The House on Tradd Street (44 page)

I didn’t answer but turned to jog down the stairs in time to throw open the door before Jack could open it himself. I stopped in the threshold with my mouth poised to speak. Marc stood next to Jack on the porch, holding an identical potted orchid.

When I eventually found my voice, I greeted them both before stepping back to allow them inside.

Without a word, Jack placed his orchid on the hall table, then made his way up the stairs toward his old bedroom, his suitcases knocking the treads every few steps.

Marc placed his orchid in front of Jack’s, then kissed me on both cheeks. “I heard about last night and thought your favorite flower might cheer you up. I was so worried, but Nancy told me that you would be fine.” He sniffed the air. “It was an electrical fire?”

I nodded. “Yes. Luckily only the kitchen was destroyed. The rest of the house is okay.”

He grinned. “As beautiful as this house is, having it burn to the ground wouldn’t have been such a bad thing for you, would it?”

I remembered the sense of outrage in Sophie’s voice when she’d spoken earlier, and I had to work hard not to duplicate it in my own. “Actually, I think I would have been pretty devastated.”

Marc looked at me with surprise. “Ah, so that’s the way it is now. I’ve been told that these old houses can be contagious.”

“What’s contagious?” My dad was coming down the stairs, the humidor under his arm.

“Old houses,” said Marc. “I think Melanie here has caught the bug.”

My dad reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in front of us. “Well, that would make sense, wouldn’t it, Melanie?”

I sent my dad a warning glance but obviously knowing my favorite flower wasn’t the only blip on my personal radar that he had overlooked.

“Really?” Marc seemed genuinely interested.

“Yes. Melanie spent a lot of time in her grandmother’s house on Legare. Guess that’s where her love of old houses comes from.”

I wasn’t sure if I needed to defend myself or just agree, so I remained silent.

My dad eyed Marc for a moment. “You’re a Charleston native, aren’t you? Maybe you’ve heard the name Susannah Barnesly.”

Marc wrinkled his brow in concentration for a long moment. “No, it’s not ringing a bell with me. Is this somebody I should know?”

“No, actually,” said my father as I kept my eyes on Marc. “Although it might be somebody my father used to know. I found what we’re guessing to be her picture in a box of my father’s things.”

Marc shook his head. “I’m sorry. Don’t think I can help you.” He paused for a moment. “Wasn’t your father good friends with Robert Vanderhorst—one of the former owners of this house?”

“Yes. They were best friends and business partners for a long time.”

“I thought I remembered that correctly. Can’t remember what I ate for breakfast most days, but I always seem to remember pieces of trivia I’ve picked up along the way.”

My dad laughed. “Ain’t that the truth! And just wait until you get older—it gets much worse.”

Their shared laughter was interrupted by Jack tramping down the stairs before approaching our group in the foyer. Marc appraised Jack with a dismissive glance. “I might be mistaken, Jack, but it looked like you were moving in.”

“Well, Matt, your powers of observation would then be almost as strong as your cologne.”

I admired Marc’s restraint when he said nothing and turned to me instead. “They’re having fireworks tonight at Patriot’s Point for Veterans’ Day, and I thought you might like to go.”

“I’d love to,” I said, meaning it. We hadn’t spent a lot of time together since I’d canceled our trip to Isle of Palms. If what we had was supposed to be called a relationship, then we needed to go watch fireworks or anything else that would bring us together to move our relationship along. Regardless of how many times I found myself recalling Jack’s almost kisses and how I had almost wanted him to. Or how the truth about Emily hadn’t changed anything, really. He was still Jack—too irreverent, too comfortable in his own skin, too easy on the eyes, and way too hard on the heart.

“Great,” he said, kissing me on the lips, and I wondered how it was possible to not even feel a kiss. “How about we do dinner first at Jestine’s? I’m craving coconut cream pie. I can pick you up at seven.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, walking him to the door. He kissed me again, lingering longer this time, then left.

I walked back toward Jack and my dad in time to hear Jack mimicking Marc, “ ‘I’m craving coconut cream pie.’ Come on, who uses the word ‘craving’ anymore?”

“Grow up,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “What were the suitcases for?”

“I’m moving back in to my old room. After last night, I figured you needed the protection.”

Not only did I completely agree with him, but I also knew it was useless arguing, so I just put my hands on my hips and said, “All right, but I expect you to follow my rules. First, keep—”

Jack interrupted. “I know, I know. Keep the toilet seat down, and no girls in the house after ten p.m. Got it.”

I had to force myself not to smile back at him. “Good. Glad you remembered.”

“I only need to be told once, Mellie.” He grinned. “So, did you find out anything new?”

“Sophie called and confirmed that the rose in the box was most likely a Louisa rose. What it means, I have no idea. And my dad was able to get the pictures developed.”

My dad opened the box and took out the pictures before handing them to Jack, who stared at them for a long time. “What do you think is the purpose of the picture of the clock?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m thinking it’s to draw attention to the different face—but we’ve already figured that one out. And I’m not sure about the one of the fountain, either, other than the fact that it’s dry. But look at the other picture. What do you make of that?”

Jack studied the photograph of the woman closely. “Any idea who this is?”

“We’re not sure. But my dad pointed out that on her lap there’s a copy of ‘Oh, Susannah.’ ” Very carefully, I added, “Somebody once told me that there’s no such thing as coincidences, so I’m taking a leap here and guessing that the woman’s name is Susannah.”

Jack looked at me sharply. “Glad to know that I’ve been rubbing off on you.” He glanced over at my father. “And I mean that very respectfully, sir.”

My dad gave him a mock salute, then continued watching us.

Jack continued. “So this might be the elusive Susannah Barnsley?”

I nodded. “It’s certainly possible, I guess. And the best part is that Susannah Barnsley had a house on Chalmers—it’s on one of Sophie’s architectural tours, which is how I found out. That might be a place to start. What about you?” I asked. “Did you find out anything at the library?”

Jack shook his head. “I haven’t been there, yet. I needed to pack and move my stuff over first. I was thinking that you could come with me, and then we could head over to my place so I could show you my etchings.”

“He means the wax rubbing he made of the clock face, Daddy.”

My dad shook his head. “Watching the two of you is like watching a tennis match. I’m going to head back home and see if there’s anything else in my father’s stuff that might shed some more light on this muddle. I’ll get back to you later.”

Jack and I followed my father out, making sure to first dead-bolt the door. Then we returned to Jack’s car. I pulled out the letter Robert had written to Nevin and read it again out loud, concentrating on the last paragraph.
Be vigilant in all that you do, and be secure in the knowledge always that you were greatly loved by both of your parents and all who knew you. Remember what your mother used to call you, and never have any doubt.
Cerca Trova.

“Cerca trova,”
Jack repeated.

“You’ve plugged that one into the ciphers right?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“Right?” I repeated.

“Maybe,” he said, looking annoyed. I laughed as he stepped down harder on the pedal, making my stomach jump.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for lying, you know.”

“I know,” he said, taking a corner sharply and sending me into his side. “But Emily would have wanted me to keep trying.”

I faced him, the long afternoon shadows shooting orange light into the car. “Emily would?”

He remained focused on the road in front of him. “Yeah. That’s why she came back, I think. For forgiveness. For both of us.”

I sat back in the leather seat and closed my eyes, realizing that I hadn’t felt Emily’s presence around Jack since I’d told him the truth in the car. The heavy scent of camellias, the harbinger of autumn in the Lowcountry and what I would bet money on had been Emily’s favorite flower, floated into the car and wrapped the air around us before it slowly disappeared. I smiled to myself, knowing he was right.

J
ack’s condo was on Queen Street in an area known as the French Quarter due to the fact that it had historically been the location of a high concentration of French merchants. It was also known for how close it had come to falling under the wrecking ball in the nineteen seventies, and it might have except for the efforts of the Save Charleston Foundation and the donations of Americans from around the country. Sophie, and many others of her preservationist ilk, spoke with reverence when mentioning the entire incident. As Jack and I took a left at Vendue Range, I cringed a little, remembering something I’d once said to Sophie about how a wrecking ball might have solved a lot of the parking issues in the area.

As we walked toward the elevator in the converted nineteenth-century rice warehouse, I caught myself admiring the restoration work that had been done to sensitively convert old warehouse space to hip new condominiums. I caught Jack watching me with a knowing grin, and I quickly averted my gaze to focus on the functional metal elevator.

Jack threw the door open to his unit, and I paused in the entryway, wondering if he had mistakenly let me into his neighbor’s condo. The space had all the exposed brick, tall windows, and soaring ceilings with wood beams that made converted condos such a hot commodity in the real estate market. But the beautiful art and furniture—an eclectic mix of urban sleekness and rich antiques—almost made me do a double take to see if I was an inadvertent guest on a reality TV show.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asked, his keys dangling in his hand.

“I’m just . . . surprised.” I looked around and saw the typical piles of mail on the kitchen bar, old newspapers scattered under a glass-and-chrome coffee table, and a spread of open sports magazines on the leather sofa that made me itch to go straighten them, and figured that I had to be in the right place.

“Surprised?”

“Yeah,” I said, facing him. “Did your mother do all of your decorating?”

He tossed his keys in what looked like a Herend bowl on a Beidemeier chest in the entranceway. “No, actually. I did it myself. She helped me make a few purchases at auctions, but besides that it was just me.” He moved into the open kitchen and went to the stainless steel refrigerator. Taking out a nonalcoholic beer, he held one up to me, but I shook my head.

I moved to a wall in the living area and looked at what appeared to be a Degas ballerina pencil drawing. “Are you sure you aren’t gay?”

He stood next to me and took a long draw on his longneck bottle. “Pretty sure. I’ve just always known where to place the stray ottoman or how to mix Chippendale with Craftsman. Must be in the genes.”

I remembered his silent perusal of my own condo, and I shook my head, trying to erase the memory. “Let’s look at those ciphers,” I said, eager to focus on business instead of my lack of decorating finesse and Jack’s apparent knack for it.

He led the way into a partitioned space separated from the living area with a Japanese screen. The large mahogany partner’s desk, with a Mac computer perched in the middle of a mound of paper, took up most of the area, the brick walls covered in modern steel bookshelves filled with books. A muted Persian rug covered the wood floor, warming the space and making it the perfect writer’s retreat. A suede camelback couch was pushed against one wall, and I assumed this must be his napping spot when he had writer’s block—assuming he ever did. The Jack Trenholm I knew never seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Over here,” he said, indicating the couch. He picked up a roll of art paper and unfurled it before placing it on the floor. He kneeled on one side and held down two corners, and I did the same on the other side. “This is the actual rubbing I did of the clock—and, as you saw before, none of it makes sense.”

I looked at the crinkled paper at the top and the black crayonlike marks of various letters in no apparent order:
IFANKRNGMFEFIVEEMNROQNPDKNIASRKE.

“As you can see, at the top here I placed the letters in columns according to the order they appeared on the face. Starting at twelve o’clock—which is logical, considering it’s the beginning of the day.”