The House on Tradd Street (15 page)

“All right, Melanie. We’ll change the subject. You’re a progressive woman. And a successful businesswoman, too, from what I’ve heard. I’m surprised your path hasn’t crossed with mine before now. Or at least crossed with Jack’s. He’s pretty much on top of all the eligible Charleston single women. He must be losing his touch.”

I almost choked on my coffee and then realized that she had no idea that she’d made a double entendre, and I had to fight to keep a straight face. I cleared my throat. “My job keeps me pretty busy, so that’s probably why. It doesn’t leave me a lot of time for a social life.”

She took a sip from her cup, then studied it for a moment. “Jack’s been a little off the social circuit lately, too. Not too hard to figure out why, but it’s been over a year now, so I was hopeful when he told us about you.”

I’d lost count of how many of the small pastries I had eaten, and I pushed my plate away, suddenly feeling queasy. I sat forward. “Um, what do you mean—that he told you about me?”

Amelia waved a manicured hand at me. “Oh, it wasn’t like that at all. It was just that he was finally excited about this new book project after the fiasco with his last book, and you and your house were sort of like the answer to a prayer for him.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. In my Googling, there had been more links than I’d had time to investigate. In my haste to find out something personal, I’d apparently missed something pretty big. “I’m not sure what you mean. In what way was I an answer to his prayers?”

She looked at me with clear blue eyes. “You don’t know the story, do you?”

“I guess not.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, Jack’s last book, the one about the heroes of the Alamo, was publicly debunked on national television—completely discrediting him and all of his work.” She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “Through intensive research, Jack had enough information to completely alter the historical account of what really happened at the Alamo. He’d even found a diary that experts were ninety-nine percent sure was Davey Crockett’s that corroborated Jack’s story. Unfortunately, Davey Crockett’s descendants unearthed a trunk supposedly belonging to their famous ancestor and opened it on a special edition of
Nightline
.”

“But how would that discredit Jack and his research?”

Amelia shrugged. “The trunk was full of documents, but none of the handwriting matched that in Jack’s diary. Either those documents are a forgery or Jack’s diary is—and public opinion was not about to sway in favor of a man whose own ancestor was supposedly the basis for the Rhett Butler character in
Gone With the Wind
.”

“What?”

She smiled, looking remarkably like her son. “Yes, George Trenholm is an ancestor of ours. Used to embarrass Jack a lot until he learned how to use it to his advantage.” She raised an eyebrow while I tucked that little gem of information away for future use.

“So what happened?” I asked.

“The book sold poorly and his publisher canceled his contract and the media made him a laughingstock. He still has his loyal fans, of course, who will be first in line to buy his next book, but the problem is finding a story big enough that will earn him the another book contract.”

I frowned. “I can’t imagine that the story of Louisa Vanderhorst and Joseph Longo would interest anybody outside of Charleston, to be honest with you. I hope he’s not holding out hope that this story will be the big break he needs.”

Amelia looked at me oddly. “Louisa and Joseph? I’m not sure if . . .”

The phone rang and Amelia stopped speaking. After excusing herself, she stood to go answer it. I stood, too, drawn to the beautiful furnishings that surrounded me. I had told Jack that I’d never been here before because I couldn’t afford it, but that was only half the truth. The real reason was the same reason I avoided old houses: people didn’t like leaving either one behind when it came time to depart this earth.

While sitting and talking with Jack’s mother, I had heard whispers coming from the room behind me, and the distinct drop in temperature as something brushed the back of my hair.
I am stronger than you,
I said to myself if only to remind me that the goose bumps on the back of my neck were from the cold chill and not from fear.

I felt more than saw four gentlemen in clothing from the eighteenth century sitting at a game table and a young boy in short pants and suspenders riding astride a rocking horse. I kept my gaze focused, ignoring them in the hopes that they would ignore me, but found myself drawn to a small oval box sitting on a small table by the front window. It was made of burl walnut and had a tasseled brass key sticking out of its lock on the front.

I hesitated before touching it, having learning one too many times that sometimes old, loved items carried with them the memories of their prior owners—owners who were usually eager to talk to me. I placed my hands on it and was relieved to feel nothing but the hard wood under my fingers. Carefully, I turned the key and opened the lid, finding inside a silver canister in the middle flanked on both sides by small wooden compartments.

“It’s a Regency-era tea caddy. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Trenholm spoke behind me, giving me a start.

“It’s lovely,” I said, my fingers tracing the intricate leaf-design inlay decorating the top of the box. I had seen antique tea caddies before, of course, but this one intrigued me, making me stroke its smooth wood as if it were an old friend.

“It’s odd, Melanie, that of all the objects in this store you would be drawn to this particular item.”

I lifted my hand quickly as if it had been burned. “Why is that?”

“It was a gift to me.” Her eyes met mine. “From Jack’s fiancée.”

I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Jack’s engaged?”

“Not anymore.” She shook her head and I smelled her perfume, which reminded me of gardenias and my mother. I wrinkled my nose.

I handed her the box. “Oh, I’m sorry. He didn’t mention . . .”

“He wouldn’t. He doesn’t talk about it at all.”

“But why? It happens a lot more than you think. And it’s always better to break an engagement than get a divorce.”

“That’s very true, dear. But the two of them were very much in love. When Emily left him literally standing at the altar, we were all devastated.” She took the box from my hands and replaced it on the table, her fingers lingering on the polished wood just as mine had. “I didn’t think Jack would ever recover, and I must say that for a long time I hated her for doing that to him.”

“Did she offer any kind of explanation or apology?”

Amelia shook her head. “Nothing—well, except for the horrendous scene at the church when she told Jack in front of all the guests that she couldn’t go through with it. She had no family, so there was nobody else to soften the blow for Jack. Emily just . . . disappeared from our lives. Which is probably the best thing, considering how small Charleston is. If she’d remained, Jack would have been running into her everywhere.”

“So she left town?” I don’t know why it meant so much to me to know that I wouldn’t be running into Jack’s ex-fiancée.

“Upstate New York, of all places. I heard that from her editor at the
Post and Courier
. Emily was a writer, in charge of the people column. They met while Jack was doing research for a book.” She looked pointedly at me.

“How nice for them,” I said, distracted by an old woman in full mourning dress of the late-nineteenth century sitting in rail-backed rocking chair behind us. Her face was covered by a heavy veil, and as I watched, she stood and began walking toward me, her gait uneven as she leaned heavily on a cane. I took a step back, horrified that she might want to talk to me.

A hand touched my arm and the woman vanished as I stifled a scream.

“It’s all right, Melanie. It’s only me.” Amelia’s eyes searched mine. “Your mother saw them, too. That’s why she didn’t like coming here.”

I knew that denying it would be pointless. Instead, I swallowed heavily and looked at my watch. “I think I’ve intruded on your time long enough and I’ve got to get back to the office to return a few phone calls. Do you mind if I go get Jack?”

“I’ll do it,” she said, but didn’t move. “It’s why your mother wanted you out of your grandmother’s house on Legare. She didn’t think it was safe for you to be there.”

I had a brief flash of memory of me with my mother staring at a wrought iron gate in front of the house my mother had grown up in.
This will all be yours one day, Mellie. All of this wonderful family history will be yours to carry on to the next generation.
I blinked, trying to rid myself of the memory and swallowed hard. “I guess that story works as good as any.”

Amelia stared at me for a long moment before moving away. She stopped when I spoke.

“Please don’t mention to Jack about . . . well, you know. It’s not something I really want spread about as common knowledge.”

She tilted her head to the side as she regarded me. “I won’t bring it up, but I think he’s already aware. Surely you guessed that’s the reason he brought you here today?”

I hadn’t but I didn’t deny it. I remembered my initial conversation with Jack at Blackbeard’s when he’d asked me if I’d inherited my mother’s sixth sense, and knew she was right. Instead, I said, “It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Amelia. Thanks for the coffee and the pastries.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. I hope to run into you again soon.”

“Me, too,” I said, meaning it. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to wait outside on the sidewalk and make a few phone calls while you get Jack.”

“Sure,” she said before turning away and disappearing behind the same door I’d watched Jack go through earlier.

I stood out on the sidewalk and flipped open my phone to begin retuning a few of my calls. I faced the store, concentrating on my own reflection so I wouldn’t have to see anybody I didn’t want to, but was distracted when Jack and his mother returned to the showroom. I watched as Jack opened up his wallet and handed his mother several bills. They walked over to the far side of the showroom, where a large rolltop desk loomed in the corner. Mrs. Trenholm turned a key and pulled out her purse and then, after counting the bills Jack had given her, placed them in her purse before relocking the desk.

They began talking again, so I made another phone call while I waited, annoyed at the drips of perspiration that were snaking their way down my blouse but finding that preferable to going back inside to the whispering and invisible eyes.

Finally, after giving his mother another huge bear hug, Jack emerged with his trademark grin, causing me to almost forgive him for making me wait in the heat.

“Sorry,” he said. “I had to ask my mom about the Longos.”

We headed for his car. “I’d almost forgotten. Does she know them?”

We seated ourselves in the Porsche and headed out into the late-midmorning traffic. “Oh, yes. They’re apparently big customers at the shop. My mother says they don’t know a Hepplewhite from their asses—not in those words, of course—but they figure if they spend the money, they’ll get the quality they need for the look they’re going for in their house on Montagu Street.”

“That’s north of Broad.” I slipped my sunglasses on, thinking about the difference in prestige and home prices based solely on whether you were a S.O.B or a N.O.B.

“You bet. Probably kills them every time they think about old Joseph not having the good sense to buy south of Broad when he moved here.”

“Well, the connection with your parents gives us a little bit of an ‘in’ with the family, don’t you think? And did your mom suggest anybody who might be approachable?”

“She wasn’t very complimentary about the family in general, saying there’re rumors about gambling and debts and charity pledges that don’t happen. But one of the grandsons might be a person willing to at least talk to us. And you’ll never guess what his name is.”

“Marc Longo.” I slid my glasses down to look at Jack.

“You got it. Did I mention that I don’t believe in coincidences?”

Just then my cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a text message. I pulled it out of my purse and read from the screen. “It’s from Nancy at the office.”

Jack raised an eyebrow in true Rhett Butler fashion.

“Guess who just called?” I flipped the phone shut.

“I have an idea, but I’m going to let you tell me.”

“Marc Longo,” I said.

“Very interesting.” Jack pressed his foot down on the accelerator. “As I mentioned before, there is no such thing as a coincidence.”

I nodded but remained silent, afraid to acknowledge that he might be right. How else to explain that our mothers had been friends? I thought about telling Jack that Marc Longo could be calling me because he’d been attracted to my photo in the paper. But then I remembered the photo and knew that couldn’t be it.

“Let’s go find out what he wants, then.” Jack hit the accelerator a little harder, and I held on to the side of the door, feeling once more that my life was no longer under my control and still unsure whether that was a good thing or not.