The Strangers on Montagu Street (12 page)

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Authors: Karen White

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

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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Amelia quickly stood and gave Nola a hug. “You certainly have a sense of style, dear, and one that even your old grandmother can appreciate.” She left her arm around Nola and faced us, the older, elegant woman in the St. John knit suit and Ferragamo pumps next to the beautiful teenager dressed in an outfit that looked like it came out of a ragbag. I had the absurd impulse to jump up and high-five Amelia for knowing the right thing to say.
My mother and I stood and gathered our purses. As I held open the front door for everyone as they exited, Nola said, “I hope this stupid café has food I can eat.”
Amelia didn’t bat an eye. “Alluette’s is known for its organic and vegan menu. That’s why I chose it.”
And another point for you, Amelia,
I thought as I locked the door behind me. Aloud I said, “I hope they have food for the rest of us.”
My mother sent me a look that I’m sure was meant to remind me of my manners. I rolled my eyes in response as I dropped the keys into my purse, then followed them to Amelia’s car.
I sat in the back of the Lincoln with Nola, Amelia and my mother up front. I’d never ridden in a car with Amelia Trenholm before, but for the first time in our acquaintance I began to understand where Jack got his penchant for driving at breakneck speeds down narrow, tourist-filled streets. I clutched at the door handle with my left hand and braced my right on the headrest of the driver’s seat in front of me.
Nola kept her gaze focused outside her window, apparently oblivious to everything except her own thoughts. My mother didn’t seem to notice as she and Amelia chatted away as if driving like a Formula 1 driver through the streets of Charleston were an everyday occurrence. The radio was set at a very low volume to an oldies station. I thought I recognized the song they were playing but couldn’t hear it clearly enough to know for sure. Hoping that music might distract me from the knowledge that I was most likely hurtling toward certain death in a car driven by a woman I’d never have thought had homicidal tendencies, I tapped my mother on the shoulder.
“Can you turn up the radio, please?”
Without pausing in her conversation, she reached over to the volume control and turned it up. I relaxed somewhat against the cream leather upholstery as I recognized the familiar strains of ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All.” Closing my eyes, I began to sing quietly to myself about a heartbroken lover who’s desperate enough to ask her ex if his new lover kisses like she did. My eyes jerked open as I realized what I was singing aloud, and found Nola staring closely at me with Jack’s blue eyes.
“Do you know who sings that song?” she asked.
Smugly, I said, “Of course. ABBA.”
“Great. Let’s keep it that way.” She sat back in her seat and pretended to stick her finger down her throat. “As if listening to ABBA wasn’t nauseating enough to begin with.” She leaned forward and tapped her grandmother on the shoulder. “Can you change the station, please? I think I’m getting carsick.”
Without a pause in the conversation, Amelia switched the channel to an alternative rock station where they were playing the recent hit of a new and up-and-coming star, Jimmy Gordon. He had more of a bluesy sound than a rock sound, but his voice dripped honey, and he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, either. The song “I’m Just Getting Started” was haunting and melodic, with just enough of a beat to give it airtime on more mainstream stations.
I turned to Nola to ask her what she thought of the song, but stopped in midsentence. Her skin was even paler than usual, her fingers like claws digging into the tops of her thighs through the striped tights.
“Are you all right?” I asked, wondering whether she’d been serious about being carsick.
“Change the station,” she said with a strangled voice, but loud enough for both women in the front seat to hear. My mother turned her head to ask why, but when she caught sight of Nola’s expression, she reached over and pushed a button. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Nola sat back, her face cold and immobile. “I hate that song. And I hate Jimmy Gordon.”
“I don’t think he’s that bad. I actually like him—” I began.
Nola cut me off. “I’ve met him. And I don’t like him.”
The icy tone of Nola’s voice must have captured Amelia’s attention. “Who’s Jimmy Gordon?” she asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror.
Nola stared out her window, her shoulders curved into a perfect letter “C” as if to shut out even the light, effectively letting us know that the conversation was over.
“Apparently not one of Nola’s favorite recording stars,” I said. “Why don’t you turn the radio off? We’re almost there anyway.”
With a frown in my direction, my mother shut off the radio without question. I wondered if she’d have been so understanding with me at that age, or if all the absent years and the separation of a generation was all that was needed to bridge the mother-daughter abyss. If I ever had children—which was highly doubtful, seeing as how I was thirty-nine and perpetually single—I decided that I’d drop them off on my mother’s doorstep when they reached ten and retrieve them again once they were in their twenties.
Amelia found garage parking on Meeting Street and then we walked a couple of blocks to Reid Street, where Alluette’s Café was located. The coral-colored restaurant appeared casual yet charming, with a rustic counter bar and a square pass-through behind it to the kitchen, where several people were busily preparing for the lunchtime rush. Above the pass-through was a chalkboard with the day’s specials, along with the words HOLISTIC SOUL FOOD AND VEGANS WELCOME. Despite the warning, the list of specials included fresh local fried shrimp that’s along with the savory scent of cooking food, made my mouth begin to water. Three large glass canisters filled with what appeared to be chocolate-chip cookies sat on the bar. Organic or not, they looked moist and delicious, and I knew I’d be leaving with at least two to tide me over until dinner.
I turned to see my mother and Amelia greeting a tall, slender blond woman dressed sharply in a navy twill pants outfit with an Hermès scarf knotted around her neck and a younger version of herself standing just inside the doorway.
My mother motioned for Nola and me to approach. Not sure why I was doing so, I put my arm around Nola’s shoulders and led her forward. I shook hands with both Cecily and Alston Ravenel, then introduced Nola by gently propelling her in front of me. I watched as both Ravenels took in Nola’s boots and choice of clothing, my fists clenching.
Cecily smiled and reached out her hand to Nola. “You are the spitting image of your father, but I’m sure you’ve heard that.”
I looked closely at her, trying to judge her age, which I assumed was probably a few years younger than my own, and wondered whether she’d dated Jack. Most of the female population of Charleston seemed at one time or another to have had some sort of relationship with him. My fingernails were now biting into my palms, and I had to force myself to unclench my hands.
“Your grandmother and Mrs. Middleton have been telling me so much about you that I can’t wait to get to know you better.” Her smile was warm, her words genuine, and I found myself relaxing. She was either an authentic Charleston lady who kept any negative thoughts to herself, or she really was looking forward to getting to know Nola. Or she’d dated Jack and still had fond memories. I felt like mentally slapping myself to get the image out of my head.
Nola’s smile was guarded as she shook Cecily’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I looked on with surprise, realizing I’d been holding my breath to see how Nola would respond. Obviously, her mama hadn’t forgotten her Southern roots, regardless of how far she’d left them behind.
Reaching behind her to grab the blond girl’s elbow, Cecily said, “And this is my Alston, who, as I’m sure you’ve already learned, will be starting eighth grade at Ashley Hall this fall.”
Alston reached out a slender, manicured hand, a pearl bracelet circling her wrist. “Hello,” she said, her voice so soft that I had to lean forward to hear her. “It’s nice to meet you.”
As with her mother, there was nothing underlying her comments, and I looked on closely as Nola took Alston’s hand and shook it. “Likewise,” she said slowly, as if waiting for Alston to pull something out of her Coach bag and hit her on the head with it.
Alston withdrew her hand. “I like your boots,” she said softly, and I realized two things right then about Alston Ravenel: She was very shy, and she was also very kind. Or, despite her tailored appearance, had really bad taste in clothing.
“Thanks,” said Nola, taking in Alston’s Lilly Pulitzer skirt, blouse, and pale yellow cardigan tossed over her shoulders. Even the girl’s headband boasted a Lilly print. I was about to pat myself on the back for a successful meet-and-greet when Nola leaned forward. “What kind of name is Alston?”
I held my breath, waiting for Alston’s answer. She looked surprised, like nobody had asked her that question before. And, I realized, living in Charleston where everybody recognized the name, they probably hadn’t.
Matter-of-factly, she said, “It’s a family name on my daddy’s side. His great-grandmother was an Alston and I guess he wants everybody to know it. What about Nola? Is that a family name?”
Nola smirked, and I forced myself to keep my hand by my side instead of clamped over Nola’s mouth. “Nope. It’s a nickname. It stands for New Orleans, Louisiana.”
Good,
I thought.
Time to stop there.
I watched as the older women began to move away toward our table, hopefully out of earshot.
“That’s where I was conceived,” Nola continued.
Cecily looked a little shocked, but Alston threw back her head and let out a decidedly unladylike laugh. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in, like, forever.” We began to move to our table, the two girls following me. In a quieter voice, Alston said to Nola, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m named Alston, because otherwise they might be calling me Four-poster.”
Nola let out a loud laugh, causing heads to turn, but I didn’t care. It was the first time I’d ever heard her laugh, and I couldn’t wait to tell Jack. As I settled in my chair, I felt the old familiar tingling on the back of my neck. Turning my head slightly so no one else would notice, I stared at the front window, where a woman with a sad face was peering into the restaurant. She wore a flowing skirt and a T-shirt, her blond hair long and parted in the middle like a seventies hippie. She was so solid that I’d started to think she was real. But then somebody on the sidewalk walked right through her and she vanished, leaving only a lingering feeling of despair.
I turned back to the table and saw Nola watching me closely, and as we ate our meal, I couldn’t help but wonder whether Nola had felt it, too.
CHAPTER 7
 
I
backed myself through the front door of Henderson House Realty, balancing my briefcase and my usual breakfast of a latte with extra whipped cream and bag of chocolate-covered doughnuts. I’d worked at Henderson House for over a decade as a Realtor specializing in historic Charleston real estate, despite the fact that I held firmly to the belief that old houses were little more than money-sucking holes in the middle of an otherwise great lot, and usually filled with enough spirits to keep a person up all night. Assuming you were unlucky enough to have been born with the ability to hear them.
But I was good at what I did, and it paid the bills and kept me in my Louboutins, so I couldn’t complain too much. Except when the spirits of the dead got tired of me ignoring them and decided they needed to get my attention.
I carefully made my way through the reception area, intent on making it to my office in the back without spilling anything, when I made an abrupt halt. Slowly retracing my steps, I stopped in front of the receptionist’s desk, where the intrepid Nancy Flaherty, receptionist and wannabe golf pro, had sat ever since I’d come to work at Henderson’s. There was her golf ball paperweight, golf club bookends, St. Andrews course mouse pad, and T-shaped paper clips all on her desktop, but no sign of Nancy. Instead, in front of the desk on what appeared to be a bright orange yoga mat, sat an attractive woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with white-blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. She sat in an extremely uncomfortable-looking pose, with her legs crossed and her feet on top of the opposite inner thighs and her hands folded as if in prayer.
“Namaste,” she said in such a thick Southern accent that I had to think for a long moment before I understood what she’d said.
“Good morning,” I said hesitantly. “Where’s Nancy?”
The woman unfolded herself from her pose and rose to her full height, which hardly seemed to be much over five feet, if that. “Hi, there,” she said, offering her bejeweled hand. “I’m Charlene Rose, and I’m a friend of Nancy’s. Yesterday we were playing golf and I accidentally pinged her on the head with a badly timed shot. The doctors say she’ll be fine once the stitches come out.”
“Stitches? Was she hurt badly?”
“Just three stitches, and I said I’d pay for any plastic surgery if so much as a mark is left on her forehead. But she’s okay. I booked her into the Charleston Place hotel and spa for a week so she can recover.”
“Great,” I said, staring closely at the woman. “Have we met before?” I asked, still wondering why she was there on a yoga mat in the reception area.

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