Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online

Authors: Karen White

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

The Strangers on Montagu Street (6 page)

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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“True. We’ll just play it by ear, then.”
“Fine.” I fumbled in my purse for my car keys. “Look, why don’t you give her a couple of days and then come to dinner Friday night? We can do a cookout. Burgers, hot dogs, cole slaw—that kind of thing. Sophie and Nola kind of hit it off this morning, so I’ll invite Sophie and Chad, too. It might help move things along.” I frowned up at him. “Nola’s really vulnerable right now, Jack. As difficult as she’s bound to be, we need to give her a little slack.”
Surprising me, Jack pulled me forward in a close embrace, and after a moment of trying to figure out where my own arms should go, I let them fall around his broad shoulders.
“Thanks, Mellie. I knew you were the right person to come to.”
I patted his back, wondering whether he’d drag out that awful “friend” word, but enjoying being held in his arms anyway. Finally, I pulled back, ending the embrace, if only because it reminded me too much of what I’d willingly given up. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I can help.” Clearing my throat of something I couldn’t identify, I added, “And don’t think I won’t expect some kind of payment in the future.”
His face brightened. “Is that an invitation, Mellie?”
Looking up to heaven and shaking my head, I turned and started walking down Broad. “Grow up, Jack,” I called over my shoulder, then listened to his laughter until I turned the corner onto King Street.
CHAPTER 3
 
I
stood with Nola outside Trenholm’s Antiques on King Street and paused. I didn’t like being around old furniture any more than I liked being in hospitals or cemeteries; it made it far too easy for lost souls to find me. I caught sight of our reflection in the large plate-glass window: me in my sharp navy D&G suit and heels, and Nola dressed like Sophie’s protégé in worn Converse sneakers, striped leggings, and a short floral dress. And there, right behind Nola’s left shoulder, was the face of a woman that disappeared almost as soon as I saw it. So quickly that for a moment I thought I’d imagined it, except for the lingering aura of sadness that permeated the air and pressed against my chest.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the door and held it open for Nola before following her into the store. Jack’s parents had owned Trenholm’s Antiques since before he was born, and it was not only a fixture in Charleston, but also known and respected worldwide for its high quality and oftentimes rare furniture and objets d’art. Even as a child, I’d admired the store, but only from the sidewalk and from what I could see through the large front windows. As it was, I already heard the rustling of old skirts and the murmurings of soft voices as I stood inside the door, waiting for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark interior.
“Melanie, Nola. What a lovely surprise.” Impeccably dressed as always in a St. John cream-colored suit, Jack’s mother, Amelia, approached from the rear of the store, where she’d been arranging delphiniums and foxgloves in a very large blue-and-white Meissen urn. She appeared to be as delicate and rare as the porcelain, but I knew better. Anybody who’d raised Jack Trenholm and lived to tell about it had to have been made of stronger stuff.
She enveloped me in a whiff of Chanel No. 5 as she kissed both cheeks before turning to Nola. Nola conveniently crossed her arms in a successful attempt to avert a hug or any kind of physical contact.
Amelia looked confused for a moment but quickly regained her equilibrium. “I was doing some shopping yesterday on King Street and I saw something in a window that I couldn’t resist. I hope you like it.” She walked quickly to an Italian marquetry desk in the corner and reached behind it.
When I saw the shopping bag from Palm Avenue, I cringed a little. I
loved
Palm Avenue: What’s not to love about pink and green and Lilly Pulitzer prints? But I somehow couldn’t quite picture Nola in a cotton piqué polo shirt, or in any color that might be called pastel.
Amelia continued. “Your daddy said Miss Middleton is having a little cookout on Friday, so I thought you might like something new to wear. I had to guess at your size, but I think I got it right—I’m a bit of a pro at shopping.” She gave a little laugh and I was surprised to hear nervousness in it. “I hope you like it.” She held out the shopping bag to Nola like a queen bestowing a knighthood.
Nola took the bag, frowning into the pastel-colored tissue depths, and I knew an immediate intercession was necessary. “Here,” I said, taking the bag. “Let me put this by the door so we don’t forget it on the way out.” I smiled broadly as I placed it by the door and returned, hoping they couldn’t tell I was gritting my teeth.
We both watched as Nola turned to study an intricately carved che-val mirror. A thick fog had begun to form around Nola’s reflection in the mirror, although nothing was visible in the store. I looked at Nola and Amelia to see whether they’d noticed anything, relieved when it appeared that they hadn’t. The whispered voices around me seemed to get louder, and I recognized my name spoken several times from more than one voice. As I’d learned to do since I was a child, I began humming to myself to drown out the noise and let the spirits know that I didn’t want them speaking to me.
I stopped suddenly when I realized that both Amelia and Nola were staring at me.
Nola frowned. “Was that supposed to be music?”
I gave her the look I normally reserved for Realtors who’d just given me a less than favorable counteroffer. “Of course. ‘Fernando’ was one of ABBA’s greatest-selling singles.”
Nola snorted. “ABBA? As in the guys who wrote the music for that lame musical
Mamma Mia!?
What are you—like a member of their fan club or something?”
I was spared from answering by Amelia. “Why don’t you look around, Nola? Miss Middleton and I have a little business to talk about. I promise it won’t take long, and then maybe we can go have lunch. Do you like pizza?”
I took Amelia’s arm and began to lead her back to the desk. “Only if it’s made of grass and tastes like cardboard.”
Amelia sent me a questioning look.
“I’ll explain later,” I said as we each took a seat at her desk. I reached into my purse and pulled out the spreadsheet I’d made of my home’s inventory, separated by room. There were columns for the approximate year each piece was built and its value, along with a column for my thoughts about each piece and whether or not I liked it. I wasn’t really sure of the reason for this last column, only that an inventory seemed incomplete without it. I spread it out on Amelia’s desk and turned it to face her.
“Sophie said it would be a good idea to empty the house before they begin working on the foundation. I figure I could either put it all in storage, or you and Sophie could find several house museums that would be interested in hosting an entire room from my home for a short period of time. It just all needs to be gone as soon as possible.”
Amelia slipped on her reading glasses and stared down at the spreadsheet. “What’s this?” she asked, indicating a column head.
“That’s the amount of time it would take to bring each piece down and up the steps based on its weight and how many men it would take to carry it.”
Her eyes were wide and blue over the tops of her glasses as she regarded me. After a while, she returned to the spreadsheet. The manicured nail of her index finger indicated another column. “What does this say?”
I squinted, not having brought my own glasses, then sat back, embarrassed. “Nothing. Just my personal thoughts about a piece of furniture.”
“Isn’t that Jack’s name?” She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “The print’s so tiny—I guess you were trying to make sure it fit in the box. It has to do with the grandfather clock in the front parlor.”
I stared at the indicated box, squinting and trying to pretend I couldn’t read it.
“I’m pretty sure that’s Jack’s name,” she said, turning it around to face me. “In fact, I’m sure that’s it—isn’t it?”
Resigned, I nodded. “It says, ‘Reminds me of Jack.’ That’s the clock where we found the Confederate diamonds.”
She was looking up at me, a small smile on her lips. “I see,” she said, and I was afraid that she actually did.
We went through the entire list, and as we were finishing up I realized that I’d lost track of Nola. I stood suddenly, wondering whether she might have sneaked out, but saw her in the back corner of the showroom, her back to me. She seemed mesmerized by whatever she was staring at, and I moved to stand next to her, Amelia behind me.
“I just got that in and stuck it back here while I try to figure out the best way to display it,” Amelia said. “John thought the front window would work best.”
Nola took a step back and I got a better view of the enormous dollhouse that sat on the ground yet whose turreted roof was visible behind Nola. It was a Victorian with lacy fretwork, decorative brackets and spindle work, and a large circular turret that claimed one corner of the house and culminated in a mansard-style roof.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Amelia asked as she moved to stand next to Nola.
Nola just shrugged as if uninterested, but her gaze was fixed on the house. Mine was, too, but I guessed not for the reason hers was. The edges of the house seemed smudged to me, like the surface of a highway in the midday sun, and when I stepped closer to try to see more clearly, my skin felt singed.
Amelia continued. “We think it’s about seventy years old, but I’m not sure yet. I’m still tracking down its provenance—something Jack has always helped me with. I purchased it here in Charleston, but it’s had lots of owners. For some reason, people don’t like hanging on to it for very long.”
I watched as the house’s edges continued to undulate, the air heated and suffocating along its periphery. I took a step back. “So you don’t know anything about the original owners?”
Amelia shook her head. “Not yet. I do know that the most recent owners had had it less than a year and were eager to sell it. The price they were selling it for was so low I almost feel as if I should send them an additional check.”
My gaze shifted to Nola, who was now using her index finger to delicately trace the scrollwork on the front porch balustrades. My skin felt burned just watching her, but she didn’t even flinch.
“Did you have a dollhouse like this when you were little?” I asked Nola, eager to draw her out of the trance she seemed to be in. The blurred edges around the house were now becoming blackened, like the way approaching night throws everything in shadows. I wanted to grab her arm and pull her back, but I hesitated, not wanting to have to explain myself.
Nola’s black-rimmed eyes met mine as she dropped her hand. “No,” she said, the word short and harsh. Amelia looked at me and I could tell that she’d heard the hollowness, too. Nola turned her back on the dollhouse and crossed her arms. “It’s just a stupid kid’s toy. I’m glad my mom never wasted her money on something like that.”
The words hit Amelia like raindrops, so that she seemed to droop under the weight of them. I imagined she was thinking of all the years her granddaughter had grown up without her, without all the love Amelia would have showered on Jack’s only child. She managed to hold on to her smile. “You’re probably right, Nola. I imagine this dollhouse has been passed around so much because little girls grow tired of it fairly quickly and don’t want it taking up so much space in their bedrooms.”
I looked back at the dollhouse, where the spindles and brackets had now all turned black, and knew that whether or not Amelia really believed what she was saying, she was wrong: Apparently there was another compelling reason why little girls didn’t want that dollhouse in their bedrooms.
The rustle of long skirts brought my attention to a woman in an Empire-style gown with a high waistline and ruffled sleeves sitting at an eighteenth-century dressing table with a marble top and three-way mirror. The green of her gown was marred only by the red stain spread across the bodice of her dress. I looked away as soon as she stood and began walking toward me.
“We need to take a rain check on lunch, Amelia. I just remembered an appointment,” I said as I took hold of Nola’s arm and began leading her toward the door. “Thanks so much for your help. I’ll see you and John at the barbecue.” I stopped for a moment and faced her, seeing the woman in the green dress coming toward me again and hearing the rise and fall of more voices. “You know you’re welcome to drop by anytime to see Nola.”
Amelia smiled at me gratefully. “I know.” She turned to her granddaughter. “I hope that’s all right with you. I want us to get to know each other better.” She stepped forward as if to embrace Nola, but Nola quickly turned, pretending not to see.
I spotted the shopping bag by the door and thrust it into Nola’s hands. “Thanks, Amelia, for the clothes. I’m sure Nola will love them.” I opened the door for Nola and she started to go through it before she stopped and turned back to Amelia.
“Thanks,” she said slowly. “For the clothes.” She gave Amelia a brief smile before ducking through the door.
The light in Amelia’s eyes brightened. “You’re welcome,” she said, but Nola had already moved down to the front window, where she’d pressed her forehead against the glass and was staring at the dollhouse again while pretending not to.
BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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