The House on Tradd Street (9 page)

I stood over the man, watching as a stain of wet beer darkened the front of his khaki shirt, spreading its shame like a red letter on his chest. “Jack, would you please help him out to your car while I go call Mr. Drayton and tell him I’ll sign the papers?”

He looked at me with confusion. “Do you know this man?”

I knelt down. “Jack Trenholm, meet Colonel James Middleton. Dad? This is Jack Trenholm. He’s going to bring you home.”

My dad looked at us, his bloodshot hazel eyes staring up at me. At least he still had it in him to look ashamed. His words slurred together, bumping into one another like falling dominoes. “Sorry, Melanie. I only meant to have one.”

Jack put his hand on my arm. “I’ll take care of it. Go make your call.” He gave me that trademark grin of his again. “We’re partners now, remember?”

I rolled my eyes in mock resignation. “Yeah, great. Just make sure he pukes before he gets into your Porsche.”

I turned my back on them and headed out into the sticky air of a late Charleston summer and took great, gasping lungfuls of it while trying to breathe out all the disappointments and hopelessness that I had carried inside of me for thirty-three years. Then I fished my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Mr. Drayton’s number.

T
hree days after my “come to Jesus meeting” at Blackbeard’s, I was the owner of an antique pile of rotten lumber, and encumbered by a dog, a housekeeper, and a guilt trip as long as the Cooper River. Later I would come to wonder how my perfect life had changed so quickly, and the only thing I could come up with was that in a moment of weakness I had been taken in by something as simple as a rose-painted piece of china and a handwritten letter on beautiful stationery.

I returned to the house on Tradd Street, dressed to do battle. I even brought along a rake, a trowel, and a handheld gardening implement with pointy prongs, the name of which I couldn’t recall. They were lent to me by our receptionist, Nancy Flaherty, when I told her the condition of the garden. She even knew of the Louisa rose, and I felt like Sir Lancelot as she’d handed me the trowel and said solemnly, “The very existence of that rose in this world is in your hands, Melanie.”

I rolled my eyes. “And when did you take time away from your golf game to learn horticulture?”

She’d refused to take my bait. “Gardening isn’t something you learn, Melanie.” She pressed her golf-glove-covered fist to her chest. “It’s something that’s there. You’re either born with it or you’re not. And who knows? Maybe you’ve got it.”

“I’m not the nurturing type—you know that. I don’t even keep houseplants. Why don’t I just pave over the whole garden and be done with it?”

She looked at me as if she thought I was joking. “Just give it a try. You might just find that you love tending a garden.”

I headed toward the door, gardening implements in hand. “Right. And I might even find that I actually love old houses instead of thinking that they’re huge holes in the ground that stupid people throw money into.”

She held the door open as I headed down the outside steps. “Stranger things have happened.”

I was on the sidewalk when Nancy called out to me again. “And you’re wrong, you know.”

I stopped and looked up at her. “About what?”

“About you not being the nurturing type. Most people would have written your father off long ago.”

She didn’t wait for an answer as she closed the office door, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, staring at the closed door with a mixture of resentment and admiration. I headed down the street toward my car with a small feeling of hope that maybe I wasn’t so desperate in the home-horticulture department.

But as I stood on the other side of the gate at 55 Tradd Street, I knew without a doubt that Nancy had been all wrong, and I thought again of my idea to pave over the garden as a strong contender on my list of options.

I opened the gate and stepped through it, noticing again how easily it swung on its hinges without any protest. I stood for a moment, listening, and was relieved to hear nothing but birds and the occasional drone of a bee before proceeding into the side garden with its impressive collection of weeds and the forlorn fountain.

The smell of roses was overpowering there, but not in a sickening, cloying way. Rather, it was more of a good memory, like that of a beloved grandmother putting you to bed at night. I had no such memory, but I still found an odd comfort from the aroma that permeated this corner of the garden.

I put down the bag Nancy had given me and walked slowly around the fountain again, avoiding the pained look of the lonely cherub, and tramping down the tall weeds with my Keds-clad feet until I stood in the middle of the rose garden. I marveled again at the smell a mere four rosebushes could create before bending down to tug out a weed that had managed to creep up through the freshly laid cedar shavings. I spotted another and bent down to pull it out, too. Before I knew it, I was hunkered down by the base of the fountain and working my way around it with the single determination to rid it of weeds.

I don’t know how long I was bent at my task, but eventually I became aware of the fact that I was no longer alone. I stopped and slowly stood, feeling my back pop from the effort after having been stooped over for so long. The back of my neck tingled with the familiar mixture of heat and cold, and I turned to where I’d seen the swing before with the woman and the little boy.

I knew before I turned around that I wouldn’t find them there. There was no sound of rope against tree trunk and even the chirping of the birds had ceased. The aroma of roses had changed from that of fresh flowers to that of dead and decaying petals that had sat in a vase of water too long. I wrinkled my nose as I faced the side of the house, and my eyes were drawn to the second-story windows.

The sun dipped behind a cloud as I stared at the dark shadow that seemed to fill the window. It took on the distinct shape of a man, and I could feel the penetrating stare from where the face would be. The stench in the garden thickened, and I gagged as I staggered away from the rose garden and made my way to the steps leading up to the piazza.

Sun glinted off the Tiffany rose window on the front door as I fished the key out of my pocket with trembling fingers. In my long experience with these things, I knew I had two choices: I could ignore it in the hopes it would go away, or I could confront whatever it was to make them go away faster. With this thought, I thrust the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

The cloying aroma of decay was stronger inside, and I pressed the hem of my shirt up to my nose as I forced myself up the main staircase and found my way to the room on the side of the house where I’d seen the ominous shadow in the window.
I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you,
I whispered quietly to myself, surprised to find the words my mother taught me so readily on my lips.

I stood outside the door and slowly turned the brass doorknob. With a quick shove, the door opened on quiet hinges, softly hitting the wall behind it. I sensed immediately that whatever had been in there was gone. I peeked inside the room, taking in the large half-tester bed, the thick damask draperies, and the heavy chest-on-chest drawers, feeling guilty for snooping. I was halfway into the hall when I realized that I now owned this room and all its contents and that I could not only leave the door wide-open, but that I could go in without feeling as if I were invading somebody else’s privacy.

I forced myself to go stand by the side window, and took a deep breath, surprised to smell the roses again. I checked to ensure that the windows in the room were closed and frowned to myself, wondering how the aroma of roses two stories down and through a closed window could be as strong as if I were sticking my nose in one.

With my hands behind my back, I walked around the room, realizing that this must have been Nevin Vanderhorst’s. On the side table by the bed and on the chest of drawers opposite, a cluster of silver-framed black-and-white photographs covered the dark wood. I moved closer, studying each one like a botanist would study butterflies under glass, examining the small details that showed the viewer the relationships between the specimens.

With a start, I realized that the woman in many of the photos was the woman I’d seen in the garden. There were several photos of a young Nevin with the same woman, and I realized it had to be Louisa Vanderhorst. She was young and beautiful, with large dark eyes identical to her son’s, and wearing the same warm smile. There was her wedding photo with a very tall man and a picture of her holding a newborn baby. The frame closest to the bed, the one picture that Mr. Vanderhorst must have seen last thing at night before he turned off his light and the first thing each morning, was a studio portrait of him as a small boy sitting on his mother’s lap. They were facing each other and smiling, their noses almost touching. I picked up the frame to look at it more closely, realizing that the smell of roses had grown stronger.

I squinted and brought the picture closer to my face, wishing I had my glasses to study it better. But I didn’t think I needed them to know that this wasn’t the picture of a woman who would abandon her son. I closed my eyes, recalling the words from Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter that I couldn’t seem to forget.

 
I put the picture down suddenly, knocking it over. It fell facedown and I didn’t pick it up, not wanting to see the picture of mother and child anymore. I knew better than most, after all, how deceptive a mother’s smile could be.

Turning on my heel, I ran headfirst into something warm and solid and decidedly male, and screamed.

Strong arms gripped my shoulders. “Mellie—it’s only me. Jack.”

I stared into his face for a long moment as I waited for my heart to stop racing before jerking away from his grasp. “What in the hell are you doing in here?” I shouted at him even though he was less than a foot away from me. I was more scared than I cared to admit, and my mother had done a good job of teaching me that anger could chase the fright away. “And my name’s Melanie,” I added, annoyed at his use of the nickname, which added insult to injury even if he was unaware of its effect on me.

“You invited me, remember? You told me to meet you at the house at nine thirty.”

I glanced at the brass anniversary clock sitting on top of the chest of drawers. “You’re late. It’s nine forty-five. And, besides, haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell?”

He smiled his special smile and I had to grit my teeth.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to help a friend at the library this morning.” He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his jeans, making me wonder what kind of “friend” he’d had to help so early in the morning. He continued. “As for not using the doorbell, I thought that the wide-open door was an invitation to come right in. You know, you really shouldn’t do that. Considering the stuff that’s in this house, you should always set the alarm whether you’re here or not.”

“There isn’t one. Mr. Vanderhorst told me that he’s had some vandalism recently but that he hadn’t put in an alarm.”

Jack pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket and unclipped a short pencil from the metal rings. “That should be the first thing on our list, then.”

I glanced up at the cracked plaster and a large dark spot in a corner of the room that looked suspiciously like mildew. I turned to him, a little irritated at his mention of “our” list. “Really, Jack. I think we have bigger problems than an alarm. Besides, I would think that most vandals would be discouraged from breaking in by the condition of the outside. I know I would be. Unless you think they’ll take pity on me and sneak in at night with paint and paintbrushes.”

He ignored me, continuing to jot down notes on his pad. “I’ve a friend in the home-security business. I’ll give him a call and set up a meeting, ASAP.”

“I really don’t think it’s neces . . .”

His blue eyes rested on my face, the expression unsettling. “Believe me, it’s necessary.” He dipped his head to write something else in his notepad but paused briefly, looking back at me as if an afterthought. “You said yourself that Mr. Vanderhorst had experienced some vandalism. Now that you’ll be living here by yourself, it would be a good idea to have a little security.”

I found his insistence that I get an alarm as soon as possible odd, but the last part of his sentence caught me off guard. “I didn’t say that I would be living here. . . .”

His eyes met mine again, but this time with the addition of a raised eyebrow. “You told me that part of Mr. Vanderhorst’s will required you to live in the house for a year.”