The Strangers on Montagu Street (53 page)

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Authors: Karen White

Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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She turned back toward the light and stepped into it, the light suddenly diminishing into a tiny pinprick before extinguishing itself completely.
CHAPTER 31
 
A
ringing phone awakened me abruptly. Opening my eyes, I was disoriented for a moment, having been dragged away from yet another dream where I sat waiting for the pregnancy test to show a blue line. Again. I’d taken five in the last two days and had even made a spreadsheet to indicate whether I shook it or turned it upside down or flipped it over, and noted what time of day I’d taken the test. Despite the elaborate worksheet, the conclusion was always the same.
Today, Sophie’s wedding day, would be the day I’d tell Jack. Or else my mother would. I’d tried to explain to my mother that I was just waiting to be sure, not willing to put Jack and me through the drama if I were wrong. Or be forced into telling Nola that her father and I were bad examples. But even I had to admit that I’d run out of time. If I needed to prove to Jack that I learned from past mistakes, I couldn’t wait any longer.
I sat up, listening as the phone continued its shrill ringing and trying to remember whether there even was a phone in the room. General Lee jumped off the bed and ran to the antique dressing table across the room, then placed his front paws on the small chair in front of it.
“Thanks, buddy,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Could you answer it, too?”
I felt his noncommittal stare across the darkened room. Shuffling toward the dressing table, I groped for the receiver and held it to my ear, belatedly remembering my mother removing the cord at my request. The only phone calls I ever received at night were the kind I didn’t want to answer.
The air inside the phone crackled and popped the way international phone calls had sounded before satellites. When the hair on the back of my neck stood on end, I knew this phone call was coming from a little farther away than just another country.
“Grandmother?” I spoke quietly into the phone.
The voice, when it came, arrived like a burst of cold air, a tiny spot of sound in the swirling atmosphere.
Burn the dollhouse. They won’t bother you anymore.
My eyes opened wider. “Julia?” If I was speaking with Julia on a phone that wasn’t connected, it meant that the two of us no longer existed on the same side of life and death. I felt an inexplicable sadness at the passing of this woman I barely knew.
He thinks his secret died with me, that his precious name bears no blemish. But William and Jonathan need justice. The truth needs to be told. The world needs to know that murders were committed and who was responsible.
I nodded into the phone, understanding dawning on me, and I almost smiled. “Yes. It does. I’ll make sure of it.”
And Emmaline—tell her to keep practicing.
“I will. I don’t think it will be that hard to do now.”
I heard only empty air for a long moment, and I thought she’d already gone. Then, so quietly that I had to press the receiver tightly to my ear, I heard,
Let Dee know I wrote a new will and hid it behind the hall mirror. I left something for you. And Emmaline.
Panic gripped me as I imagined restoring yet another old house. I started to protest, but her voice came through once more, even fainter this time.
You are stronger than you think. You’ll have cause soon to remember that.
The static cleared and I was left holding a dead phone. Something small and faint stirred low in my abdomen, taking my breath away as I considered how life and death coexisted in a never-ending continuum. I closed my eyes and stood in the dark for a long time, thinking about Julia’s passing and her last words to me. Then I reached for my cell phone and hit the memory button to call Jack.
 
I stood next to Sophie, rearranging the flowers in her hair. Her mother, an older version of Sophie, including the worn Birkenstocks, had left to go fuss at the florist for not using sustainable flowers. I couldn’t block out the mental image of Sophie covered in plant stems and roots while guests at the reception were given tiny spades to replant them.
I stepped back to admire my work and felt the now familiar sting of tears threaten to spill over and mess up my carefully applied makeup. At my recommendation, Sophie had gone to a salon for the first time in her life and had them straighten and smooth her hair so that it fell in thick, luxurious waves halfway down her back. She looked beautiful, especially in the antique wedding dress, and even if wedding guests might be confused when they saw her hair, when they spotted the bride’s bare feet they’d know they were in the right place.
Pinching the waistbands of the two pairs of Spanx I wore to hold in my abdomen, I tugged them higher. My leotard and togalike sheet that passed for my bridesmaid’s dress left nothing to the imagination, and doubling up on the Spanx had seemed the only alternative. My stomach rumbled, causing both Sophie and Nola to stare at me, but I continued to fuss with the white blooms in Sophie’s hair as if I hadn’t heard it, too.
“You look drop-dead gorgeous,” I said to Sophie, resisting another surge of emotion that would make me hug her and start crying again. She’d started to flinch each time I said something, and I had to focus on keeping my hands folded tightly in front of me.
“Thank you,” she said, eyeing herself critically in the full-length mirror in the bedroom of a friend’s house on Folly Beach. A barefoot wedding on the beach had seemed the perfect setting for a barefoot bride and groom. And wedding party. “I do like the hair. I’m just not sure about the makeup.”
“You can take it off after the ceremony. But you want to make sure that we can see your eyes and lips in all the photographs. I know you don’t think so, but it does look very natural. You’re just aware of it because you’ve never worn makeup before.”
“Which is totally weird,” said Nola, moving to stand next to me. We wore identical outfits, yet on an almost-fourteen-year-old it looked cute. I just looked like the Michelin Man trying to dress like a girl. I felt like exploding biscuit dough in a can. I wanted to cry again, thinking of the biscuits and vegan gravy that were waiting at the reception.
“You look beautiful, too,” I said to Nola, who wore only a sheer pink gloss on her lips and a single coat of mascara. With her dark hair and pale skin, she looked like an angel in the white leotard and toga, but I’d never say that out loud, because despite recent changes, she was still a teenager. Surprisingly, a new serenity had found her since her mother’s crossing over. I suppose forgiveness and letting go would do that to a person, like emptying a suitcase filled with rocks that one had carried for a long time.
She shrugged, but I noticed her cheeks pinkening. Her phone buzzed and she looked at it and read a text message. “It’s from Dad. He and the colonel are finished with the bonfire and will be here in about five minutes.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows.
“Julia Manigault died late last night—I confirmed with Dee Davenport,” I explained. “But I had a conversation with Julia early this morning. She told me to burn the dollhouse, and I called Jack, since the dollhouse was at his condo.”
Nola straightened her shoulders. I’d thought we’d get a lot more resistance from her when I told her what we’d planned to do with the dollhouse, but she’d accepted it and had even been enthusiastic. A haunted dollhouse with evil dolls can do that to a person.
I continued. “Jack couldn’t do it by himself, so he called my dad. He wanted to call Chad, but I talked him out of it, seeing as how you probably didn’t want your groom reeking of woodsmoke on his wedding day.”
“No, I probably wouldn’t,” Sophie agreed. “Where did they take it?”
“Jack has a friend here on Folly Beach who has a fire pit in his backyard. They burned everything, including the dolls.” I glanced at Nola. “Except for the dog, which has somehow gone missing again.”
Nola studied her screen closely, as if reading a text, although I hadn’t heard it ping with a new one.
Sophie’s forehead puckered. “But if you don’t send them into the light, where will they go?”
“I don’t think Harold’s going into the light, if you know what I mean. But the others are free to go now. Their secret is no longer holding them here.”
Sophie lifted her long skirt and stepped down from the step stool that had been set up in front of the mirror. “It’s just a shame that the truth will never be known.”
I smiled. “Actually, that might not be the case. I’ll keep you posted.”
There was another tap on the door and Nola opened it. “It’s safe,” she said, and opened it wider.
Jack stuck his head through the opening without stepping inside the room. He gave a low wolf whistle when he saw Sophie. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” he said, stepping forward to give her a light kiss on the cheek. Even Sophie wasn’t immune to his charms, and I watched as her cheeks flushed pink. She flapped her hand at him. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He winked and she flushed a little deeper. Turning to me, he said, “You said you needed to see me right away. That you had something important to tell me.”
I nodded, then glanced at Sophie, who was raising her eyebrows. I hadn’t told her my secret, and not because I was trying to get back at her for not telling me about her engagement. Jack needed to be first, then Nola. I hadn’t moved beyond the first two.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Sophie and Nola as I headed for the door, Jack following.
Sophie glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “You only have about five minutes, so be fast. I’ll send Nola out to get you.”
Being careful not to touch Jack, I led him to the door and out into the small, deserted hallway that led to the other bedrooms. I’d thought briefly of waiting until after the wedding to tell him, wanting more time, or a bit of sand and ocean instead of plain, white drywall in the background, as befitted such an announcement. Or at least something that would offer me a soft place to fall if the need arose. But even I knew it was time.
I looked up into Jack’s face, at his incredibly blue eyes and the way they were crinkling at the corners as he gave me one of his old and familiar smiles. The events of the past week had erased much of the animosity that had been between us since my confession about Marc, but I knew, too, that he hadn’t put his hands on my arms, and that his expression remained controlled. I’d told him I loved him, and he’d responded by saying he was sorry. I opened my mouth to speak, and faltered, then listened as different words poured from my mouth. “What’s going to happen to Rick Chase?”
He sent me an odd look before answering. “I’ve got a couple of army buddies in the LAPD who are going to make Rick’s life a little difficult for a while. No unpaid parking ticket will go unnoticed, no sliding through stop signs. But that’s just until the private detective I hired finishes digging up a little dirt Mr. Chase left behind in Missouri. Domestic abuse, unpaid child support, allegations of trying to pass bad checks. He’ll go to jail at some point. Not for what he should be jailed for, but at least it’s something. And when he hears ‘My Daughter’s Eyes’ on the radio, I hope it hurts really, really bad.”
“Me, too.”
He looked at me expectantly, and my knees started to wobble.
Again, I stalled. “Julia Manigault wants her story to be told so that there’s justice for William and Jonathan. I think she meant for you to tell it, to write about it for your next book.”
He stared at me for a moment, as if not completely understanding. “But she’s dead. How did you . . . ?” He stopped and I watched as his shoulders relaxed. “That certainly wasn’t expected. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, I guess, would be a good place to start.”
I nodded, almost hearing the ticking of an unseen clock. “I’ve already spoken with Dee Davenport, and once Julia’s estate is settled, she’ll give you access to any family papers to assist you.” I paused, then found myself staring up at him with frozen lips.
“What’s wrong, Mellie? Is there something else?”
I wanted him to touch me, to let me know that he still felt . . . something. But although we stood less than a foot apart, close enough that I could smell the woodsmoke on his skin, it seemed as if he were miles away from me.

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