The House on Tradd Street (5 page)

 
I looked up from the letter, aware again of the sound of the rope swing. I stood and slowly walked down the steps to where I could peer around the overgrown hibiscus and into the garden.

The woman was there again, pushing the swing, except this time the swing wasn’t empty. Holding tightly to the rope arms sat a small boy, his mouth open in laughter, the sound like soft air brushing against my cheeks.

A hot, prickling sensation on the back of my neck made me tilt my head upward toward an upstairs window. I could detect a dark shadow behind the uneven glass, with penetrating eyes staring down at me. I could barely breathe, the malevolence of the presence in the window seeming to suck the oxygen out of the air.

Backing away, I turned toward the gate and let myself out. I kept my head down as the sky opened up and rain began to darken the sidewalk in front of me.

I
stayed up all night downloading music into the iPod I’d received for Christmas and that was still in the box seven months later. The gift was from Sophie Wallen, latent hippie wannabe and professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston and, inexplicably, my best friend. We’d met when a colleague suggested I consult with Sophie regarding the restoration project of a client’s home I was trying to sell in the historic Harleston Village neighborhood. At the time, she wouldn’t even speak with me until she’d been allowed to read my tarot cards and forced me to sit in the lotus yoga position on the floor of her office while she meditated and I kept stealing glances at my watch.

Afterward, she took me to Ruth’s Bakery and bought me the biggest piece of chocolate torte in the bakery case while she told me that I was borderline obsessive-compulsive, way too repressed as a result of my military upbringing with my father, and apparently I wasn’t getting enough sex because I was as uptight as a department store mannequin. But, she’d said, she thought we could work together. We’ve been close ever since.

Sophie said I needed to relax more and thought that listening to music would help, which is why she bought me a lime green iPod. I’m sure she’d suspect, but not ask, that once I’d taken the time to load music onto it I would spend most of a night playing with different ways to organize the 351 songs on the playlist.

With bleary eyes, I examined the list of songs again, sighing with dismay as I spied several that I had somehow included with the rest of the ABBA, Tom Petty, Duran Duran, and the Cars: “Our House,” “House of the Rising Sun,” “It’s My House,” “Burning Down the House,” and even “Up on the Housetop.”

Closing down the computer and unplugging the iPod, I stuck it back in its box and threw it in a hall table drawer. I shuffled into the kitchen and squinted at the clock on the coffeemaker for a long time before I could figure out what it said. Six thirty. I’d wait until seven o’clock to call, allowing for Sophie’s tendency to sleep late.

At six fifty-nine I hit the speed dial on my phone.

After eight rings, Sophie picked it up. “Mrmphm.”

“Hi, Soph. It’s Melanie. I need you to come look at a house with me.”

“Mrmphm.”

“Can you meet me in an hour?”

There was a short pause. “What in the hell are you doing calling me at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning?”

“Sorry. I thought you’d be up by now.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m going to hang up now and you can call me around noon.”

“Wait! Okay, I’m sorry. But this is really important.”

There was another pause and I pictured Sophie rolling her eyes. “All right. Tell me what this is about.”

“It seems I’ve inherited a house.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “And this warrants you calling me at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning because . . . ?”

“Well, it’s an old house. South of Broad.”

I knew I had her attention now. I could hear the rustling of the bedsheets as she sat up.

“What’s the address?”

“Fifty-five Tradd.”

“The Vanderhorst house?” She was nearly screeching in my ear. “You’ve inherited the Vanderhorst house?”

“Well, yes. But I wouldn’t get so excited about it. If you could see the condition of it inside—”

“I’ll meet you at the front gate at eight o’clock.”

I smiled as I heard the click on the other end and hung up the phone. Her excitement had me a bit worried, but I was also relieved. I would be getting a professional and unbiased opinion on the merits of the house so I could make a sound choice in deciding whether to accept it.

 
 
“No matter what this house looks like on the inside, even if the roof’s caving in, you’ve got to keep it.”

So much for a professional, unbiased opinion. Sophie stood next to me on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips, staring at my albatross. I’d been waiting in my car with the radio turned up until she’d appeared, eleven minutes late.

I eyed her now. She wore brown suede clogs, a long, gauzelike skirt with embroidered iguanas racing along the hem, and a tie-dyed T-shirt tucked into the elastic waist of the skirt. Her long, curly black hair was pulled into a straggly bun at the back of her head and held in place by what looked like two chopsticks—complete with the name of the Chinese restaurant they had come from.

“Your outfit alone is a strong case against tenure, you know.”

She ignored me. “This house appears in just about every textbook on architecture that I’ve ever read. I mean, it’s the quintessential classic Charleston single house. Look at that fan window—still has all the original glass. See how the front door is really on the side of the house? It’s to catch the river breezes in the summer. And look at the gorgeous piazza—and with Tower-of-the-Wind pediments, no less. It’s perfect.”

Annoyed, I said, “I do know about old houses, Sophie. I sell them, remember?”

“You know enough bluster to sell them, but you don’t actually know anything about them.” She pushed on the gate to enter the garden, and it swung open without resistance. I looked at it in surprise and was about to test the hinges when Sophie said, “I thought you said the house was empty.”

“It’s supposed to be.” I followed her gaze to the front window in the room with the growth chart on the wall and felt the skittering of gooseflesh on the back of my neck and caught the unmistakable scent of roses. “Why?”

“I thought I saw a curtain move.”

“Probably just the wind blowing through one of the cracks in the walls.”

She frowned at me, then turned back to the house. “I know about ten people who would give their left eyeballs to own this place.”

“Great. Keep that list handy.”

Ignoring me, she climbed the steps to the piazza and I followed her. She studied the leaded-glass window in the door and sidelights, her hands brushing against the window with reverence. “This is probably a Tiffany—not original to the house, of course, but still quite valuable. Do you know how rare it is to find one of his windows stilt intact in the house it was designed for? Truly amazing, especially considering how long it’s been here.”

I looked at the windows again, trying to see them with her eyes. But where she saw a work of art and painstaking skill, I saw only an old window that would probably cost a small fortune to repair if it ever got broken. I wanted, for a brief moment, to see the beauty of it, but I hadn’t been able to see the beauty in anything since I was seven years old.

Sophie ran her hands along one of the support columns, flicking away a flake of loose plaster and peering at what lay beneath. “Yep—brick. It’s brick underneath, which is a very good thing. For one thing, it’s stronger than just plaster, and for another, termites don’t like brick.” She nicked her clog against the top step and shook her head. “Which is more than I can say for this porch. It’s got to be replaced, and the columns that support the piazza need replastering. That’s a really big job.”

She wrinkled her nose in a look I was familiar with and I answered her unasked question. “Supposedly, Mr. Vanderhorst had plenty of money—apparently all left for me so I can fix up this . . . this . . .”

“Beautiful house.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was going to say, but I suppose that works.”

Sophie stepped back onto the first step and looked up at the front facade. “Wow. So you’ve inherited this great house and now you’re rich, too. Not bad for a single day’s work.”

“Not exactly. All the money will be tied up in a trust. The trustee will have the discretion to give me money for various home-improvement projects and, if he or she is feeling generous, provide me with a salary as well.”

Sophie smiled the smile that somehow usually melted men at her feet but right now only served to annoy me. “Mr. Vanderhorst was a really clever man.”

“Not too clever if he made me his heir. I don’t want anything to do with this. You know how I feel about old houses. You know how I feel about owning any house at all.”

“Yeah. And I also know why, which is why I think this could be good for you.”

I looked away, my gaze unfortunately falling on the peeling paint on the shutters and then on the white wicker rocker I had sat in when I read Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter. Something had happened to me, then. Something that now made me listen to Sophie and my conscience rather than rejecting this whole horrible proposal out of hand. Something to do with what lay inside the heart of a seven-year-old girl before the realities of life closed in around her.

Turning back to my friend, I reached into my purse and pulled out the letter. “Well, since I’ve probably lost all chances of an unbiased opinion, you might as well go ahead and read this before we go in.”

I sat down in the chair and waited for her to read it, keeping my focus straight ahead toward the street and ignoring the sound of the swing once again emanating from the yard.

“Hey—did you read this part?” Sophie moved to sit down in the chair beside me. “Listen to this: ‘My mother loved this house almost as much as she loved me. There are others who disagree, of course, because she deserted both of us when I was a young boy. But there’s more to that story, though I have failed to discover what it is. Maybe fate put you in my life to bring the truth to the surface so that she might finally find peace after all these years.’ ”

“Yes, I read it. I’m not really sure what it means, though, except that he was abandoned by his mother.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose again. “Just like you were.”

I looked away, still unable to completely forget the overwhelming hurt in a seven-year-old’s heart.

Sophie looked back down at the letter. “Actually, I seem to remember something about the history of this house. Like I said, I’ve seen this house in so many books, and there’s some story. . . .” She tapped an unmanicured finger on the paper, her forehead wrinkled in concentration.

I watched her, the sound of the swing louder now.

“Do you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?”

“The sound of that rope swing against a tree branch?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t.” She studied me closely, but I looked away again, my gaze falling on the missing bricks on the front steps.

Sophie was silent again and I began humming “Dancing Queen,” one of the songs I had uploaded onto my iPod the night before, to help block out the sound of the swing.

“ABBA, Melanie?”

I ignored her and walked to the opposite end of the piazza, my heels clicking against the cracked marble tiles.

“Yes! Now I remember!” Sophie jumped out of her chair and came to stand next to me. “It’s something that happened in the late twenties or thirties, I believe. Something to do with a love triangle and a woman running off with a man who wasn’t her husband—but that’s all I remember.”

“Great. Since you love this stuff so much, I’ll let you research the history of the house and let me know.”

“Sorry. No can do. This is the beginning of the semester for me and I’m swamped. I’ll be happy to lend you some books, though.”

“Yippee. Can’t wait.” I moved to the front door, a sudden realization hitting me. “I don’t have a key.”

The front door opened suddenly, and a woman as wide as she was tall, holding the small black-and-white dog I had seen before on my previous visit, stood in the doorway. “Why are y’all standing out there in this heat? Y’all come on in where it’s cooler.”

Like obedient soldiers, we marched into the foyer. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Melanie . . .”

“I know who you are. You’re the spitting image of your grandfather when he was your age.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

She looked at me with what only could be described as a scowl. “Of course not. How old do you think I am? Before Mr. Nevin passed, he showed me a picture of his daddy and your granddaddy. I think he told me it was taken on his daddy’s wedding day.”

“Oh, I’d love to see it. May I?”

“Sure, honey. Though I don’t think you need to be asking me since you own it now.” She laughed with a surprisingly high, trilling sound made all the more unusual by the fact that it came from such a large body.