Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
The Strangers on Montagu Street (38 page)
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Her eyes went blank; her mouth slackened.
“Would you like some water?” Jack asked, already standing and moving toward a tray with a glass and a pitcher of water. He poured her a glass, then pressed it into her hands. She stared at it for a moment as if trying to remember what to do with it before raising it to her mouth.
I pushed on, trying to recall everything William had said to me. “I might be wrong with this, because he didn’t say this exactly, but it seemed that he was telling me that you know something, but you’re not seeing it, either intentionally or not.”
Julia pressed her lips together, then took another sip.
Jack sat forward. “That last night that you saw William and you heard him with your father. What were they arguing about?”
She looked down at her hands, fisted in her lap. “The same things they’d been arguing about ever since I could remember. William was . . . sensitive. Not like our father at all. He enjoyed music and poetry, and time spent outdoors was to admire nature, not shoot at it. He and my mother were close, and they would spend hours together reading to each other. He was brilliant on the piano, until my father made him stop. He bought William a gun and told him that hunting was a more gentlemanly pursuit. William hated that—almost as much as I, because my father forced me to learn the piano. I was good, but never with the talent William had, and I suspect my father knew that, which was why he pressed me so hard to be better.”
An unnatural grin lit her face. “I could outshoot, outrun, and out-hunt my cousins and my brother, and I think it turned my father into a cruel man. A year after I came back to live with my family in Charleston, my father bought us horses for Christmas. A beautiful black stallion for me and a small spotted pony for William, just to prove a point.”
“And your mother allowed that?” I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.
Julia gave us a bitter laugh. “My mother had no opinions one way or the other. She was what they called ‘delicate.’ I’m not sure what that meant, other than that my mother couldn’t face any unpleasantness. She stayed up in her rooms most of the time.” Julia pursed her lips, as if trying to eradicate the bitter knowledge of her father’s malice. “My father’s cruelty subsided when Jonathan entered our lives.”
“Your fiancé?” I prompted.
She nodded. “William met him the first year they were both at Clemson and started bringing him home for holidays and school breaks.” She smiled wistfully. “He came from a family with ten children, and I think he enjoyed the quietness here.” Her eyes met mine. “He was everything William wasn’t—good at riding and hunting and math and . . . all those male pursuits at which William had always failed. We made plans of taking over my father’s business empire and running it together when my father retired. I know my father had wanted that for William, but he had no head for figures.”
“So when you and Jonathan fell in love and wanted to get married, your father approved.”
Julia nodded vigorously. “And so did William. My father’s focus shifted to Jonathan, and we were all relieved. My father didn’t even notice William anymore, and William didn’t care. Having Jonathan in our family was like an answer to all of our prayers.”
“So what changed?”
Her face went ashen, her hand trembling enough to slosh water out of the glass. I took the glass from her as Jack stood. “I’ll get Dee,” he said, already halfway to the door.
She held up her hand and shook her head. “Not yet. Please. I’m not finished. I need . . . I need to know.”
I knelt by the wheelchair and took one of her hands in mine. “Let me see the letter. Maybe what William was saying will make sense to me.”
Jack came and stood next to me. “They’re attacking Nola in her dreams, and I suspect the same thing happened to you, which is why you got rid of the dollhouse. You told Nola to keep the doll figures of your father and brother separated, because they didn’t like each other. But they were getting along until that last argument before William disappeared. You know something you’re not telling us, don’t you?”
Julia glared up at Jack. “My father did not kill William, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have proof,” she repeated.
The last word was barely a whisper, and I recalled again what William had said to me.
She believes it is proof of innocence where there is none. Let her believe it. Make her stop.
She believes it is proof of innocence where there is none. Let her believe it. Make her stop.
“Then let us see the proof, Miss Julia,” Jack said. “They will not leave you—or Nola—alone until this gets resolved. Mellie can help them find peace. Don’t you want that?”
Her hands began to tremble on the arms of the wheelchair as bright spots of pink marred her pale skin. “No! They’ve not given me a moment’s peace in all of these years. Do you know what that’s like? To turn off your lights and feel them there?
I
want peace.”
I
want peace.”
“Then what did you want to talk about to William?” I asked, my knees aching from kneeling.
It took her a long time before she finally answered. “Forgiveness.”
“For what?” Jack pressed.
With a stubborn set of her jaw, she said, “My father did not kill William.”
“Show me the proof, then,” I said, slowly standing. Jack took my elbow and helped me up.
I spotted the small box that Jack had described to me on the bookshelf behind Julia. I retrieved it and handed it to Julia. She looked resigned and didn’t bother asking how I’d known.
“Open it,” she commanded. “I don’t have the strength.”
Regretting my own vanity at having left my reading glasses at home yet again, I handed the box to Jack. He gave me a knowing grin as he lifted the lid and peered inside before pulling out a small folded piece of paper. After replacing the lid, he opened the well-worn letter and began to read:
Dear Sister,As you no doubt have already realized, and perhaps have known for some time, it is time for me to go. I can no longer live under the same roof as Father, as you well understand. It has not been easy for me with him, nor for you, I would imagine. Life is intolerable the way it is, and I must make the choice to change it. I suppose I have you to thank for my realization, although I doubt the result was what you expected. But that is what happens when we spill a secret—the results are not always what we planned. I am sorry for any hurt that my leaving will cause you, but it cannot be helped, as I am sure you will become aware. I want the best for you, and you will realize that in time.I doubt I will see you for a while, if ever. I will not pass judgment; nor do I expect judgment to be settled on me.William
Jack lowered the letter. “He was planning to leave of his own free will, and didn’t expect to return or stay in touch.”
I took the letter from Jack, then folded it up and returned it to the small box, going over the words in my head and Julia’s request that I ask William to forgive her. “What secret was he referring to?”
“You must go now,” she said. She slumped to one side, her hand pressed to her chest.
Jack immediately left the room to find Dee while I took her hand again. “Was the secret the reason William argued with your father? Is that why you need his forgiveness?”
She didn’t answer, and I had to stand back as Dee entered carrying a pill bottle and another glass of water. “Miss Julia needs to rest now. Please go.”
Jack took my arm and led me down the hallway and out the front door. I didn’t stop walking until we were a block away and out of sight of the turret, feeling unseen eyes on my back.
Jack followed without question, then turned to face me when I stopped. “She’s guilty about something; I just don’t know what,” he said.
“But she doesn’t want us to know, and her father and brother aren’t happy that we’re asking questions, either.”
“What about Anne, her mother? Have you tried to contact her?”
I shook my head. “My mother did, but as in life she’s overwhelmed by her husband. If we want answers, we’ll need to go to the source.”
“You tried before, and all you got was William telling you to stop her, and a burning bag filled with dolls. And agitated ghosts who want to get Nola involved in whatever this is all about.”
I nodded. “We need to get the dollhouse away from Nola. Teenagers always have too much energy so that they draw the spirits to them.”
“We could move it to my loft. Dead people don’t bother me, and it will give Nola an excuse to come visit more often.”
“That’s a thought.” I smiled, remembering the conversations Nola had with Alston while they were messing with the dollhouse, and thinking how foreign it would all be to Jack. “I’ll mention it to her and she can let you know.”
“Anything more from Bonnie?”
I frowned. “Not really. She said something about ‘my daughter’s eyes’ again and then . . .” I stopped, not sure how to put the last part into words.
Jack cocked an eyebrow.
“When I asked her why she’d intervened in the cemetery, she answered by laughing.”
“Really?” He rubbed his hands over his face, and I noticed again how tired he looked. “I had a conversation with Nola about Jimmy Gordon. Seems it was Rick Chase who introduced them. Rick, Bonnie, and Nola went to Jimmy’s studio, where he was recording his first album. They left Nola in the waiting room for most of it, but apparently Jimmy, Bonnie, and Rick spent about an hour together in an office with Jimmy’s producer.”
“I’m guessing they were making a deal about Jimmy recording Rick’s song ‘I’m Just Getting Started.’”
“Probably. Although that still doesn’t explain why Nola would have such an intense dislike of the man.”
“She’s a teenager,” I said. “They usually don’t have reasons for most of their feelings.”
He jerked his head in the direction of his Porsche. “I’ll go get the car, since I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to have to walk in front of the house again.”
“That’s all right. It’s not far and I’m going to walk, clear my head a bit and think.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and even though I was sure he wasn’t all that interested in what I needed to think about, I blurted, “Thank you for not listening to Rebecca about writing your next book about Rose Prioleau and the Legare Street house.”
“She mentioned that to you?”
“Yeah. She wanted me to talk to you and tell you it was okay by me.”
“And is it?”
“I’m assuming you know the answer to that or you’d already have the book written and sold.”
He smiled his old smile for a moment, and I felt the familiar sensation of my chest constricting. “So you agree that I’m not such a bad guy then?”
He’d taken a step forward, his eyes steady on mine.
“I never thought that, Jack.”
His eyebrows knitted. “Funny. Because you always act as if I have some contagious disease. Like right now. I take a step forward, and you answer with a step backward. I thought you had me confused with Marc Longo or something, so I just wanted to ask to make sure.”
Not wanting to have this conversation again, I turned around and started walking back toward home.
“What do you want for your birthday?” he called out.
I stopped but didn’t turn around. “I’m asking for donations to be made to the Preservation Society. Sophie made me.” I turned to face him. “Does this mean you’re coming to the party?” I wanted to kick myself for sounding like such an eager high schooler.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
I turned around again and started walking. “Whatever,” I said, not wanting him to know how his admission that he might be there had made my knees a little wobbly. “Give me a wave across the room if you get there.”
“I’ll try to remember,” he said, followed by a chuckle that I pretended not to hear.
CHAPTER 23
I
reclined like a banana republic’s dictator in my mother’s chaise longue in her room, while a young woman from my mother’s beauty salon polished my toenails in “Femme Fatale” crimson and another worked on my manicure. The makeup artist and hairstylist were both due to arrive in a few hours and already I was exhausted. And frustrated. My mother had confiscated my BlackBerry, my laptop, my Daytimer, and even my pedometer that I used to gauge my productivity while away from my desk.
reclined like a banana republic’s dictator in my mother’s chaise longue in her room, while a young woman from my mother’s beauty salon polished my toenails in “Femme Fatale” crimson and another worked on my manicure. The makeup artist and hairstylist were both due to arrive in a few hours and already I was exhausted. And frustrated. My mother had confiscated my BlackBerry, my laptop, my Daytimer, and even my pedometer that I used to gauge my productivity while away from my desk.
Across the room hung what I referred to in my mind with a capital letter as the Dress. I’d procrastinated too long in finding a replacement, so I was stuck with no other choice but to wear it. I hadn’t tried it on with a turtleneck underneath it, but as I stared at the plunging neckline I wondered whether I should have.
My mother sat next to me in an identical chintz-covered chaise, except her head was relaxed against the back of the chair as if she were enjoying herself. By contrast, my manicurist had to keep unfurling my fingers from digging into the armrests, and straightening my curling toes.
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