I turned reluctantly to the man squeezed next to me on the crowded shuttle flight from Boston to Washington, D.C. A businessman judging from his suit, he obviously wanted to talk, as this was the second time he'd tried to start a conversation. I didn't want to be rude, but after the flurry of my departure, which had included a last-minute trip to the convenience store for cat food and litter and an I'll-show-you escape attempt by my cat, I just wanted to sit back and relax.

"How did you know?"

"Your book." He pointed at the glossy paperback of Michael Shaara's historical novel about Gettysburg, The Killer Angels, I'd brought along for light reading. "That, too." His fingertips grazed the top of the folded printout of the Gettysburg Anniversary Committee's schedule of events for the coming weekend I was using for a bookmark.

"One of the worst bloodbaths of the Civil War," he remarked. "All three days of it."

I nodded. "Fortunately, I'm only going to a reenactment."

"Those things can be dangerous, too," he warned. "There was that Frenchman nearly killed someone at a Gettysburg reenactment a couple of years ago."

I felt a quiver of unease. "What happened?"

"Seems he borrowed an antique pistol from a friend, didn't know it was loaded, got up close and personal with another reenactor during the battle, fired, and just missed the other guy's jugular. Story was in the papers. Sure you don't remember?"

"I must've missed it. But thanks for telling me," I said politely, wishing he hadn't. I opened my book and made a show of reading. I could feel the businessman's eyes on me, but after a few moments, he gave up and opened his newspaper. When I thought he was absorbed in The Boston Globe, I rummaged in my tote bag for the photo I had secretly treasured all these years.

There we stood on Cemetery Ridge at the spot known as the Bloody Angle, where General George Pickett had aimed his fateful charge on July 3, 1863, the final day of the Gettysburg Battle. Teacher and his adoring pupil. We posed beside the huge bronze open book with the names of the Union and Confederate commanders who had taken part in the pivotal battle, which had ended Robert E. Lee's second invasion of the North and ultimately cost the Confederates the war. The copse of trees, marking the farthest advance of Pickett's men and the High Water Mark of the Confederacy, offered shade from the summer sun. Dressed in scruffy sneakers, red shorts, and a red tee with a white crab logo, I grinned foolishly at the camera from under a wide-brimmed straw hat. I felt a prick of disappointment at how I looked - so common and Californian next to the distinguished Virginian in his white suit and Panama hat. If only I'd worn a pretty sundress.

At least I was nicely dressed now in a lime green linen pants suit and matching sling sandals. I'd gone out and bought actual clothes for the occasion - real clothes as opposed to my "fantasy" wardrobe of outfits picked out from catalogs that I never got around to ordering. My outfit was so new I'd forgotten to remove the price tag from the top, I realized, as I felt a scratch of cardboard against my back. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The businessman's newspaper crackled against my arm.

"Here's an interesting story," he said.

I quickly slipped the photo between the pages of my book as he handed me the paper. The story was a follow-up piece on a shoot-out between a right-wing survivalist and federal agents. The agents had moved in after a tip that the man had a cache of unregistered guns. An agent had been killed in the crossfire. So had the survivalist's three-year-old daughter. A variation of the Randy Weaver story played out in Brockton, Massachusetts with this twist: The gun used to kill the federal agent had been traced back to the FBI. It was among the nearly four hundred and fifty guns issued to FBI agents that had been stolen or reported missing over the past several years, along with more than one hundred computers. The article pointed out that some of these weapons had already been recovered by law enforcement personnel after they had been used to commit crimes. But until now no one had been murdered with a stolen gun.

"Frenchmen with pistols, now this-makes you wonder what the country's coming to," the businessman commented.

I didn't see the connection between one Frenchman with a borrowed pistol and hundreds of stolen guns, but I nodded in agreement before opening my book again. The poor guy is just trying to make conversation, I told myself. I pegged him for a frequent flyer, who was bored or lonely or both. At least I didn't have to worry about boredom or loneliness this weekend. My thoughts circled back to the reason I'd wound up on this crowded plane.

The invitation had arrived unexpectedly. Ginny Longford Cross, my old college roommate, and her father, Randall Longford, wanted me to join them on a trip to Gettysburg for the battle reenactments over the Fourth of July weekend. My first reaction was surprise. After all, I hadn't seen Ginny or her father in ages. Next came curiosity. Then, as memories washed over me, I felt a sudden, intense longing. Perhaps I was foolish to believe I could recapture the magic of that long-ago time. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the question wasn't whether I should go, but how could I not? I slid the photo from my book and stared at it until the years fell away and I was transported back to that summer.

I was nineteen then, a California Yankee, who hadn't ventured far from my home state, when Ginny invited me to spend the summer with her and her father in Virginia. She was the first real Southerner I had ever met, and she made a big impression on me - her father an even bigger one. Handsome, courtly, well read, and silver-tongued, a judge who could make even a life sentence sound sweet, Randall Longford was the perfect southern gentleman. He was also a born storyteller, fascinating me with tales of his Virginia ancestors. They had fought in the Revolutionary War, signed the Declaration of Independence, served in Congress and the Cabinet, and in what he delighted in calling "The War of Northern Aggression" when any Yankees were around. Randall's mementos from that war included letters written by his great-great-grandfather, a brigadier-general in the Army of Northern Virginia, his great-great-grandfather's pistol, and a deck of playing cards tossed aside by a fleeing Union soldier after the First Battle of Bull Run-all of which he proudly showed me.

He made regular pilgrimages to Civil War battlefields, and that summer he invited Ginny and me to accompany him on these weekend day trips. He took us to Fredericksburg, Antietam, Manassas, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg. We would set out early in the morning with a picnic lunch and a large thermos of sweet tea. In the car Randall would talk about the battlefield we were going to see. If Ginny or I were driving, he would read from R. E. Lee, A Biography by Douglas Southall Freeman and from his great-great-grandfather's letters. Then he would walk us around the field, pointing out the positions of various divisions, explaining strategy, and describing combat in vivid detail. As Randall spoke, the landscape - empty, green, and monotonous as a golf course with blue historical markers instead of flags for the various holes - burst into life with soldiers, horses, cannon, smoke, and blood.

The plane hit a patch of turbulence, jerking me back to the present. I was no longer the gangly girl in the picture, but a woman in her forties, married and divorced, and an author of American history books like those Randall had encouraged me to read so many years ago. When the invitation arrived, I quickly sent him the Civil War chapter I'd written for a forthcoming textbook, America: the Republic's Glory and Greatness (ARGG when I was annoyed). He promised to review it and give me his comments while we were at Gettysburg.

I felt a bit anxious on that score and somewhat guilty about the unfinished chapter lying on the desk in my cluttered apartment. But mostly I was eager to see Randall. I knew he had retired from the bench and had granddaughters older than I'd been that summer. I also knew he hadn't remarried since the death of his wife when Ginny was twelve. A widower raising his only daughter on his own, he'd struck me as a romantic figure. I suspected he still would. And so, as the plane began its descent to Reagan National Airport, I felt a keen anticipation.

    

I spotted him immediately in the crowd waiting in the lobby. Like Robert E. Lee, whom he resembled slightly, he had a full head of wavy hair, now turned silver, dark, flashing eyes, and strong features, sharpened rather than blunted by age. From the striped silk Hermes tie at his neck to the highly polished Mephistos on his feet, he was a dapper presence. In his custom-tailored summer suit with a red carnation perched jauntily on the lapel and a white handkerchief peeping out of a pocket, he looked ready for a garden party instead of an airport meeting.

He saw me, smiled, and waved. I hurried over.

"Miranda!" He spoke my name with the slight broadening of the "a" characteristic of Tidewater gentry - the accent, elongated but precise, without the lazy drawl of the Deep South - that was music to my ears. Then, clasping my hand tightly, he said, "You cannot imagine how it warms my heart to see you again. You are every bit as lovely as I remember."

"You, too, Mr. Longford - I mean - "

"Randall, please." He smiled. I blushed. Maybe I wasn't so different from the gawky girl in red shorts after all.

"I hope you were blessed with smooth skies."

"There was some turbulence, but it wasn't too bad. Ginny couldn't make it?" Randall shook his head. "I am afraid my dear daughter was detained by the demands of the workplace. An important client wanted a second look at a property. I said I would be delighted to pick you up."

"I could've taken a cab."

"Nonsense. Taxis are for strangers, not honored guests. Is that all your luggage?" He gestured toward my carryon. I nodded. "Well, aren't you clever! None of the women in my family could ever manage with just one tiny suitcase. Here, let me take it for you. You must be fatigued after your long journey."

Seizing the handle of my bag, he placed his fingertips on my elbow lightly, with a mere suggestion of pressure. It was a small gesture, undoubtedly performed without a moment's thought. But, accustomed to fending for myself in the rude, sometimes downright hostile, environment of the urban Northeast, I found his gallantry enchanting.

As we glided along the George Washington Parkway in his Lincoln Continental, Randall said, "Virginia and I are both so impressed with your achievements as an author, and I was tremendously flattered when you sent me your chapter. I have read it a number of times already and - "

"There's a problem?" I interrupted with Yankee bluntness.

"Quite the contrary. Aside from a few quibbles, I think it's splendid. Absolutely splendid. Mr. Shelby Foote could not have done better himself."

"Thank you." I basked in his praise. "The quibbles have to do with . . . ?"

"Such minor matters that I hope you will forgive me for even mentioning them now. We will have plenty of time to discuss your chapter over the weekend. So tell me, Miranda," he went on, changing the subject, "have you attended other reenactments before Gettysburg?"

"I've visited a couple of Union encampments in the Boston area, but this will be my first full-scale battle."

"Then you have a real treat in store for you."

"I'm looking forward to it. Wiley will be taking part, won't he?" Wiley Cross, Ginny's high school sweetheart and husband, was a Vietnam vet turned Confederate reenactor.

"Well now, I do not believe he will," Randall replied slowly.

"He's not doing reenacting anymore?"

"Oh, he still does it. In fact, he is more involved in reenacting that ever before, but as a hardcore reenactor rather than a regular one."

"What's the difference?"

"Hardcores strive for the utmost authenticity. They starve themselves to achieve the gaunt look of real Rebel soldiers, go for days without bathing, march for miles in their bare feet, and endure all manner of hardship in the name of experiencing what they call a 'period rush.'"

I had no trouble picturing Wiley as a hardcore reenactor. When I'd first met him, I was attracted by his good looks, tousled and boyish like James Dean's, a certain raffish charm, and the energy evident in his tall, rangy body. But as I got to know him, I became aware of a dangerously manic quality. At times I was afraid he would self-destruct before my eyes.

"But if Wiley's become a hardcore reenactor, why wouldn't he come to Gettysburg?"

"Hardcores do not like to associate with other reenactors whom they consider to be less authentic - farbs they call them. People say the word is short for 'far-be-it-from-authentic.' " Randall paused and cleared his throat. "In any case, the last time I spoke with Wiley he told me he was going to South Carolina this weekend for the protest against the removal of the Confederate flag from the statehouse."

I wondered how Randall, as a Southerner, weighed in on the flag issue. Before I could ask, he said, "To tell you the truth, Miranda, we do not see that much of Wiley anymore, he is just so caught up in all his reenactment activities. Why, since the season started in the spring, he has been on the road almost constantly. It tires me even to think of all the traveling he has done."

"I thought he was working as a mechanic."

"Well, now he is, but his boss is such a kind and understanding person - he is a Vietnam veteran, too, you know - that he allows Wiley to take time off in pursuit of his hobby. And when Wiley is in town, his understanding boss even lets him camp out in the garage."

I stared at Randall with astonishment. "Ginny and Wiley are separated?"

This was news. Ginny had dropped out of Stanford in her sophomore year to be with Wiley after he was wounded in Vietnam. They had eloped as soon as he was released from the hospital. The twins, Mandy and Missy, were born a year later. Ginny always managed to put a positive, even humorous spin on her life, but reading between the lines of her Christmas letters - our chief means of communication since college - I gathered that the early years of marriage had been difficult with Wiley in pain and unable to hold down a job, the "double trouble" of twins, and her father's disapproval of the path she'd chosen.

Lately, however, she had assured me that things were better. Wiley had found steady employment, she was doing well as a real estate broker, and the twins had finished college and were out on their own. "Wiley and I have become empty nesters, and happily so, though we do miss the girls," she had written in her Christmas letter a few years ago. Now it seemed that the nest she'd worked so hard to build over the years had come unraveled.

"'Separated' is far too strong word," Randall said mildly. "I prefer to think of Virginia and Wiley as living apart for the time being. I view it as a temporary arrangement that will undoubtedly end when Wiley develops a different, all-consuming interest. But in his current hardcore reenactor phase, camping out in the garage suits Wiley better than living in a house with Virginia and other comforts."

"I see."

Apparently sensing my dismay, he said, "I hope I have not upset you by telling you this. As I said before, it is merely a temporary arrangement, and it certainly will not affect our plans for the weekend. We are going to have a wonderful time. It is so good to have you back with us, Miranda."

He patted my arm the same way he had touched my elbow, and again the gesture, subtle but telling, enchanted me.

A beat-up Dodge Dart was parked in front of Ginny's two-story brick colonial. The car sported Rebel flags and bumper stickers with slogans like "If At First You Don't Secede, Try Try Again" and "Happiness is a North Bound Yankee." Every square inch of surface was covered with small plastic horses, cannon, and figures of soldiers in blue and gray arrayed for battle. I'd seen decorated cars before, but never anything quite like this. The vehicle was like a mobile diorama.

"Somebody sure went to a lot of trouble," I remarked.

"Wiley's piece de resistance," Randall said. "He calls it his Battlemobile. But how unusual to see it parked here in Virginia's driveway." A tense wariness had crept into his voice.

Hot air hit us like a blast from a furnace when we left the Lincoln. A Toyota wagon with a cardboard Coldwell Banker sign propped in the back was parked in the driveway. Ginny's. As we started up the walk toward the house, we heard raised voices within. Randall placed a cautionary hand on my arm. The next instant, a gaunt, wild-eyed man in a ragged Confederate uniform burst from the door. I barely recognized Wiley as the skeletal figure that lurched past us, leaving behind the stench of the long unwashed.

t the end of the walk, he gave the neatly trimmed box hedge a savage kick, sending up a shower of dirt and splintered branches. Then he turned and yelled at Ginny, now standing at the front door, "Over my dead body, you will!" He slammed the Battlemobile's door and drove off with the ear-splitting roar of a broken muffler.