The House on Tradd Street (4 page)

As was my habit, I avoided looking at the historic buildings along King Street, arranged neatly in what has been called “the handsomest shopping street in America.” Yes, I supposed the buildings were beautiful in their own antique, money-sucking way, but it was what I saw sometimes peering out at me from old shop windows that kept my eyes focused straight ahead. It was the same with hospitals. I had to wear earphones just to block out the sounds of the voices from people only I could see.

As I walked past a narrow piazza with stairs leading up to what was once the residential part of the building when it was used as a shop, a pale young girl stood on the bottom step, almost hidden by the climbing hibiscus that clung doggedly to the peeling paint. I had almost walked past her before I realized that her skin was nearly translucent and that her clothes were from another century. By the time I turned back, she was gone, only the slight sway of a large red hibiscus bloom to tell anybody of the girl’s presence.

Focusing once again on the sidewalk in front of me, I passed the new Judicial Center—recalling the furor that had surrounded its architectural conception—and found the law offices of Drayton, Drayton, and Drayton in the next block. Since it was a Saturday, the grand reception desk in the front foyer sat vacant. I stood there, wondering what to do when large double doors off to the side of the reception area opened and an egg-domed head popped out. The middle-aged man was frowning as he caught sight of me and I felt the two doughnuts and large latte roll over in my stomach.

“Ms. Middleton?” He stuck out a well-manicured hand and we shook. “I’m Jonathan Drayton. Thank you for coming. Please come in.”

Giving my mouth a surreptitious wipe in case there were any lingering powdered sugar remnants, I followed Mr. Drayton into the conference room.

There were several people sitting around the table, most of whom appeared to be office support staff. I recognized the eldest Mr. Drayton from previous business dealings near the head of the table. He sent me a tight smile before standing.

“Ms. Middleton, so good to see you again. Won’t you sit down?” He indicated the chair at the head of the table.

Hesitantly, I approached, suddenly wary of my presence there and why I would be sitting at the head of the table. Was all this excitement about me obtaining the listing for the old house on Tradd Street? I sat down, crossed my legs at the ankles, and folded my hands in my lap. I pressed down hard on my hands to keep my legs from doing their normal impatient jiggle.

Mr. Drayton sat again while Jonathan Drayton sat down across from him. The room fell silent, and I began to have a very bad feeling.

Mr. Drayton spoke first. “Ms. Middleton, I apologize for bringing you in here on a Saturday. But this situation is highly . . . irregular, and I didn’t think it in anybody’s best interests to wait until Monday.”

“This situation?” I clamped down hard on my teeth to keep them from chattering.

“Yes. You see, Mr. Vanderhorst, God rest his soul, was not only an old client of this firm—he was also a dear friend.”

I looked back at him without speaking, not comprehending at all and trying hard not to look like a deer caught in the headlights.

Mr. Drayton cleared his throat and spoke again. “I understand that you went to see Mr. Vanderhorst two days ago to discuss listing Mr. Vanderhorst’s house—is that correct?”

I nodded, feeling like a child sitting at her father’s kitchen table and getting ready to be scolded.

“Did he give you any indication that he was willing to sell his house?”

“To be honest, I don’t think the thought ever crossed his mind. I had no idea why he even brought me out there. I figured he was just lonely and wanted company.” I looked down at my hands, remembering the china plate and how it had belonged to his mother. “He seemed to be a really nice man.”

“Do you remember what you
did
talk about?”

I thought about the woman with the swing in the garden and how Mr. Vanderhorst had known she was there, too. I said, “He mentioned that his father and my grandfather were close friends and had attended Harvard Law School together. I believe he also mentioned that my grandfather had been the best man at his father’s wedding.”

Both men suddenly glanced at each other as if in understanding. I uncrossed my ankles and raised my hands to clutch the sides of the conference table. “What’s this about? Did he decide to give me the listing anyway?”

Jonathan Drayton spoke this time. “Do you like old houses, Melanie?”

The second time in two days somebody has asked me that.
I felt a bubble of laughter form at the back of my throat, but I clamped it down, afraid it would turn into a primal scream. “No. Actually, no. To be honest, I’ve always thought they were a huge waste of money and space.”

Mr. Drayton leaned toward me. “But didn’t your mother grow up in the Prioleau house on Legare Street?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“And didn’t she sell it after your grandmother died and after your mother left your father?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Didn’t that cause resentment in you? That you had somehow missed out on your entitlement?”

“Entitlement? What . . . ?” I stood, my chair scraping the carpet, suddenly feeling as if I’d been transported into some kind of fun house of mirrors. “What is going on here? I have no idea why getting this listing has anything to do with my mother or her house.”

Mr. Drayton plastered what I assumed was supposed to be a calming smile on his face. “I’m sorry, Ms. Middleton. Please sit down. I do apologize for what must seem like the third degree, but I’m still in shock at the sudden passing of my friend, and I do want to make sure everything is clear. After you hear the reason why we brought you in this morning, you’ll understand why we wanted to make sure that there was no coercion on your part.”

“Coercion?” I nearly laughed. “Despite my reputation in the business, I’m not in the habit of twisting the arms of potential clients, especially the elderly, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I glowered at him as I lowered myself into my seat again and looked at the two men expectantly. “So, do I have the listing?”

There was some throat clearing and glances between the two men before Jonathan Drayton spoke. “Not exactly. It would appear that Mr. Vanderhorst has left his house and entire estate to you.”

I leaned forward, sure that if I listened closely enough I could hear the theme from
The Twilight Zone
being piped into the suddenly claustrophobic office. “No.”

“Actually, yes.”

“This is a mistake. He wasn’t in his right mind or something.”

Mr. Drayton leaned toward me. “No, there’s no mistake. I personally oversaw the writing of Mr. Vanderhorst’s will shortly after you left him Thursday morning. He was perfectly sane.” He glanced over at his son for a moment before concentrating again on me. “Well, except for the fact that he said that his mother would approve. And, to be honest, I fully expected to visit the following week to get him to change his mind. As I mentioned, all of this is highly irregular.”

I rubbed my temple, which had begun to throb. “His relatives will contest the will.”

“He doesn’t have any.”

“Find some.”

The two Draytons stood in unison. Jonathan stepped forward. “Ms. Middleton, I know this is a bit of a shock—it was to us, too—but Mr. Vanderhorst was adamant that his property should go to you.”

Mr. Drayton slid a sealed envelope across the table towards me. I saw my name scribbled across the top complete with my middle initial “P”—just like on the business card I’d given Mr. Vanderhorst.

“Ms. Middleton, Mr. Vanderhorst suspected you might need some sort of explanation, so he gave me this letter for you to be handed over in the event of his death. I just didn’t expect for it to happen so soon.”

I stared at the letter for a long time before sliding it toward me across the polished surface of the mahogany table and picking it up. I held it in my hands, feeling the heavy crisp linen stationery, but didn’t open it.

Looking up at the two men, I said, “I don’t want this. There’s nothing in this letter that could possibly change my mind.”

“Melanie—may I call you Melanie? You’re just in a state of shock right now. Once you have a chance to examine the house more closely, you’ll realize what a treasure you’ve inherited.” Mr. Drayton gave me what probably passed for a warm smile to him.

“Mr. Drayton, I’ve seen the house. It’s a dump. I’d just as soon send in a wrecking ball and end its misery.”

Mr. Drayton looked alarmed. “Oh, no, Ms. Middleton. You can’t do that. The entire historic district is protected.”

“But it’s barely habitable! I’d have to start panhandling in the hopes of not starving to death after I’ve paid to make the house safe enough to sell.”

Mr. Drayton cleared his throat. “Actually, money shouldn’t be an issue. Mr. Vanderhorst is, er, was a wealthy man. Not having any family, he had no use for it except to save it.”

I felt a glimmer of hope. “So I can just abandon it until it falls down and move somewhere else to live in luxury?”

Mr. Drayton cleared his throat again, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Um, not exactly. You see, Mr. Vanderhorst established a trust to ensure that money is spent on the restoration of the house. You will, of course, be able to draw an amount for living expenses as long as you live in the house. The exact amount will be left to the discretion of the trustee. The trust will remain in effect until your death.”

I blinked hard, trying to stop my mind from spinning. “How about selling it as is? I’d have to list it way under market because of its condition, but there are lots of crazy people out there who would jump at the chance.”

“Actually, you could,” said Mr. Drayton. “Except a stipulation in the will states that before you’re allowed to put it on the market, you have to have lived in the house for the period of one year. Ditto for all the furnishings inside the house.”

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “So, what you’re basically saying is that I’m screwed.” I stared down at the envelope in my hand and thought hard. “Could I just refuse it all and walk away?”

“I suppose that’s your prerogative.” Mr. Drayton leaned forward and tapped the envelope in my hand. “But read this before you make any decisions. I don’t think Mr. Vanderhorst made his decision lightly. This house was the child he never had, and he’s left it in your care.”

I gripped the envelope tightly, remembering Mr. Vanderhorst standing in front of the growth chart marked on the drawing room wall.
MBG. My best guy.
Standing again, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “I need to be alone for a while. I’ll let you know what I decide by Tuesday.”

“You can take longer, Melanie.”

“No. I don’t want this hanging over my head any longer than it needs to. I’ll let you know by Tuesday.”

I didn’t wait to hear their response. I’d already fled from the room and was running down the outside steps before I even realized where I was heading.

 
When I rounded the corner onto Tradd Street, I heard the sound of the swing again. A brewing storm whipped dirt across the sidewalk and around my ankles, making me shiver despite the heat. I noticed the cracked blue-and-white tiles in the sidewalk in front of the gate,
55 Tradd.

I looked up at the darkening sky as I pushed open the gate, making my way quickly to the piazza and to the peeling white wicker rocker I’d spotted on my first visit to the house. I’d never been a porch sitter, could even think of about ten derogatory terms I’d probably called porch sitters in the last year, but I suddenly felt compelled to sit there now and read my letter from the dead.