The House on Tradd Street (39 page)

I didn’t pull away, but sat feeling my father’s work-roughened hands, imagining each brick and each plant he’d placed in my garden as a sort of penance for a sin committed long ago. I wasn’t ready to forgive him; I wasn’t sure if that was what he was even asking. But maybe, under all of my hurt and loss, I owed him my understanding.

“She still left me. Does it really matter why?”

He shook his head. “She told me she was doing it for you. And that’s the last time I allowed her to try and explain anything to me.”

I shook my head. “Why are you telling me all this now?”

Slowly, he let go of my hands and slid the humidor closer to him, which at the same time shoved the gin glass out of his direct line of vision. “Because it occurred to me—this whole house thing, and the disappearing mother and the son who never forgot her—I think it all ended up in your lap for a reason. Losing a mother is a horrible thing—not ever knowing the truth is worse still.” He rested his hands on top of the polished wood box. “Maybe, in finding out the truth about Louisa Vanderhorst, you might find some understanding of your own past.”

I sat back in my chair, feeling the hard wood against my back. I pressed into it, concentrated on feeling the hardness that grounded me to the chair. Because without that, I felt that I might float away, leave that person I had always known as Melanie Middleton, abandoned child, because I no longer thought that I knew her.

“So you don’t believe Louisa ran away,” I said, staring at the humidor.

He shook his head. “And neither do you. There’s too much evidence to the contrary from what Jack has told me.” He turned the box around so that I could see the front and the splintered wood where he’d broken the lock. “But we’ll never find out unless you allow us to keep looking.”

Jack pressed a glass of ice water into my hands. I hadn’t been aware of him asking for one, and I think I thanked him for it. I pressed the icy-cold glass against my cheek before taking a long drink. “And what if I find out that Louisa did just leave with Joseph?”

“Then we’ll know the truth. But I think, if we dig deep enough, we’ll find out that things aren’t always what they seem. That maybe people act in ways contrary to what they are because they don’t think they have any other choice.”

I reached toward the box and pulled it to my side of the table, touching the smooth wood under my outstretched palms, feeling as if I were being presented with a gift—a gift not just for me but for my father as well. Thirty-three years was a long time to be paying penance. “I’ll consider it. But first, you need to promise me three things.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I need you to promise that you won’t come back here. And that if you feel the urge to drink, I want you to call me first and then Jack.”

“Deal,” he said. “And what’s the third?”

Locking eyes with my dad, I said, “That you won’t make me work with Jack on this.”

He smiled his old smile and I relaxed a bit. “Only if you want to. But he’s the one with all the research connections and the know-how. I think it would be foolish to exclude him.”

I refocused my gaze on Jack and was silent for a long moment. “I’ll let you work on this with us only if you promise to stay away from me as much as possible.”

He had the audacity to not even look offended. Instead, he gave me his back-of-the-book-cover smile and saluted. “Yes, ma’am. You’re the captain, and I’m the sailor, and I will take orders from you without meeting your eyes.”

“Whatever,” I muttered before turning back to the box, tapping my fingers against it.

“Go ahead and open it, Melanie,” my dad said gently. “I’m not sure what any of it means, but maybe the three of us can put our heads together and figure it out.” His eyes met mine and he added, “For Nevin. And Louisa.”

Without allowing myself to think, I lifted the hinged lid, the aroma of old cigars and something else wafting out of it. I sneezed twice, then peered inside the box. Scattered throughout were dried rose petals, detached from the stem most likely from movement of the box. Nestled amid the petals was a canister of old 120 roll film and beneath it an ivory envelope, still sealed. After hesitating briefly, I reached in and pulled it out, breathing in deeply when I saw the underlined name on the front, written in the bold handwriting of a male.
Nevin,
it read. And then, in the bottom right hand corner, was the date
January 15, 1931
.

I glanced up at my dad, not even sure how to formulate my question.

“I’m thinking that maybe Nevin’s father gave this to my father for safekeeping.”

“In case anything happened to him, perhaps?” Jack pulled his chair closer. “But I thought they had a falling-out shortly after Louisa disappeared in 1930. This is dated a year later.”

I nodded. “They did. They even dissolved their law practice. So why would my grandfather have this in his possession when he died?”

We all looked at each other. Finally, Jack said, “Open the letter, Melanie. Maybe that will answer our questions.”

I looked at my dad for confirmation, and he nodded. “All right,” I said. “I suppose when Mr. Vanderhorst left me his house, he was bound to expect that I’d have access to his personal effects.” With a deep breath, I slid my finger under the flap and began to tear. The letter was folded in half, the ink now browned with age. I cleared my throat, my eyes sliding from my dad’s face to Jack’s, then read out loud.

 
“How cryptic,” I murmured, feeling the soft ivory vellum between my fingers.

“ ‘Cerca Trova’?”
my father asked.

Jack frowned for a moment. “Seek and ye shall find. And that’s weird because I know I’ve seen that recently. It’ll come to me.”

I read the letter again to myself. “But why didn’t Robert get the box after Gus died?”

“They died within hours of each other, probably without realizing the other was gone,” said Jack. “I found that in my research.”

My dad took the letter from me and read it to himself. “I’ve never even gone through his things. My father died when I was pretty young, and I was raised by an aunt. I’ve had his stuff in storage ever since I was first sent to basic training camp. I never thought . . .”

I touched his arm. “It’s not your fault, Daddy. Nobody could ever have suspected that Grandpa Gus was hiding anything like this. At least you kept it and didn’t throw it all away.”

Jack was examining the rose stem. “Something tells me that this is a Louisa rose.”

I took it from him, feeling the frailness of the dead flower as if the stale air of the old box was being transferred to me like the air from an ancient tomb. “I’ll ask Sophie if she knows anybody at the college who could identify this for us.”

My dad reached in and took out the roll of film. “What about this? Is it even possible that the images might still be developed?”

“My dad is good friends with Lloyd Sconiers,” Jack said. “He buys and sells old cameras and equipment in his store in North Charleston. He’s a bit of an oddity but really knows his stuff. I could take these to him and see what he says. Might even be able to develop them himself.”

“Great,” I said, trying to keep my growing excitement in check. “First thing, I’m going to go see Sophie and bring the rose. What time does Mr. Sconiers open his shop?”

Jack twisted his mouth as if he were trying hard not to smile. “Probably ten o’clock. Would you like to make out a work sheet for us?”

I sent him a withering glance, then slid back my chair. As I slipped my purse onto my shoulder, my father surprised me by putting his arms around me and giving me a hug. I stiffened at first, remembering the old hugs that were meant more to disguise the fact that he couldn’t stand unassisted.

“Thank you,” he said quietly into my ear.

I pulled back, looking into his face. “For what?”

“For not giving up. Even when you pretended to get on with your life, you always made sure that your cell phone number was programmed into mine. I didn’t deserve it. And for coming tonight and letting me be a part of all this. It’s given me something to look forward to.” He scratched the back of his head. “And it’s given me a chance to see the person you’ve become in spite of me. I’m proud of you.” My father coughed in embarrassment, then stepped back. “Yes, well, I guess we should all go home now. We’ve got to be up and at ’em tomorrow.”

I started, a brief sensation of déjà vu settling over me. “Who’s Adam?” I asked, smiling softly.

His eyes softened. “You remembered.”

“Yeah. Hard to forget something I said every morning.” I laughed out loud, remembering my genuine confusion as a child as to why my dad wanted me to get “up and Adam.” Even after he’d explained it to me, I stubbornly persisted on asking who Adam was.

“It wasn’t all bad, was it, growing up with me?”

I reached for him and hugged him tightly, noticing how he didn’t seem so tall or strong anymore. Then I buried my face in the soft wool of his jacket so he couldn’t see my tears. “No, Daddy,” I said, my voice muffled. “Not all of it.”

He patted my back clumsily until Jack interjected, “Okay, okay, you two. You’re going to make me cry and ruin my reputation.”

We broke apart, still feeling strained and awkward in each other’s company, but no longer like the polite strangers we’d been for so long.

We put everything inside the box again, and Jack handed it to me to carry. Then the three of us walked outside onto the sidewalk, and I shivered, feeling the chill of the autumn night yet warmed somehow, too. I turned to my dad. “Will you be all right to go home by yourself ?”

“Thank you. I’m all right now.”

Impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek. “I’m glad.”

He touched his cheek, a boyish grin on his face, which made it obvious to me what it was that must have once attracted my mother.

Jack and I walked him to his car, and he paused for a moment. “There’s one more thing, Melanie.”

“What?”

“You really need to move back into the house. Not only to keep everything legit, but because I also think there must be more clues in that house that we haven’t found yet. And we’ll have a much better chance of finding them if you’re there.”

I stared at him, wondering if there was any hidden meaning behind his request. But his eyes were level and clear, and I had a flash of memory of his reaction when I told him I’d been speaking on the phone to my grandmother, and I knew he’d only meant what he’d said.

“He’s right, Melanie. The bathrooms are working, and so is the kitchen, so it won’t be too horrible living there.” Jack elbowed me gently in the arm. “You can’t really call it roughing it if you’re in a house on Tradd Street, you know?”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah. Probably not.” I sobered quickly, feeling only sadness instead of the anger at Jack or my practiced ambivalence for the house. The sadness surprised me, and I wondered if in some small way it was because Mr. Vanderhorst’s dream of restoring the house to its former grandeur would most likely not happen as long as I owned the house. I had less than a year to go—seven months and three weeks to be exact—and then I could sell it to someone who thought that restoring an old house might be fun. But instead of getting excited about the idea of selling the house and retuning to my condo, I felt only the persistent bruise of regret.

My dad said goodbye; then we watched him drive off before going back to Jack’s Porsche. Starting his engine, he turned to me. “So, I guess you wouldn’t want to go somewhere for a drink with me. Or dessert?”

“Absolutely not. Just because we’re working on this little mystery together does not make us friends or coworkers or whatever else you want to call it.”

“Sort of like barely civil strangers.”

“Exactly.”

“Who’ve been working side by side for about four months, sharing countless meals, meeting each other’s parents, and almost kissed twice.”

“Once,” I corrected before clamping my hand over my mouth. “I think,” I added between my fingers.

“Right,” he said, his dimple showing in the light from the streetlamp. “Barely civil strangers.”

We didn’t speak for the entire ride across the river to Mt. Pleasant. When he slid into a space in front of my building, he turned to me, his eyes serious. “I can’t tell you how very sorry I am. About lying to you. That’s not the sort of person I am at all—not that I expect you to believe it. It’s just . . .” He ran his hands through his hair, making pointy ends stick up behind his ears. “I don’t know. I guess Emily’s departure made me too cynical. Made me not want to trust anyone. But that’s no excuse, and I know that. I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. Sorry that I disappointed you. Sorry that I was such a jerk.”

I hesitated, just for a moment, my hand on the door handle.
Tell him. Tell him I love him. Tell him that my love for him gave me no choice but to leave. Tell him what you know.
I opened my mouth to tell him what I’d learned, not because I forgave him but because he needed to forgive himself. “Jack, there’s something . . .”

His cell phone rang and he looked down at the number. “It’s my friend at the library.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “Would you like me to walk you up?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just see you tomorrow. Don’t want to keep you from your library friend.” I smirked.