Gone South (4 page)

Old homes lined Main, many of them converted to commercial use, with a few modern buildings sprinkled into the mix. She passed hole-in-the-wall eateries and local shops, a small park with a gazebo decked out in Christmas garlands, and more businesses. Every light pole held a red bow and greenery. It would be even prettier after dark, with all the lights on.

Retail gave way to residential, and the homes—most of them—were old but lovely. She could get used to the climate too. Instead of winter but never Christmas, like Narnia, or Christmas without winter, like Florida, this was Christmas with a combination of sunshine and a nip in the air.

Most of the town didn’t look especially familiar, maybe because she’d seen it in the springtime before, or maybe because she’d seen it through a veil of grief. That trip with her dad hadn’t been long after Stephen’s death.

Spotting South Jackson, Tish put on her blinker and slowed for the turn. The street curved slightly to the right and rose in a gentle slope, just as she remembered it.

She counted down five houses on the left. There it was, a rectangular, two-story house that was longer than it was wide. Only a small portion of it was visible from the street, and a huge magnolia tree had taken root in the front yard. White pillars held up the roof of the porch. A For Sale by Owner sign
stood on a sloping lawn that rippled with clumps of weeds. Overgrown shrubs crowded the first-floor windows. The house could have used some fresh paint and the services of a window washer.

Tish pulled the car to the curb but didn’t get out. Mr. Nelson had said he would be home in time for their appointment, but the place looked deserted. No vehicles in the driveway. No lights in the windows. No Christmas lights either.

The house hadn’t changed much in five years, except now the lot next door sported a neglected and forgotten garden instead of an old home. She spied the remnants of a pole-bean teepee among the rows of dormant or dying plants. Off to the side stood part of a blackened brick chimney. A house fire? She was glad it hadn’t spread to the McComb house.

A small white dog sat by the front door, so still that Tish took it for a statue until the breeze ruffled its fur. Maybe it was the same dog she and Dad had spotted in the window, bouncing up and down on spindly legs and yapping. In dog language, it had said:
Go away. Mind your own business
.

But the house
was
Tish’s business. Its history had her name written all over it.

Grabbing her digital camera, she climbed out and stretched. Then she took a few pictures of the front yard, its lawn dissected by a flagstone path. Yellow pansies bloomed around the base of the magnolia, a patch of domestication in the jungle.

Pansies in December? Tish shook her head, smiling. She couldn’t get over it.

She turned slowly, sizing up the neighborhood. Directly across the street, a matching circle of yellow pansies ringed a smaller magnolia. The neighbors might have shared a flat of pansies. Maybe they were the kind of neighbors who shared the overabundance of their vegetable gardens with each other too, and weren’t afraid to ask to borrow a cup of sugar.

A white cargo van pulled up on the opposite side of the street. The van’s door was emblazoned with the words
Antiques on Main
.

A man climbed out. About her age, with thick black hair that needed a trim, he wore a black overcoat that could have fit in nicely on Wall Street. He might have been a laid-back stockbroker, if such a creature existed.

He was halfway across the street already. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” she echoed uncertainly. Could this be Silas Nelson, who’d sounded like such a cantankerous old coot on the phone? About to ask, she decided to wait and see.

The man marched past her and onto the walkway that led to 525 South Jackson. He proceeded up the stairs to the porch, scooped up the dog, and turned around with the tiny animal snuggled against his chest. He kept his head down until he was almost beside Tish, then gave her a brief smile as he passed. He didn’t say another word. He just crossed the street, climbed into his van, and drove away with the dog.

Moments later, a silver pickup truck pulled into the driveway. An older gentleman climbed out and gave her a hopeful smile that pricked her conscience.

“You must be Trish,” he said in a potent drawl. “I’m Si Nelson.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Nelson. Thanks for being willing to show me around.”

“It’s a wonderful house,” he said. “As I’m sure you can tell.”

She nodded, trying not to act too enthusiastic, and he launched into a sales spiel that made her cringe inside. The poor guy seemed to think she was in love with the house and ready to make a full-price offer on the spot. He even mentioned having a purchase agreement ready to go. They only needed to fill in the blanks and add their signatures, and of course he would collect her earnest money.

Only in his dreams.

Although his clothes were perfectly respectable, his hair was as overgrown as his lawn. His dishevelment was the old-man version, not the slightly shaggy and attractive look of the olive-skinned guy in the overcoat.

Nelson seemed to think she’d be fascinated with the good condition of the furnace and the electrical system, important considerations if she’d been serious about buying the place. She tried not to feel guilty about leading him on.

He caught her attention when he said he and the previous owner had been careful to preserve what he called “the originals” of the house. “It’s worth the trouble,” he said. “A grand old place like this will last forever.”

Tish thought of the house fire next door and wanted to argue that no house could stand forever, but she only nodded respectfully. “I can’t wait to see the interior.”

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “Let’s start with the yard and the garage while it’s light out.”

“Sure. Do you mind if I take pictures?”

“Not at all,” he said with a smile. “You’ll want to show your friends.”

“Well … maybe. Is there any wiggle room on the price?”

His thin lips snapped into a straight, unsmiling line. “No, there isn’t. Do you still want to see the place or not?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I do.” She straightened, then reminded herself that she was doing him a favor. After a tour with her, he would understand that his house was overpriced and, from the looks of the outside, in great need of some TLC.

He set off around the side of the house and she followed, her black Crocs buried in the tall grass. She snapped pictures of the house, the overgrown backyard, and a pair of sandy tracks worn into the ground by many tires over many years. The tracks led toward a row of tall shrubs and, behind them, a “garage.”

They made their way to the far corner of the backyard and rounded the tall hedges. Perhaps a hundred yards in front of them stood a building that,
Mr. Nelson explained, had started life as a carriage house. As big as a barn, it still evoked an atmosphere of horses and carriages. Its twin square doors with weatherworn cross-braces might have been barn doors, and a smaller door on the second floor testified to its history as a hayloft. Tish could easily imagine Nathan hitching a horse to a buggy and taking his young bride for a ride, but she couldn’t see a modern homeowner getting much use out of the building.

“It’s awfully inconvenient,” she said, “being so far from the house.”

Mr. Nelson laughed as if she’d said something especially stupid. “Nobody with any sense would build a carriage house or a stable anywhere near their dining room windows.”

“Oh, of course. Those horsy smells. Was there a stable too?”

“Yes, but it’s long gone.” Mr. Nelson went to the door on the right, dealt with a padlock, and shoved the heavy door open. He turned on the lights. The building had a cement floor, two small, high windows on each side, and a few sections of pegboard on the wall for tools. Still, she could imagine it filled with the smells of hay and leather harnesses.

“It was renovated in 1930 or so and again in the sixties,” Mr. Nelson said. “As you can see, it has electricity and good lighting.” He pointed overhead. “There’s plenty of extra storage up there.”

Remembering her resolution to keep him from getting his hopes up, she frowned. “It’s not practical, though, being so far from the house.”

He scowled at her. “Some folks don’t mind walking a few steps.”

“It’s more than a few steps, but never mind. I’d like to see the house.”

“Sure thing.”

They stepped outside, and he locked up. In silence, they walked through the twilight with the house looming before them. Its rear was a bit shabbier than the pretty face it presented to the street.

“Seems to need some repairs and some paint on this side of the house. Are you sure you can’t come down on the price?” she asked.

He offered a sharp sigh and a stony smile. “No ma’am. As I said in my ad, the price is firm.”

Apparently he believed the front door would give her a better first impression, because he bypassed the back door and led her around the side of the house and into the front yard. Following him across the lawn, she eyed the white pillars holding up the porch roof.

She smiled, recalling her dad’s joke when they’d first found the place, and decided to quote him. “It wants to be Tara when it grows up.”

“Wrong state,” Nelson said, not cracking a smile this time. “That would be Georgia.” A call came in on his cell phone. “Excuse me,” he said, heading toward the sidewalk. “Back with you in a minute.”

A little miffed that he would let a phone call derail the tour, she proceeded to the steps. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, but she indulged in a moment of little-girl pretense, imagining herself as the first Letitia, gracefully lifting long skirts and sweeping up the steps with her head held high.

I am Letitia McComb, coming home in the evening …

She crossed the long, narrow porch and peered through every window. But it was too dark inside to see anything.

Beyond the railing at the far end of the porch stood a tall bush with glossy dark leaves like the shrubs near the garage, but this one was studded with bright red flowers. Camellias? Yes. Moving closer, she cupped one of the blossoms in her hand, marveling that its delicate petals and fragile yellow stamens could survive outside in December. It seemed even more miraculous than the pansies.

It would be lovely to cut a single camellia to grace her breakfast table on a winter morning. It would be even lovelier to pick gigantic bouquets for a larger table crowded with people—except she didn’t know a soul in Noble unless she counted Mr. Nelson. He had finished his phone call and was walking up the steps. “Sorry about that.” He unlocked the door and reached inside to hit a light switch. “Come on in.”

She stopped in the doorway, taking it in. Straight ahead, a hardwood floor and an elegant staircase, its dark banister wrapped with Christmas greens. To the left, the corner of a graceful sideboard and dining room table. To the right, a room with high ceilings and tall, narrow windows. A rich red Oriental carpet lay before a fireplace with a mahogany mantel and a marble hearth. Why, it was the parlor where her great-great-great-grandparents might have hung their wedding portrait. If the walls of the room could speak, their stories would weave connections between two Letitias, born generations apart.

Tish mashed her lips together to keep them from trembling.

“Oh, Mr. Nelson,” she whispered. “Can’t you come down just a little? Please?”

Long before dawn, Tish lay wide awake in a dark motel room in Muldro, listening to traffic roaring past on the interstate. Heading north. The direction she had to go. People were counting on her to be at work on Monday.

But last night, driving out of Noble, she’d nearly cried. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d only wanted to see the house and the town. She hadn’t planned to fall in love with them. The last time she’d visited, she’d still been in love with Stephen. Her aching heart hadn’t been capable of forming new attachments, human or otherwise.

After flinging off the covers, she reached for the bedside lamp, then shut off the alarm on her phone before it could go off. The phone had come in handy as a web browser and calculator. She’d stayed up late, looking up interest rates and crunching the numbers. If she could persuade Mr. Nelson to lower his price a little, her payment would be about the same as the rent on her apartment, and she’d be building equity.

While Tish dressed and packed, she watched one of the weather channels, muted. The abbreviated weather forecasts for major cities scrolled across the
bottom of the screen. She watched them all the way through, twice. Half the cities in the Midwest and Northeast expected freezing rain, but Florida would have sun, afternoon thunderstorms, and more sun. Her mom and Charles would hit the pool again today, or maybe they’d play tennis with their new friends. Meanwhile, Tish would drive north, into the freezing rain. If the road conditions didn’t get too bad, she’d be home by bedtime.

She stepped outside with her bags. The nip in the air was downright pleasant compared to what she’d find in Ames, Michigan.