The House on Tradd Street (19 page)

“I’m fine,” I said, managing to pull away from him.

His next words were drowned out by the explosion of sound from something large, heavy, and glass crashing downstairs.

“Can you stand?” Jack asked, urgently tugging on my hand.

I tested both feet, then nodded.

“Let’s go.” He held on to my hand as he pulled me toward the stairs, flipping on the foyer chandelier. We peered over the railing into the foyer and saw nothing except the general dilapidation and neglect we’d grown used to.

“What in the hell do you think that was?” he asked.

I shook my head, more afraid than I ever remembered being, and definitely more than I would ever admit. We moved down the stairs, then stood at the bottom, listening.

“Where do you think that came from?” Jack asked.

“I’m not sure but I have a good idea.” I led him into the drawing room, my slippered feet crunching on what felt like broken glass. “Flip on the light switch.”

All we heard was a buzzing sound and a pop, neither of which was accompanied by light.

Jack quickly switched it off, then followed me as I walked into the center of the room, the light from the foyer glinting off hundreds of crystal shards that had erupted all over the Aubusson rug. My foot hit something large and I stopped, then looked down at what I’d kicked and found the supine body of the shattered chandelier lying prostrate on the floor and strongly resembling an octopus carcass with its broken arms and pendants scattered around it. A gaping hole in the center of the ceiling medallion spewed out electrical wires, and the plaster surrounding it appeared to be contemplating a suicide leap.

Jack stood beside me, looking at the wreckage of what had once been merely a shabby drawing room. “Looks like fixing the plumbing isn’t going to be your next priority.”

I was about to make a glib comment when the grandfather clock began to chime the midnight hour. Jack crunched over to the end table, where he’d left his camera, and took a picture of the face of the clock, the flash illuminating the room and the slight figure of a woman standing by the growth chart. And then the room was dark again, leaving only the strong scent of roses.

I
sat at my desk hunched over approximately a dozen architecture textbooks that Sophie had been kind enough to lend to me. I stared bleary-eyed at yet another example of an Adamesque fireplace mantel, this one complete with pilasters and floral and swag decorations. Or were they called incised wood carvings and stucco relief decorations with floral sprays?

Closing my eyes, I leaned forward until my forehead rested on the detailed illustrations of a Federal-style pediment and a Georgian-style pediment, both of which looked identical to me despite the fact that I had just spent the last forty-five minutes studying them and the other sticky-note-marked pages of Sophie’s books. Granted, I knew enough of vague lingo to sell an old house to unsuspecting future owners, but apparently not nearly enough to actually restore one. And somehow my blank stare in response to Sophie’s instructions about how to remove layers of paint from the upstairs drawing room mantel (involving really tiny brushes and razors) had made her put on her teacher persona and tell me I had to learn the importance and rarity of what was in the house before I’d be allowed near anything with a brush, much less a razor.

Besides, she explained, I couldn’t look like a fool if I ever had to go before the dreaded Board of Architectural Review during the restoration process. Being ignorant could make the difference between a new roof or living with patchwork.

Adding insult to injury, I reached for my latte cup only to find it empty. So was the bag of doughnuts sitting next to it. I sat up and began to dig beneath the pile of books to find my phone and ask Nancy if she’d made the coffee yet. I hadn’t seen her when I’d come in, but I knew she was in the building because I’d spotted her hybrid SUV in the parking lot with the “Have You Hugged Your Clubs Today?” bumper sticker.

Before I had the chance to push the button, my phone rang. I picked it up. “Hi, Nancy.”

“Good morning, Miss Middleton. You have a visitor.”

I frowned into the receiver. “Nancy? Why are you acting like a receptionist is supposed to? It’s weird.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have him wait a few moments while you finish with your client.”

“What’s going on, Nancy? Is it Jack?”

She waited a few moments while I presumed the visitor made his way to the waiting area. Then I had to press my ear to the receiver to hear her because she was now whispering. “It’s him. That Marc guy who keeps calling and who never leaves a return number. He’s here and he wants to see you. And his last name’s Longo.”

I sat up straighter. Going on Jack’s hunch that there were no coincidences, he and I had tried to find out more about Marc Longo, and had even spent time in a coffee shop outside where his office supposedly was to get a glimpse of him, but the elusive Mr. Longo apparently didn’t want to be found.

“So why are you whispering?”

There was a slight pause. “Wait until you see him. He doesn’t seem the type to put up with anything bordering on casual.”

“Thanks for the warning. Don’t send him back, okay? I’ll come up and get him.”

I used the small hand mirror in my drawer while I wiped off any stray doughnut crumbs or powdered sugar and applied fresh lipstick before heading up to the waiting area. I’d worn my new aqua silk Elie Tahari suit with knockout Manolo Blahnik pumps and knew I looked good and certainly ready to meet a guy whose appearance was enough to make Nancy Flaherty nervous.

Nancy raised her eyebrows as I rounded the reception desk and headed toward the bank of sofas and tables arranged around the front bay window. Marc Longo was busy typing something into his BlackBerry but looked up and stood as I entered.

He was very tall, with dark hair and eyes; he wore a custom-made suit complete with French cuffs and Gucci loafers. Definitely
GQ
material, and if this had been a social setting, I would have stumbled over my own name during the introduction and tripped over my Manolos. Drooling would probably be added to the equation. But this was business, and I slid my businesswoman persona on like a suit and extended my hand.

“Mr. Longo? I’m Melanie Middleton. What can I do for you?”

His handshake was firm, his skin soft, making me think he was probably the type of guy who got manicures. Not necessarily a bad thing, but I did have a problem with guys who had softer hands than I did.

“Thanks for seeing me without an appointment.” He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth set off nicely by his tanned skin. “I’d like to talk with you about real estate. I’ve heard you’re the best.”

I blushed under his flattering stare. “I don’t know if I’m the best, but I do work very hard for my clients. Why don’t we go back to my office so we can talk more?” I turned to Nancy. “Could you please bring us coffee? And hold my calls.”

“Yes, Miss Middleton,” she said, raising her eyebrow and smirking when she thought Mr. Longo wasn’t looking.

I led the way and felt his eyes on my back, making me self-conscious but grateful I’d worn my SPANX. When Sophie gave me grief when she found out I wore them, I’d scoffed at her, reminding her that even skinny girls had visible panty lines.

I sat down at my desk and drew out a blank paper pad and indicated for my visitor to sit at the chair on the other side of my desk. I noticed his interest in my architecture books as he sat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Longo?”

“Please,” he said, leaning forward, “call me Marc.”

“All right, Marc.” I smiled, not sure why he was making me nervous. Maybe it was because his dark eyes never left my face. Or because he was probably the most gorgeous man I’d ever been this close to with the exception of pictures in a magazine. Or maybe it was because of his last name and possible connection to the man who might have been behind Louisa’s disappearance. Either way, I was completely unnerved, and I had to keep reminding myself that I was a successful businesswoman. “What can I do for you?”

He sat back in his chair, his gaze never leaving my face. “I’d like to make an investment in residential real estate.”

I felt the usual excitement rise at the scent of a hot prospect. I was already tallying up in my head the list of high-end new construction on Daniel Island and Isle of Palms that I would show him. I blinked, realizing I’d misunderstood the last part of his sentence. “Excuse me?”

“I said that I’m especially interested in historical real estate.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. From his high-end clothing style and apparent self-confidence, he’d struck me as the sort of person who wanted sleek, new, and modern. Lots of stainless steel and white walls. Like my own condo.

“You sound surprised.”

I smiled to hide my embarrassment. “It’s just, well, you don’t seem the type.”

“I see.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. “In what way?”

I felt my leg bouncing furiously under my desk, and I willed it to stop. “Well, for starters, you’re single.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow.

I blushed a little, wondering why I’d blurted out that little tidbit and trying to find a way out of the hole I seemed to be digging for myself. “I noticed that you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

He smiled a warm and engaging smile. “Not every married man wears one. What else?”

I cringed. Even I knew lots of married men who didn’t wear rings. “Well, your clothes made me think that you might lean more to . . . contemporary tastes, I guess. Like a sweeping loft space or a glass-walled house on the water.”

His fingers tapped against one another on opposing hands. “But I already have those. I wanted something different.”

“But . . .” I stopped, confused now but unable to stop digging.

“But what?” he countered.

“You’re obviously a successful man, so you’ve probably made some good decisions in the past regarding investments. Which, to be honest, just boggles my mind as to why on earth . . .”

“Go on.” He seemed amused. Almost as if he knew what I was about to say.

I took a deep breath, unable to stop myself. “Why on earth you’d want to spend quite a lot of money on an historical house that will continue to require more and more funds just toward upkeep. They will take their toll on you physically and mentally, and no matter how much care and money you throw at them, you could still end up with a hole in your roof and a termite infestation.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought your specialty was selling historic real estate.”

“It is,” I said, confused. Why would I be trying to dissuade a potential client? I wasn’t sure of the answer, but I was sure that it had something to do my recent renovation experiences. And how I couldn’t picture Marc Longo entrusted with an old Charleston home.
Did I really just think that?

I continued, trying to recover my ground. “I’m sorry if you think I’m being a bit rough. It’s just that most people who love to look at old houses have very little idea of what it’s like to actually live in one. I like to lay it all out on the line at this juncture so that there aren’t any surprises later.”

He nodded. “I appreciate that—but my brother owns the old family Victorian on Montagu Street, so I’m no stranger to the upkeep required. And your honesty is probably why you have such a good reputation in your business.”

I felt myself blushing again and focused on the clean notepad in front of me. “Well, now that we’re both on the same page, why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for in terms of size, location, and price? There’s not a lot of inventory right now, but if I have a very specific idea of what you’re looking for, I can be on the lookout for when something hits the market—and sometimes before.”

He smiled. “That should be easy. I know exactly what I want.”

I held my pen poised above the blank page, and smiled brightly. “Go ahead, shoot.”

“Fifty-five Tradd Street.”

I started writing and had almost finished the address before I stopped. “Wait. Did you say Fifty-five Tradd?”

“Yes. I did.”

I stared at him for a moment before putting down my pen. “Mr. Longo. Marc. I’m sure you wouldn’t be here unless you were aware that I owned that house.”

He smiled and nodded slowly. “Of course. I read the paper just like everybody else. Lovely picture of you, by the way.” He glanced at my hair but refrained from commenting. “I must say I was initially intrigued by your story when I read who had owned the house before you. The Vanderhorsts and my family have an old connection.”

“I know.” I had the satisfaction of seeing the surprise in his face.

“Interesting,” he said. “I was under the impression that you’d only been inside the house once before you inherited it.”

“True. But I did have a nice conversation with Mr. Vanderhorst about the house’s past history, including the disappearance of his mother.”