, mostly dead and gone."

"Is there a tall, thin man working here, too, a man much younger than Curtis?"

He thought a moment and shook his head. "There's groundsmen, but they're all short and stocky."

Who was that man at my parents' tomb? I wondered. Rye continued to gaze at me, a fond smile on his face.

"Has it been hard for you these past years, Rye, because of the way Mr. Tatterton was?"

"No, ma'am, not hard. Sad, but not hard. 'Course, I stayed in my room after supper and left the house to the spirits. Now," he smiled, "they gonna retreat and hover 'bout their graves mostly, 'cause we got light and life again. Spirits hate young people roamin' 'bout. Makes 'em jittery 'cause the young folks got so much energy and brightness 'bout 'em."

"You really heard these spirits in the house, Rye?" I tipped my head and smiled, but he didn't smile back.

"Oh yes, ma'am. Many a night. There's one spirit, very unhappy one, who roams the halls, goes from room to room, searchin'."

"For what?"

"Don' know, Miss Annie. Dan' talk to and he

don' talk ta me. But I've heard him walkin"bout and I've heard the music."