The Strangers on Montagu Street (2 page)
Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
White, Karen (Karen S.)
The strangers on Montagu Street/Karen White. p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54581-2
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To my readers, whose enthusiasm for the first two books about Melanie and Jack inspired this one.
Acknowledgments
Thanks again to the usual suspects: Wendy Wax, Susan Crandall, and my long-suffering family, who, although only vaguely aware that I do something with my spare time besides laundry, make all of this possible.
Thanks, too, to the awesome talent at Penguin Group and New American Library: my editor, Cindy Hwang; the entire art department (who are responsible for my gorgeous covers); the resourceful sales and marketing teams; and my publicity team (thank you, Craig and Heidi!). And thanks to the truly remarkable publishing team without whom my books would still only be ideas knocking around in my brain: Leslie Gelbman, Kara Welsh, and Claire Zion. To my agent, Karen Solem, a huge thanks for sticking with me since the beginning.
Any book set in Charleston requires plenty of visits for “research,” so I must acknowledge the warm and gracious citizens of the Holy City for always welcoming me with their trademark hospitality and fabulous cuisine. I look forward to my next “research” trip for the fourth book in the Tradd Street series.
CHAPTER 1
T
he phone rang out in the night-shrouded house, shrill and insistent, bringing me abruptly out of an odd dream that somehow involved me, Jack, a shovel, and something dark and undulating buried beneath the black earth. But when Jack opened his mouth to speak, I heard only the ringing of the telephone, jerking me upright in the bed and sending General Lee scampering to the floor with an irritated bark. I reached for the phone, remembering too late that the cord had been pulled from the wall, and held it to my ear before I recognized the pinpricks of warning on the nape of my neck.
he phone rang out in the night-shrouded house, shrill and insistent, bringing me abruptly out of an odd dream that somehow involved me, Jack, a shovel, and something dark and undulating buried beneath the black earth. But when Jack opened his mouth to speak, I heard only the ringing of the telephone, jerking me upright in the bed and sending General Lee scampering to the floor with an irritated bark. I reached for the phone, remembering too late that the cord had been pulled from the wall, and held it to my ear before I recognized the pinpricks of warning on the nape of my neck.
Melanie
.
.
I listened for the words that weren’t really words, more like sounds punctuated with static that only I could hear. “Grandmother?”
Melanie,
I heard again, the sound soft and melodic. I felt no fear, although I suppose a phone call from the dead would alarm most people. But I was used to it.
I heard again, the sound soft and melodic. I felt no fear, although I suppose a phone call from the dead would alarm most people. But I was used to it.
“Grandmother?” I asked again, hearing only the staccato pop of static. I closed my eyes as my mother had taught me, and focused on the sound, trying to make words form in my mind.
Don’t be afraid.
I resisted rolling my eyes and tried hard to push aside my impatience, wondering once again why ghosts couldn’t just come right out and say what they wanted. My life was like one long B movie, with me as the lone member of the audience shouting at the screen, “Just tell her already!”
Refocusing again, I closed my eyes tighter and listened while trying to ignore General Lee’s pawing at my leg in an attempt to get my attention.
Don’t be afraid. And listen to your heart for a change.
My eyes popped open as I suddenly realized that Jack had been telling me the same thing in my dream. The dial tone sounded in my ear and I quickly hung up the phone. General Lee whined and pressed his paw against my nightgown. I looked down at the small black-and-white fur ball, reluctantly inherited along with the housekeeper, Mrs. Houlihan, and the historic house on Tradd Street where I now lived. The same house that was apparently crumbling beneath my feet and sucking money from my bank account at an alarming rate.
I bent to pick up the neglected dog, but he escaped my grasp and instead ran to the dressing table and began pawing at one of the drawer handles, making the brass clang against the dark polished mahogany.
“What?” I asked, following him and wondering why I actually expected an answer. General Lee was only slightly less communicative than the ghosts I’d been speaking with since I was very small and hadn’t yet learned to keep such “skills” to myself.
With only the light from an outside streetlamp to guide me, I crossed the room to the dresser and was about to repeat my question when I spotted what looked like a wallet lying on the middle of the dresser top nestled between my La Mer night cream and the folded spreadsheet I used each day to allocate my—and sometimes other people’s—time.
I flipped on a small crystal lamp, then blinked until my eyes became accustomed to the light. Because I was convinced that wearing my glasses would officially make me old, they were hidden in my nightstand drawer, so I had to squint to see. I stared hard at the object I was positive hadn’t been there when I went to bed. It was definitely a wallet, and a familiar one at that. I picked it up and flipped it open, not at all surprised that I recognized the face on the South Carolina driver’s license. Jack Trenholm, six-foot-two, one eighty-five, black hair, blue eyes. After glancing in the bills section and noticing he had two twenties and a ten tucked inside, I snapped it shut with disgust. Nobody had a decent driver’s license photo; my own closely resembled one of those fuzzy photos taken of Bigfoot. But Jack’s, of course, was almost as good as the publicity photo that appeared on the back cover of his books. As a bestselling author of true-crime historical mystery novels, he had no right to look like a
GQ
model. It was irritating and not a little unnerving.
GQ
model. It was irritating and not a little unnerving.
I frowned down at General Lee. “How did this get here?” The more appropriate question should have been, “Why?” but I’d long since learned unusual things happened around me a lot, and always for a reason—but never for a reason that was easily explained. Besides, I was talking to a dog, and the subtleties of my question would surely be lost on him.
I rubbed my hand against the soft leather while I thought. I hadn’t seen Jack for about two weeks—not since the disastrous afternoon when a heretofore unknown teenage girl had shown up on my front porch and called him “Daddy.” I’d happily stepped back to allow Jack, his parents, and Jack’s girlfriend (my very distant cousin Rebecca Edgerton) to take care of that little problem. I had plenty of issues of my own to deal with—the least of which being the diagnosis of a cracked foundation on my very old historic albatross of a house. And my inability to ignore my unreasonable attraction to Jack Trenholm.
I looked at the clock on my bedside table, and while I was wondering whether five fifteen was too early to call Jack, the doorbell rang. General Lee and I looked at each other and I thought I saw him frown, but that could have been my poor eyesight. I quickly slid my feet into my slippers, slipped a robe over my nightgown, and put the wallet in the robe’s pocket. After scooping up the dog, I descended the staircase to the main hall, sincerely hoping that my visitor was the living, breathing kind.
The front door lights had been left on, illuminating the piazza of my Charleston single house and making it easy to recognize the familiar outline of my visitor through the glass sidelights on either side of the door. After punching in the code to disarm the alarm—A-B-B-A, for my favorite musical group—I unlocked the dead bolts and opened the door.
“Jack,” I said calmly, my voice completely belying the jumpy, skippy thing my heart seemed to be doing. “I hope you have a really good reason for waking me up and darkening my doorstep at this hour.”
He smiled the smile that had cut down swaths of women in his wake since he’d been a toddler. “Now, Mellie—I saw a light in your window, so I know you were awake. What were you doing? Organizing your closet alphabetically by designer?”
While I tried to think of a response that didn’t include the embarrassing fact that I’d already done that, I saw his gaze traveling from the toes of my slippers up to the high neck of my nightgown that peeked out of the top of my oversize and very thick robe. Despite its being late spring, I was dressed for winter, since I was notoriously cold-natured.
I frowned at him, taking in his khaki pants, loafers without socks, and white button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I also noticed the messy hair, the unshaven jaw, and circles under his eyes that, unfortunately, did nothing to lessen his appeal.
Before I could say anything, he said, “I don’t remember seeing that in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Is it new?”
“What do you want, Jack? I have far more important things to do than hang around my front door chatting with you.”
His smile slipped just enough for me to notice. He looked behind him to glance at a darkened spot on the piazza before turning back to me. His smile now resembled a grimace, and I felt the first tremors of unease. “I need to ask a favor.”
I crossed my arms, relieved. Obviously, this was some kind of a joke. Jack never asked for favors. His usual MO was to ply his victim with charm so that she never knew she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. “Will this involve getting me on my back? Or maybe just getting me drunk so that I embarrass myself?” He hadn’t technically done either thing, but I liked to pretend that those two instances had been both deliberate and his fault.
Instead of the snarky comment I expected, he frowned and gave a quick shake of his head. Too late, I realized that he wasn’t alone on the piazza, as the young girl I’d met only once before emerged from the shadows behind him. Jack stopped slouching against the doorjamb and straightened, allowing the girl to move into the foyer ahead of him. She eyed me in very much the same way her father just had, but with a far more critical eye and accompanied by the loud smacking of chewing gum.
“Nice slippers.” She blew a large purple bubble with her gum, then snapped it back into her mouth.
I looked down at my feet. My slippers had been a gift from my best friend, Dr. Sophie Wallen, a professor of historical preservation at the College of Charleston, and I rather liked them. I kept telling myself it was because they kept my feet warm and not because they resembled General Lee, since I wasn’t really a dog person. Especially at this moment, as I watched my fickle dog move from my side to sit at the girl’s feet and nuzzle her leg.
Jack moved into the foyer, closing the door behind them, and I could see the lines of strain around his mouth, even though he was trying very hard to keep his smile in place. “Melanie, since I didn’t get the chance to formally introduce you the last time we were here, I’d like you to meet Emmaline Amelia Pettigrew. Emmaline, I’d like you to meet my . . .”
He paused, as if unsure what to call me, and I couldn’t blame him. “Friend,” I interjected, feeling the unusual need to help him. It was very clear to me that Jack was completely out of his league with this woman-child.
“Melanie Middleton,” I added, and stuck out my hand, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
The girl stepped under the foyer chandelier and I got a better look at her. Despite the heavy black eyeliner, bright red lipstick, teeny-tiny denim skirt, and pink Converse high-top sneakers, I could tell she was very young, maybe thirteen or fourteen. She also had beautiful black, wavy hair and startling blue eyes that left no doubt as to her relationship to Jack.
Ignoring my hand, she snapped another bubble with her gum. “Nola,” she said. “My real name’s Nola.”
I dropped my hand and looked at Jack.
“We just received her birth certificate from California, and it seems she was officially named Emmaline Amelia. Apparently she’s always been called by a nickname.”
Nola crossed her arms across her chest and she wore an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a smirk, and I knew enough to brace myself. “Mom always called me Nola because I was conceived in New Orleans, Louisiana, when she and this guy were drunk off their asses.”
Jack spoke through gritted teeth and I had the fleeting thought that I should be enjoying this a lot more than I was. “Like I said, her name is Emmaline Amelia and she’s been living for the last thirteen and a half years with her mother in Los Angeles.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. There was a whole story behind those words that he’d have to share with me eventually. But not now. An almost imperceptible tremor shook the girl, and her knuckles were nearly white where her hands gripped a ratty backpack. And there was something in her take-no-prisoners stance, in her bravado, that didn’t ring true. Something sad and lonely and scared. Something that reminded me of the young abandoned girl I had once been.
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