The House on Tradd Street (23 page)

I pushed Jack aside. “Hi, Marc. I’m so sorry—we were having trouble opening the door, and Jack was nice enough to help us out.”

“Jack?” Marc looked pointedly at me.

“Trenholm,” Jack supplied again, speaking slowly as if he were speaking with somebody of limited intelligence. “I live here.”

“No, he doesn’t.” I fluttered my hands, flustered. “Actually, he does. But only temporarily.”

Jack began tucking in his shirt and doing a bad job of trying to look apologetic. “Sorry. I just got out of bed.” He winked at Marc, and I had the strong desire to go find the mate of the Staffordshire statuette I’d broken the night before and once more make them a matching set with the help of Jack’s hard head.

“He’s just helping out with cataloging everything in the house. He keeps odd hours, so I offered him the use of the guest bedroom.” I emphasized the last two words so that everybody was on the same page regarding my relationship and sleeping arrangements with Jack.

Jack put his arm around Mrs. Houlihan. “Well, there’s that and there’s also the fact that the best chef in Charleston, the lovely Mrs. Houlihan, allows me to eat in her kitchen.”

Mrs. Houlihan blushed, then excused herself to go back to the kitchen to place a foil-wrapped plate for Jack on the stove before packing up and heading home to her husband.

Marc was studying Jack as if trying to place him. “Wait a minute—I thought your name sounded familiar. Aren’t you that guy who wrote the book about the Alamo? There was a lot of publicity surrounding it, as I recall, although I don’t remember what it was all about.”

I glanced at Marc, not sure if he was being serious or condescending, and then realizing that it didn’t matter. Jack was a big boy and certainly didn’t need my help. Besides, having been the spider under Jack’s magnifying glass, it was fun watching the role reversal.

Jack’s smile didn’t dim, but I saw his shoulders tense. “Yes, well, that was an unfortunate situation, especially since I had a band of experts on my side supporting the book who nobody wanted to listen to.” He shrugged. “But I have every faith that the truth will come out eventually, and the book will sell a million copies because of all the free publicity.” He bared his teeth in an effort to widen his smile. “But at least that’s freed up my time so I can focus on a new project. Mellie here is allowing me to use her gorgeous house to research a new book I’m working on.”

“Oh, really? What’s it about?” Marc was studying Jack intently, and I was surprised to see that he wasn’t feigning interest.

Jack didn’t break eye contact as the two men sized each other up, standing closer as if they were in a boxing ring, and excluding me completely. I wondered if this was how the female lion felt during mating season—unwanted and superfluous until the battle was won and it was time to get down to business. Although comparing myself to a lion in heat was as humiliating as it was accurate.

“A previous owner, Louisa Vanderhorst, vanished from this house in nineteen thirty and was never seen or heard from again. On the same day an unwanted suitor—a Joseph Longo—also vanished. Could he be any relation to you?”

Marc crossed his arms over his chest, exposing the large gold Rolex watch he wore on his right wrist. “Yes, as a matter of fact, Joseph Longo was my grandfather.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Oh, isn’t that interesting? Maybe we should share notes sometime. Who knows? Maybe we can come up with an answer after all these years.”

Marc assessed Jack, his expression making it clear that he found him lacking. “Who knows, indeed? We should definitely compare notes. I’ll call you.” He paused for a moment and then added almost as an afterthought, “And maybe during your research in this house you might dig up even more mysteries from the past.”

Something I couldn’t identify flitted over Jack’s face. “What kinds of mysteries?”

Marc smiled so that his calculating expression now matched Jack’s. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s an old house. I believe Melanie told me it was built in eighteen forty-eight. That’s a lot of years, a lot of history. There’s bound to be a skeleton or two in the closets.”

“There sure is,” Jack said slowly, and I was once again struck by the thought that he was holding something back.

“Well,” said Marc, glancing at his watch, “our reservations are at seven thirty, and I don’t want to be late.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that, would we, Mellie?” Jack moved to stand next to me and casually draped his arm over my shoulders. I wondered how the female lion would react to this twist on the circling-lion scenario.

I slid out from Jack’s embrace and reached for my evening bag and silk shawl, which I had left on the hall table. If I had forgotten them upstairs, I would have left them there rather than abandon the two men alone together in the foyer even for the three minutes it would have taken for me to retrieve the two items.

Marc took the shawl from me and spread it over my shoulders, turning his back to Jack in a clearly dismissive gesture. “I don’t think I had a chance to mention how very beautiful you look this evening, Melanie.”

I blushed, feeling self-conscious in the direct gaze of two very different but extremely attractive men. “Thank you,” I said and should have stopped there. “I got the dress on sale at RTW on King Street.” I bit my lip thinking of the many times Sophie had suggested we role-play before my dates to make sure I didn’t say anything stupid, which I normally did whenever I was embarrassed or flustered. I made a mental note to take her up on her offer, assuming I ever had another date.

Marc opened the door and offered his arm to me before leading me outside. “Maybe when I bring you home, you’ll have time to show me around this gorgeous house of yours. Because of the family connection, I’ve always wanted to see what it looked like on the inside.”

I opened my mouth to reply but was cut off by Jack calling from the doorway, “Good to meet you, Matt.” He tapped his watch. “I’ll wait up—so don’t be too late.”

I didn’t look back but felt Marc’s arm muscles tense under my hand as he led me through the side entrance and out onto the front walk. As he closed the door behind us, something made me turn toward the old oak tree. The woman was standing next to the still swing, the small boy sitting poised on the wooden slatted seat, clutching the ropes. They were both looking at me, but neither one was smiling.

I jerked my attention back to Marc and allowed him to lead me to his car parked on the curb, feeling the two sets of eyes on me like points of light in a darkened room until I had disappeared from their sight.

I
closed the door with a heavy sigh and leaned against it, savoring the food, conversation, and male attention I’d been experiencing for the last three and a half hours. I shut my eyes, still smelling the wine, the crab cakes, and the scent of Marc’s cologne in the cocooned leather interior of his car.

It had been the perfect evening, but I’d been overrelieved when Marc had declined to come inside for a drink and a nighttime tour of the house and instead accepted my offered rain check. I didn’t think either one of us had the energy to face Jack again.

After pulling away from the closed door, I set the alarm, then turned off the lights that had been left on for me before wearily climbing the stairs. It was long past my bedtime, and I was beginning to feel it. The sound of television voices and the dim blue glow of light in the hallway brought me to the upstairs drawing room.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene. The drawing room, with its elaborate moldings and Adam fireplace mantel, was an eclectic mix of eighteenth-century antiques and nineteen fifties kitsch. This must have been the room Mr. Vanderhorst used the most as many of the antiques had been sequestered to a corner to make room for a television and its orange metal stand, as well as an overstuffed recliner and an upholstered couch, whose floral design made me place it somewhere circa nineteen fifty-five.

Being a man with limited exposure to Charleston women excused Mr. Vanderhorst from the unspoken Charleston rule concerning priceless family heirloom furniture: those that have it, use it. The best way to mark a newcomer to the city (anybody whose family wasn’t living here by the Revolution) was his avoidance of using the Chippendale sofa to watch television and eat their frozen dinners.

A rerun of
Walker, Texas Ranger
ran across the TV screen, the voices mixed with soft snoring coming from the couch. Jack’s arm was thrown over his head, and he was smiling in his sleep, altering his handsome face into that of a little boy and doing something entirely weird to my blood flow.

Quietly, I moved toward the television and switched it off, then turned to pull a knitted afghan off the recliner to cover Jack in case he got cold. I stood over Jack with the blanket clasped in my hands when I became aware of the drop in temperature and another presence in the room hovering somewhere behind Jack’s head. With dread, I watched as the figure of the young woman slowly materialized in front of me and became not a solid person, but instead more like a reflection in a pool. I could see all of her features clearly, but I could also see what was behind her, and I had the oddest thought that if I stared really hard at her, I could see myself.

She cupped her hand, then touched the back of her folded fingers against Jack’s temple. I watched his smile broaden as he brought his hand up to his face as if to grasp the hand that was now stroking his skin.

A tiny droplet of water landed on Jack’s cheek, and for a moment I thought the roof was leaking, until I realized the woman was crying.

I wanted to leave the room, to deny what I was seeing, but I knew I couldn’t. My mother had told me that I was allowed to walk away, but that wouldn’t mean that I would forget. The woman’s hand now cupped Jack’s cheek and I watched as Jack moved his hand and placed it over hers, holding it close to him. Overwhelming grief surged through me, and I wanted to double over with the pain of it, but I couldn’t. I was mesmerized by what this woman was showing me, and I began to hear her voice.

I never stopped loving him. I never stopped.
The words weren’t spoken aloud; they never were. I heard them in my head, echoing and hollow like a copper penny shaken in a metal cup.
Tell him I love him still.

I shivered, watching as my breath curled around me. The woman had begun to fade, and I reached my hand out to her but felt only empty air. I turned my palm up and caught a tear, the wetness stinging my hand until it simply vanished.

I stood there for a long time with the afghan in my hand, my unasked question frozen on my tongue.
Who are you?

Jack stirred, rubbing his hands over his face before opening his eyes, his gaze slowly focusing on me. “Nice dress,” he said, sitting up and looking adorably rumpled, “although I could swear I’ve seen it before.”

I dropped the afghan on the floor, not wanting to be caught doing something nice for him. I grimaced, having trouble finding my voice. “Good job waiting up.”

He slid his feet to the floor and frowned as he stared at his hands. He swept them together as if trying to dry them. “I had the weirdest dream. . . .” He trailed off before looking back at me and finding his killer grin again. “So, did he kiss you good night?”

“Who?”

Jack simply raised an eyebrow.

“That’s none of your business.”

Jack sat back. “Ah, so he didn’t. But don’t worry. You’ll find someone else.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “He’s coming by Sunday to tour the house and take me out to brunch.”

“I see,” he said. His eyes narrowed, and I thought he was about to say something more. Instead, he stood. “Well, now that you’re home, I’m going back up to the attic. Good night.”

I followed him out into the hallway and was on my way to my bedroom when Jack spoke again. “I think I’ve found all of Louisa’s albums if you’d like to bring them downstairs to get a better look at them. I could help you carry them, so it should only take a couple of trips.”

I hesitated for a moment. “Sure. Just let me get changed first.”

He saluted, then headed up the attic stairs. I ran into my room and slipped on my pajamas, slippers, and robe, then scurried down to the kitchen to find Mrs. Houlihan’s yellow rubber dish gloves and put them on.

I stood at the top of the attic steps and peered into the gloom lit only by a single bulb with a pull chain.

“Be still my heart,” said Jack, looking at me. “I must have missed that page in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. And I must say that the rubber gloves add a special touch to the entire ensemble.”

“My hands are cold.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Mellie, It’s seventy-six degrees outside, and this is an unair-conditioned space. It is not cold.”

I avoided his gaze as I picked my way into the cluttered attic. “I have poor circulation in my hands and feet.” I picked up the cane Sophie had found on our first visit to the house and read the inscribed riddle out loud. “ ‘I walk on four legs in the morning, two in the evening and three at night. What am I?’” I looked at Jack expectantly.