The House on Tradd Street (30 page)

“I’m right behind you,” Jack said as he hid the heat guns beneath a chair, then followed us out.

The garden had undergone a complete transformation. Shrubs and beds that had not been part of the original design had been removed, and brick pavers replaced with old bricks to create winding paths throughout. Bright patches of noisette roses and camellias crept along the edge of the house and peered out from new beds filled with lush greens and freshly tilled earth.

I felt guilty because I’d not spent the time in the garden to see what my father had been working on so hard. It had never occurred to me that he could have accomplished anything so beautiful. So vibrant. “It’s wonderful, Dad. It’s right out of a gardening magazine.”

He tucked in his chin, like a bashful child. “I’m glad you like it, Melanie. I’ve had a lot of fun with it. But look over here—this is what I wanted you to see.”

I felt a movement at the far side of the garden and slid my gaze to the old oak tree. The woman was there again and the boy sat next to her, the swing still. They both looked at me expectantly.

“Are you all right?” Jack had stopped on the path next to me.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, jerking my gaze away. “Just admiring the tree, that’s all.”

He nodded and waited for me to move down the path before following me. I sucked in a breath when we caught up to my father, amazed that this could be the same garden I’d seen on my first visit. No water came from the fountain still—and wouldn’t until we could figure out all the plumbing issues in the house—but the cherub had been sandblasted clean and now was a smooth ivory, covered only in sunlight and shadow. The Louisa rosebushes hung heavy with giant scarlet blooms, dotting the border behind the fountain like drops of blood on a white handkerchief.

My dad knelt down in front of the fountain and pulled back a covering of spider grass. With the other hand he pointed to a slightly raised panel in the stone that encircled the entire base of the fountain. Carved into the middle of the panel was the Roman numeral
XLIII
. Moving around the base, he pointed out two different numerals,
XXIV
and
XLI
, each one spread out from the others.

Jack stared at the last number for a minute. “That’s
forty-three, twenty-four
, and
forty-one
. Does that mean anything to anybody?”

“I have no idea,” my dad said. “But maybe as we continue with the restoration, it’ll come to us.”

Jack began walking around the fountain, pushing back the grass as he walked and studying the numbers until he’d completed the circle. He turned to me. “Was the fountain original to the house?”

“No. Sophie had to do the research for the BAR application and found out that the fountain wasn’t put in until nineteen thirty-one.” Our eyes met, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing—that it was put in a year after Louisa’s disappearance.

“Guess I’ve got some researching to do,” said Jack. “Let’s order takeout and go through those papers I found in the attic. Maybe one of them can point us in the right direction.”

With some satisfaction, I said, “I can’t. I’m going to dinner with Marc.”

Jack nodded, his lips thin. “Maybe he’ll finally kiss you.”

My dad brushed his hands together and coughed. “Look, I’ve got to go back to that organic nursery and get more fertilizer. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Will do,” said Jack. I said goodbye and watched as my dad crossed one of the brick walkways and left the garden.

“So, you have another date with Marc Longo tonight.”

“Yes, just dinner. I’m bringing a few listings with me to show him to see if he’d like me to make an appointment.”

“And he can’t do this during normal working hours.”

Jack’s tone and mood confused me. If I were vain, I’d assume he was jealous. But his irrational dislike of Marc, coupled with his conviction that Marc was out for something else, was just confusing, if not just a little bit more than insulting. I straightened my shoulders. “He’s a very busy man. Evenings are more low-key for him.”

“I’m sure they are,” said Jack. “As are weekends on the Isle of Palms.”

“Exactly,” I said, my voice lacking conviction. I had half hoped that more than just business would have occurred, but Marc had been the consummate gentleman, considerate of all my comforts and needs and, unfortunately, my privacy. I’d like to think that he was genuinely concerned about my need for rest and relaxation, and that he considered me a lady, but still. And I was attracted to him. He was dark and mysterious and had a wry sense of humor. But whenever I looked up into his brown eyes, I found myself wanting to see bright blue ones instead.

“I’ll be here when you get back, going through those papers, if you want to stop in. I’ll let you know if the phone rings and nobody’s there.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Have fun.”

He raised his hand in farewell, then shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away. I caught a movement from the corner of my eye and turned slightly to see the woman and child by the tree again. I turned to face them directly, and they disappeared, the swing still as if they had never been there at all.

I
juggled General Lee’s leash in one hand and a tall glass of ice-cold Coke in the other while trying to unlock the dead bolts on the front door. It was almost dusk, and I still hadn’t dressed for my dinner with Marc, but Chad had asked if I’d take the dog for his walk while he accompanied Sophie to their yoga class. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that his insistent courtship of Sophie was a lost cause although they’d taken to calling each other Velma and Shaggy—which I didn’t understand—so maybe all wasn’t lost. I still had visions of throwing rice at their wedding, so I gave in. Besides, since technically the dog belonged to me, I didn’t feel it right to refuse, so there I was, struggling with the door, while General Lee waited patiently with a bored look on his face. I’m sure if he’d had a nail file, he’d have been busy giving himself a manicure while he waited for me to figure it out.

“Can I help you with that, Miz Middleton?”

I turned to see my plumber, Rich Kobylt, coming down the stairs loaded down with all of his gear, apparently leaving for the day. Rich was working in the house so much that I was ready to offer him a room free of charge. “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

He slid the dead bolts and held the door open for me while General Lee and I passed through onto the piazza. I gave him my key and waited for him to lock the door. “Thanks again,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Rich didn’t move to pick up his things, for which I was partially grateful, considering his girth and the looseness of his pants in the rear.

“Miz Middleton, can I ask you something?”

I had a flash of worry that he was about to tell me that I was stuck with the plumbing the way it was or that he was quitting before he’d finished my master bath. “Sure,” I said.

He scratched his rounded cheek covered with dark, three-day-old bristles. “Um, are you the only one living in this house?”

“Yes,” I said, his question taking me by surprise. “Well, except for Mr. Trenholm, who sleeps in the guest room. Temporarily,” I added hastily.

“Yeah, I know that.” He scratched his cheek again as if unsure how to proceed. “I guess what I meant was if maybe your sister or friend was visiting or something.”

I stilled. “No. Why do you ask?”

He laughed weakly. “You’re going to think this is weird, and I hope I’m not jeopardizing my job or anything, but every time I walk past that drawing room, I always see a lady standing next to the big clock out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn to look right at her, she’s gone.”

“What does she look like?” I asked, my voice calm.

“I’ve never seen her long enough to get a good look at her face, but her clothes are old-fashioned. Like the kind they wore in that gangster movie
Bonnie and Clyde.
”

I felt a bubble of nervous laughter approach my lips but held it back.
Louisa,
I thought, and then I almost told Rich that it was a good thing that he saw her, remembering what Mr. Vanderhorst had said to me.
She only appears to those she approves of.
At the very least I supposed Louisa was telling me that she liked my choice of a plumber. “Anything else you remember?”

He nodded. “The smell of roses. It was so strong that I thought my grandmother was standing there. She’s dead now, but I still remember that rose perfume she used to wear.” He sent me a level look. “Miz Middleton, I don’t mean to scare you, but I think your house might be haunted.”

I had another insane urge to burst out laughing. Instead, I managed to keep a straight face. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, ma’am. Not that I think you need to be frightened of her or anything, because she seemed like a nice enough lady, but I thought you should know. Although . . .” He stopped, his eyes skittering away.

“Although what?”

“Again, Miz Middleton, I don’t want to scare you, and I don’t really like to talk about this to other people too much, but I have what they call a gift about these things. You know, like a second sight. So I see things most people don’t.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Believe me, I understand.”

“I knew you would, Miz Middleton. When you were so nice and understanding about being without water for three days, I figured you’d be nice and understanding about this, too.” He smiled hesitantly. “So, anyway, that lady’s not the only . . . um . . . spirit I’ve seen. There’s something in the upstairs hallway, around those stairs that go up to the attic. It’s a man and he’s not so nice, and I don’t think he wants any of us here—and especially not up in that attic.” His eyebrows knitted as he gave me a serious look. “You need to be careful around him. Although . . .”

“What, Rich? You can tell me.”

“Well”—he scratched the back of his neck—“I just got the strangest impression that the lady downstairs was keeping the bad man upstairs. Like, as long as she was around, he wouldn’t mess with me.”

I swallowed heavily, remembering my own encounters with both ghosts and realizing he was right.

Rich continued. “And I was thinking you should hire one of those psychic people who like to talk to ghosts to come find out what he wants. Then maybe he’ll go away.”

“That’s a good idea, Rich. I’ll look into it. And I promise your secret is safe with me.”

“I appreciate it, ma’am.” He picked up his gear while I looked up at the flaking paint on the piazza ceiling and followed him to the door. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “I’m still having trouble getting the water out to that fountain. I’ve checked all the pipes, and everything’s intact with no leaks or blockages, but I just can’t figure it out. I’m thinking we’re going to have to get some earth-moving equipment and dig a bigger hole out in your backyard.”

I thought of all of my dad’s hard work, of the beauty he’d created in the once desolate garden and I paused. “Why don’t we wait on that, Rich? There’s still so much to be done on the inside, why don’t we concentrate on that, and then see if we really need any water in the fountain at all?”

He held the door open for General Lee and me, and we passed through it, followed by Rich. “If you want, Miz Middleton. It’s your house after all. But I think a fountain without water in it makes as much sense as a light beer. Like, what’s the point, you know?”

I grinned. “I get what you’re saying, Rich. And I know you’re a perfectionist with your work.” Which was one of the reasons why I didn’t completely lose it on the third day we’d been without water. “But let’s hold off on the fountain for now. We’ll come back to it later—promise.”

We’d moved out onto the sidewalk and stood in front of his pickup truck parked at the curb. “Sounds good.” He set his toolbox down by his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I’m still not happy with the insulation around the pipes in your new bathroom so I wanted to tinker with it a little tomorrow before we get the drywall people in. I’ll be here around six thirty, if that’s all right.”

I gave an inward groan. Honestly, I should just give the man a key and assign him a bedroom. “That’s fine, Rich. I’ll see you then.”

We said our goodbyes, and I turned with General Lee before I had to witness Rich bending over to retrieve his toolbox.

Since the little dog seemed to know where he was going, I allowed him to lead me. Every once in a while, he’d tilt his head up at me to make sure I was following and then go back to prancing down the sidewalk, his plumed tail swishing over his back like a feathered fan.

Not that I would readily admit this to anyone, especially not to Jack, but in my months of living south of Broad, I’d started to grudgingly appreciate the beauty and charm of this Charleston neighborhood, and could almost understand the hordes of tourists who flocked here with their cameras. There was something otherworldly that lingered here in the walled gardens, whose fragrant blooms escaped through decorative wrought iron gates to entice passersby to stop and notice. Or perhaps it was the old houses themselves, having withstood revolution, pestilence, fire, civil war, and civil unrest, and still remained stoic and serene in their classic beauty—true Southern ladies. I was a born and bred Charlestonian, and I would have had to have been completely oblivious if I couldn’t admit to even a tiny bit of pride that this was my city, that the area around Tradd Street was my neighborhood, and that I could almost understand—if not fully embrace—all the crazy eccentricities of my preservation-minded neighbors. I could even appreciate the vanity of a city whose building’s earthquake rods had decorative lion-head caps on them in a typical Charleston nod of adding beauty to functionality.