Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
The Strangers on Montagu Street (22 page)
I belted the tie around my waist. “What are you doing here, and how did you get in?”
He dangled a key in front of me. “Your mother gave it to me.”
I opened my mouth to speculate on why she’d done so, hoping it had something to do with Nola, but quickly shut it when I realized it might have nothing to do with his daughter at all. I made a mental note to talk to my mother about it later.
I glanced back at my bed, where General Lee, happily ensconced on the pillow, lay with his eyes half-open. “You’re a great watchdog, pal. Thanks for the warning that a stranger was in the house.”
The dog’s eyes slowly closed in response, followed by a soft snore.
Jack continued. “I’ve been trying to call your cell.”
I looked at my nightstand, where I normally kept it. “I guess I left it in my purse in the kitchen.” I frowned at him. “What was so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?”
It was his turn to frown. “My daughter was so distraught and uncommunicative when I left that I needed to know whether she was okay. She’s not answering her cell, either.”
My heart did that little squishing thing it did every time Jack allowed me to see this softer side of him. My shoulders relaxed. “I told you I would call you. Anyway, nothing’s changed. I still can’t get her to talk. I was just about to go downstairs and make hot cocoa and bring it in to her to see if that might help.”
He wiped the side of his neck. “It’s a hundred degrees up here—do you think hot chocolate is the right way to go?”
“It worked for me when my grandmother gave it to me when I was little.” I sounded a little defensive.
The side of his mouth curled up. “Besides, I don’t think she likes sweets.”
I remembered Nola’s and my secret rendezvous over doughnuts in the kitchen and my promise to keep it secret. “I thought I could at least try. I don’t know what else I can do.”
He took a step toward me and my nerves began to press against my skin, making me hypersensitive to the air that moved over me. He reached up to touch my hair, moving it behind my shoulder, his expression indecipherable. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I hoped he hadn’t heard my voice crack. His standing so near made my body respond in ways it wasn’t supposed to.
His eyebrow lifted slowly and I knew he’d heard. “For helping me with Nola. You’ve been good for her.”
I shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of help—from both our mothers. And you, too.”
“How? She still doesn’t want me around.”
“Not yet. But she sees that you care, and that you keep trying. She tries to hide it, but she notices. She just needs time, I think.” I found myself staring at the buttons of his pale blue oxford-cloth shirt, not wanting to stand this close to him face-to-face.
“Mellie?”
“Hm?” I saw that one of the threads in his button was loose, and found myself wondering who did his mending.
His fingers touched my chin and tilted my face upward so that I was forced to look into the deep blue of his eyes. His lips were close enough to mine that I could almost feel them, could remember clearly how they’d tasted even though it had been months since our first—and last—kiss.
Looking intently into my eyes, he said, “You’d make a great mother, you know.”
Whatever it was I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. I twisted my chin out of his grasp. “I have no idea how that’s supposed to happen.”
His face widened with a grin, although his eyes lost none of their intensity. “I thought you knew. But I’d be happy to show you.” He moved even closer, then stopped, cocking his head to the side. “Did you hear that?”
I shook my head, then walked to my door and pulled it open. The sound of muffled sobs carried across the dim hallway.
Jack flipped on the hall light, then walked past me, and before I could stop him he had tapped gently on Nola’s door. “Nola, sweetie? It’s . . .” I watched as he struggled with what to call himself. “It’s Jack. Can I come in?”
“No! Go away! It’s all your fault.” The words seemed to pass through the door like a physical blow, forcing Jack to recoil.
I put my hand on his arm. Quietly, I said, “Let me try. She’s more comfortable with me. Maybe I can find out what’s wrong.”
His eyes were so stricken that I found myself leaning up to kiss him softly on the cheek. “It’s going to be all right. It will.” I wasn’t sure I was telling the truth, or how everything would be all right, but I needed to tell Jack something to wipe that look off of his face.
His hand was touching his cheek where my lips had been when I tapped on the door and went inside.
The first thing I noticed were the pages of music scattered around the room like a dusting of black-dotted snow. The second thing I noticed was that the dollhouse had been moved to the foot of her bed, but with so much force that it leaned backward where its forward movement had been stopped by the bottom bed rail.
I stood next to the four-poster, where Nola lay curled in a fetal position on top of her bedspread, still fully dressed. Through the triangle of light from the hallway I watched my breath vaporize in front of me. I shivered in the icy air, glad I had on my thick robe.
“Nola? Are you okay?” I put my hand on her arm and felt goose bumps. “You’re freezing,” I said as I pulled up the quilt that had been draped at the foot of the bed and placed it over her. Gingerly, I sat down on the bed next to her; then, not knowing what else to do, I put my hand on her shoulder. We were both silent, waiting for the other to speak.
I tried to remember back when I was her age, when I lived with my father without a mother to confide in or many friends. I’d had a doll who’d witnessed all of my tearstained confessions and insecurities, unappreciated, because I’d never stopped wishing my mother would suddenly reappear to make everything all right.
Reaching over, I snagged the teddy bear from the corner, tucking it under the quilt with Nola. Without a word, Nola reached over and hugged it to her, and I resisted the impulse to smile. Instead, I said, “I know I’m not your mother, but I am a girl, and I even used to be thirteen.”
“A million years ago,” came the muffled response.
I was so relieved to see some of the old Nola return that I wasn’t too offended.
“Yes. A million or so years ago. But what I’m trying to say is that even though I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, if you need somebody to listen, I’m here.” I took a deep breath, trying to see in the darkened shadows of the room, my breath gathering like storm clouds over the bed. I remembered huddling in my own bed as a child, feeling the presence of others around me but knowing I was still horribly and irrevocably alone. I looked down at the child huddled in the quilt, and wondered how much I could tell her.
“When I was about your age, I didn’t have any friends. I was . . . different from the other kids.”
That’s one way of putting it.
“That’s when I started making lists. I’d keep paper and pencil by my bed, and whenever I felt alone or scared, I’d jot down things I needed to do or wanted to do. It helped me get my life in control when so much of it seemed as if I couldn’t. It’s sort of taken over my life now, but it really saved me back then. I’m thinking you don’t need to do that because you have me to talk to, but if you want me to get you a pad and pencil instead, I will.”
That’s one way of putting it.
“That’s when I started making lists. I’d keep paper and pencil by my bed, and whenever I felt alone or scared, I’d jot down things I needed to do or wanted to do. It helped me get my life in control when so much of it seemed as if I couldn’t. It’s sort of taken over my life now, but it really saved me back then. I’m thinking you don’t need to do that because you have me to talk to, but if you want me to get you a pad and pencil instead, I will.”
She lay there quietly, but I knew she hadn’t gone to sleep. By her silence, I assumed I had her answer and began to stand so I could go find her something to write on. Her hand clasped my wrist, stopping me, and I sat back down on the edge of the bed.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“Of what?”
There was a short pause. “That I’m going crazy.”
My heart tightened in my chest. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I’m too much like my mom.” She began sobbing, deep, choking sobs that left her gasping for breath. I grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on her nightstand and tucked them into her hand. Unsure what to do next, I patted her shoulder, remembering the events of the afternoon, trying to come up with a reason that would have led Nola to the conclusion that she was losing her mind.
“That song you were playing today on Miss Manigault’s piano—did your mother write it?”
She shook her head, her hair rasping against the pillowcase. “We wrote it together. But we never finished it.”
“It was beautiful, Nola. We all thought so. But why would that make you think you’re going crazy?”
Her body shivered with a silent sob. Very quietly, she said, “Because I keep doing crazy things and I don’t remember doing them. At first I thought it was the dog, but I figured out that he couldn’t be doing some of the stuff.”
I sat very still. “Like what kind of stuff?”
Without looking up, she waved her hand in the direction of the dollhouse. “I find it in different spots all over the room, and I don’t remember moving it. I don’t even think that I could if I tried.” She sniffed again, then pointed to the corner where Bonnie’s guitar case rested against the wall. “And my mom’s guitar, and all that sheet music—they’re never where I left them.” She began to sob again, and I knew I was hearing the sound of a heart breaking.
I wasn’t even sure how to begin this conversation, but I had to try. “You’re not crazy, Nola. There’s a logical explanation for all of it.” Well, maybe not
logical,
but at least it was an explanation. “But your mother wasn’t crazy. I didn’t know her, but from what I’ve heard about her from Jack and from you, I’m guessing she might have been sad that her career wasn’t where she wanted it to be, and she tried to hide from her sadness with drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, that happens to a lot of people. But that doesn’t make her crazy.”
logical,
but at least it was an explanation. “But your mother wasn’t crazy. I didn’t know her, but from what I’ve heard about her from Jack and from you, I’m guessing she might have been sad that her career wasn’t where she wanted it to be, and she tried to hide from her sadness with drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, that happens to a lot of people. But that doesn’t make her crazy.”
Nola shook her head vigorously. I had to struggle to make out her words between sobs. “I was such a good kid. I took really good care of her. I didn’t do drugs or drink, or hang out with the bad kids, and I made sure she ate good when I could get food in her. But she killed herself anyway, like I didn’t matter. Like she didn’t love me. Why would she do that unless she was out of her mind?”
I was crying now, too, and knew I had no choice but to tell her the truth regardless of the consequences. “Oh, no, Nola. Your mother loved you very, very much. Please believe me, because I know it’s true.”
Her fists hammered the mattress. “You’re lying,” she screeched, and I shrank back. “How would you know? She’s dead!”
I said the words before I could talk myself out of it. “Because she told me.”
She went absolutely still, her tearstained eyes glaring up at me. “What do you mean?”
Closing my eyes, I tried to think of the best way to make her understand, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I can communicate with people who have passed on.”
Her eyes blinked slowly up at me as I waited for my words to register. Finally, she said, “You can talk to dead people? Like in that movie with the little boy and Bruce Willis?”
I sighed. “Yeah. Pretty much.” I’d never seen
The Sixth Sense
until recently, when Sophie and Chad had invited me over for movie night and organic popcorn. I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known which movie Chad had chosen.
The Sixth Sense
until recently, when Sophie and Chad had invited me over for movie night and organic popcorn. I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known which movie Chad had chosen.
Nola hiccuped. “And you saw my mom?”
Nodding, I said, “She wanted me to tell you that she loves you, and never meant to hurt you.” I paused, trying to make up my mind as to how much I should tell her. “I see her around you a lot, like she wants to make sure you’re okay.”
Her shoulder relaxed under my hand, as if all the tension inside of her had somehow seeped from her body. In a very small voice, she said, “Did you ask her why she did it? Why she left me all alone?”
“I don’t know why, but she won’t speak directly to me. You remember when we were at the bridal salon and you heard me talking to someone? I was speaking with the bride who was the gown’s original owner. Your mother sent her message through her.” I placed the backs of my fingers against her cheek. “And you’re not alone. You’ve got Jack and me, your grandparents, my parents, and Alston. Even General Lee is a fan. I think your mother might have known that she wouldn’t be leaving you alone. That’s why she led you to Trenholm’s Antiques.”
Nola was silent for a moment. “Why won’t she speak to you directly?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure. My mother thinks it has something to do with Jack, because your mother said his name, but that could mean a lot of things.”
“But why would she be moving the dollhouse?”
I realized that she’d probably had all the information she could digest in one sitting and that I needed to save the rest for another time. Still, I tried to be as honest as I could. “There’s a lot going on here that I don’t understand. I was hoping that if I just ignored it, it would go away, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“But isn’t the whole point of you being able to talk to dead people so that you can help them?”
Out of the mouths of babes.
“I’ve been trying to figure that out my whole life. I used to think it was something I was supposed to tolerate—like being too tall, or having straight hair that wouldn’t curl. It’s only recently—thanks to my mother—that I’ve begun to look at it a little differently. Sort of like more of a gift than a curse.”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out my whole life. I used to think it was something I was supposed to tolerate—like being too tall, or having straight hair that wouldn’t curl. It’s only recently—thanks to my mother—that I’ve begun to look at it a little differently. Sort of like more of a gift than a curse.”
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