It was the perfect evening. An inky black sky lit with a random scatter of twinkling stars. The breeze off the Atlantic carrying a hint of salt and sea brine. Temperature still hovering in the low sixties. And twenty-five dancers, all clad in black leotards with tiny lights running up and down their arms and legs, dancing and leaping to a blast of rock music. The Lumiere Festival was well under way, and Theodosia and Drayton were standing on the front steps of the Charleston Library Society, watching the dazzling presentation that was taking place on King Street.
“Those young ladies certainly know how to twirl,” Drayton remarked.
“They’re little sprites,” Theodosia said. She figured she’d get fall-down dizzy if she ever tried that sort of manic gyration. Still, it was great fun to watch. “And did you see what’s happening down the street at the Gibbes Museum?”
Drayton nodded. “The images they’re projecting on the outside of the building remind me of an underground movie from the sixties. Still, I think it’s rather clever that they chose slides from their own collection. It’s almost like . . .”
“Art for the people?”
“Something like that, yes. Though I suppose putting it that way sounds a bit condescending.”
“Just a bit,” Theodosia said. “But the supersized paintings and sculptures might help bring a few more folks through their doors, which is always a good thing.”
“You see,” Drayton said, “that’s where the Heritage Society differs.”
“How’s that?”
“We really don’t want any more people flocking through our doors.”
Theodosia stared at Drayton, who managed to keep a straight face for all of five seconds. Then she punched him in the arm and said, “Let’s see what else is going on.”
Turns out, there was a lot to be dazzled by. Searchlights arced in the sky, more light shows splashed against fine old buildings, and LED installations buzzed and hummed all around them. There was even an interactive light tube on the front lawn of the historic Reese-Parker home.
“I had no idea that light had become such a highly regarded artistic medium,” Drayton said. “I guess I have to catch up with the times.”
“You’re out tonight,” Theodosia said. “That’s a good start.”
They’d wandered down King Street and turned onto Archdale. Here, magnificent Georgian, Italianate, and Victorian-style homes, all deemed “architecturally significant,” by those who made such decisions, sat cheek to elegant jowl. All privately owned and rarely seen by the public, these homes were a vision in grandeur and sumptuous luxury and served as time capsules for Charleston’s history, taste, and décor.
“You see that sign up ahead?” Theodosia pointed.
Drayton peered ahead through darkness that was punctuated by glowing streetlamps. “Yes, it says ‘Fire Garden.’ What on earth is a Fire Garden?”
“I’d say we’re about to find out.”
They picked their way through throngs of strolling people and stopped in front of a large redbrick mansion that featured tall white columns, a wide veranda, and was surrounded by a genuine Philip Simmons wrought-iron fence.
“This is the Rosewalk Inn,” Drayton said. He cocked an eye at Theodosia. “Did you bring me here to spy?”
“You said you wanted to attend the Lumiere Festival. I’m just obliging you.”
“I have to admit, I’m a little curious about their Fire Garden installation.”
“So am I. Let’s go in.”
Tyrone Chandler, the manager, greeted them on the enormous front veranda. He was an African American man in his late fifties, quite distinguished-looking with his salt-and-pepper hair and infectious smile. Tonight he wore an elegant camel hair jacket with a white shirt and charcoal-gray slacks.
“Drayton, is that really you?” Chandler asked. He stuck out a hand as Drayton greeted him. “And Theodosia, too.” He chuckled merrily. “Have you come to see our Fire Garden?”
“We’re trying to figure out what a Fire Garden is,” Drayton said.
“It’s an idea that Marcella came up with,” Chandler told them. Marcella Soliere was the owner of the Rosewalk Inn. “She saw something like it in Perugia when she was traveling through Italy last summer. Couldn’t wait to re-create one here.”
“We’re intrigued,” Theodosia told him as they were ushered into the inn.
“Just head straight through the breakfast room,” Chandler said. “And then step out the sliding doors and onto the patio. The Fire Garden is just beyond our rose garden.”
“Thank you,” Theodosia said.
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