The Strangers on Montagu Street (21 page)

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Authors: Karen White

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

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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Nola and I exchanged a look as Jack smiled back. “May we come in?”
Distracted, Dee finally stepped back. “Oh, of course. Where are my manners? Come in, come in. She’s in the library. Let me show you in and I’ll go fix some tea.”
We followed her into a large alcove and waited while Dee closed the door behind us. The first thing I noticed was the ornate furniture and heavy dark wood everywhere. And where there wasn’t dark wood on the cantilevered ceilings, stair balustrades, furniture, or walls, the fabrics and paints were all in matching somber hues. We passed through the alcove into a huge foyer dominated by a wide staircase that wound its way up to the upper levels in a box design. The maroon-colored runner and thick, nearly black banisters and spindles did nothing to lighten the space; nor did the small lamp burning on a hall table. A stained-glass window, nearly covering the wall at the first landing, let in little light through the intricate pattern that was almost completely obscured by dirt on the outside.
We passed by what looked like a drawing room, the forest green velvet drapes closed against any encroachment of light, and a music room with a grand piano featured prominently in the center. I remembered what Alston had said and wondered whether this was the piano where she’d once taken lessons.
“OMG.” Nola had stopped in front of the music room. “It’s like I’m inside my dollhouse, and it’s freaking me out. I mean, everything’s the exact same—even the wallpaper. Except it’s not peeling off the walls like it is here.”
She was right. It appeared that the house had been built and decorated around the turn of the last century and not touched since. Except for the addition of electricity and, I hoped, modern plumbing, the house was perfectly preserved to show life as it was over one hundred years ago. On closer inspection, I saw that the rugs sported bare patches, the wood floors missing pieces of the inlaid patterns, the paint flaking, the wallpaper drooping or missing in spots. The last time I’d walked into a house in such dire need of restoration I’d ended up owning it. That thought alone almost made me run screaming into the street. Instead I followed Jack and Dee, assuming Nola was close behind.
At the end of a short corridor, Dee slid open a pair of pocket doors and stepped back, waiting for us to enter. We blinked at the sudden brightness after such solemn darkness in the rest of the house. Three large windows, each arched at the top like frowns, went from the floor to the ceiling. Part of the wraparound porch was visible through them, and I wondered whether the windows slid open to act as doorways. From the stale smell of dust and something else I couldn’t identify, it was apparent the windows hadn’t been opened in a very long time.
When my eyes adjusted I tried to take in the rest of the room, and had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. The room was large and round in a rear turret not visible from the street. Shelves lined the curved walls, apparently intended for books but now filled with . . . Santa Clauses? I took a step closer to one of the shelves, where a jolly Saint Nick wearing a red velvet suit and matching hat stared jovially back at me. There were hundreds of Santas—sitting, standing, riding various animals and sleighs. All had the same face, with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and noses with pink tips. I remembered Dee’s paint-splattered clothing and wondered whether she might be responsible for some of the ceramic craftwork.
“Miss Julia loves Christmas,” Dee explained. “It’s sort of become my hobby.”
I nodded, taking in the miniature decorated trees that sat on every available surface, the paper cutout snowflakes strung from the ceiling, the snowmen figurines clumped together in family groups.
“Miss Julia?” Dee said, and I turned my attention to the far side of the room. The woman was very old, and very small, which was probably why I hadn’t seen her or her wheelchair when I first walked in. She was dressed all in charcoal gray, her white hair and very pale face in stark contrast. Her dark eyes, almost black, looked back with surprising alertness. She was bent over nearly in half, her chin bobbing as she tried to look up at her visitors.
Jack stepped forward first, then knelt with one knee in front of her wheelchair so she wouldn’t have to strain her neck. “Miss Manigault, I’m Jack Trenholm. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He held out his hand and she placed a small, knobby hand into it. “Are you the writer?” she asked, her voice strong and clear, a smile forming on her wrinkled lips.
“Yes, actually, I am. Have you read my books?”
She smiled up at him and fluttered her eyelids, and I wondered whether she might actually be
flirting
with him. “Every last one of them. Dee here goes to your signings to get me autographed copies. I’ve been waiting for quite a while for your next book. It had better be soon, as I don’t think I can wait too much longer.”
Jack’s own grin dimmed somewhat. “It’s in the works right now. I’ll bring an autographed copy personally, if you’d like.”
She practically beamed at him, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
I stepped forward and leaned down over the wheelchair. “I’m Melanie Middleton. I believe you knew my mother, Ginnette Prioleau.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my dear Ginnette. What a voice! Has she come with you today?”
“She couldn’t make it, but promised to come by another time.”
“Did you inherit any of her singing talent?”
“No,” Jack answered before I could, eliciting a frown from me.
“And this is . . .” I turned around for Nola, but saw she wasn’t there.
“Why don’t you two take a seat and I’ll go get tea and find out what’s keeping the young lady,” Dee said before leaving the room.
We eyed two gothic-style armed chairs, one with splotchy red velvet, the other a dark brown horsehair with a healthy collection of dust. A small sofa in the room, covered in heavy brocade and draped in lace doilies, sat against a wall. We were considering our seating options when the sound of piano music glided into the room.
Jack and I looked at each other. “Nola?” we said in unison.
Dee reappeared. “I think I found her.”
The music grew in volume and insistency, and for a long moment we stayed where we were, listening. It wasn’t the grunge or heavy-metal music I heard from her bedroom or from the radio when she got in the car before me and changed the station. This was . . . beautiful, haunting. It reminded me of the melody of the song I’d heard Nola singing in the shower, and I wanted to simply stay where I was and listen for as long as she would play.
“Dee,” Miss Julia commanded, the strength of her voice once again surprising me. “I want to see who’s playing.”
Dee moved behind the wheelchair and pushed Miss Julia out of the room, Jack and I following close behind. We paused in the doorway to the music room, taking in the scene of the young girl seated at the grand piano, her fuchsia sneakers the only bright spot in the room with burgundy walls, thick brocade drapes, and closed venetian blinds. Her face was devoid of the usual cynical grimace or blank stare, both replaced by an almost single-minded attention to her fingers as they glided over the ivory keys of the old piano. To my amazement, her cheek lifted into what I was pretty sure was a small smile.
Something brushed my leg, and I looked down to find a shaggy dog sitting on its haunches staring up at me, his ears cocked as if listening to the music. I bent to scratch him behind the ears, just like General Lee liked me to do, and it was as if by moving I broke the spell. Nola’s fingers crashed down on the keys, the notes colliding together in a cacophony of sound.
She looked at us with the eyes of a person just awakened from a dream. She blinked slowly, taking in Dee and the woman in the wheelchair, and then Jack and me. “That was totally weird,” she said. “I just saw the piano and it was like it wanted me to play it.” She thought for a moment. “The one in the dollhouse plays, too, but it only has twenty keys.”
I didn’t know what surprised me more: the fact that the dog seemed to have vanished under my hand or that Nola had counted the keys on the miniature piano.
Jack stepped forward, his eyes uncertain. “Nola, that was incredible. I had no idea you could play or sing, and the music itself . . .” He stopped next to his daughter and seemed to consider something before speaking. Softly, he asked, “Did your mother write it?”
Her expression changed as if she’d been struck. She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time, realizing that this was the father who she believed had abandoned her and her mother without a second thought. She stood abruptly, the bench teetering behind her.
“No,” she said quietly, her gaze frantically moving from one face to another. “No!” she said again, louder this time.
“Sweetheart.” Jack took a step toward her, his arms outstretched.
She sidestepped him, her eyes wide with panic and something that looked a lot like fear. “No,” she whispered as she raced past us and out the front door.
“I’ll get her,” Jack said as he walked quickly past our little group huddled in the doorway. He followed Nola through the front door as I turned to Dee and Miss Julia.
“I’m so sorry about that, Miss Manigault. I have no idea what that was all about—”
Miss Julia cut me off. “What dollhouse?” she asked, her words low and deep.
“It’s a dollhouse that looks just like this house. It was a gift to Nola from her grandparents. We think it might have belonged to somebody who once lived in this house. . . .”
“Get out,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I was sure I’d misheard.
“Get out,” the old woman said again, louder this time.
“I don’t under—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Middleton,” Dee said, her face serious. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
“I just wanted to ask about the dollhouse,” I persisted. “Do you know whether—”
“Get out!” the old woman screamed at me.
Her face wore two dots of pink on her cheeks, reminding me of the Santa Clauses in the library.
“All right,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’m sorry to have upset you. I really am.” I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, the sunshine from outside illuminating the shaggy dog sitting next to the wheelchair again. “Good-bye,” I said, closing the door behind me.
I ran down the steps, feeling the nape of my neck prickle. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, I turned around and looked up at the turret window. The same man I’d seen before stood there, with the same empty sockets for eyes, the same pale face. Except this time his thin lips were pulled away from his teeth in an awful smile, grinning down at us as if he were glad to see us go.
CHAPTER 13
 
I
worked silently in my bedroom at my mother’s house, using my labeling gun to sticker the new bins I’d stacked in my temporary closet, absently wondering whether I should organize my shoes alphabetically by designer, by season, or by type. I paused every once in a while to see whether I could hear anything from Nola’s room, each time being met with silence. It had been that way since we’d returned home and she’d escaped to her bedroom, not even being tempted out of it by a soy burger or glazed doughnut.
Jack had stayed outside her door, pleading, cajoling, apologizing, threatening, and apologizing again until he’d also reverted to silence. At my insistence, he’d left, but only if I promised to call him if she came out of her room.
The clock showed it was midnight. My parents were out again—doing what, I had no idea—and although I had an early-morning showing the next day, I couldn’t go to bed knowing that Nola was still awake and miserable.
When I was a young girl, my grandmother would bring me hot cocoa before bed and talk about my day with me. Despite the haphazard relationship between Nola and me, I realized I had no other source of inspiration or ideas, and that it couldn’t hurt to try to open up some sort of communication avenue. Or just make her feel good. I didn’t know whether there was such a thing as vegan cocoa, but we’d just have to make do.
Placing my labeling gun on my nightstand, I headed for the door. As my hand touched the doorknob, a small knock sounded from the other side. Relieved that Nola must be feeling better, I threw the door open and started in surprise when I saw Jack standing in the hallway.
Throwing one hand over my mouth, I used the other to grab his arm and pull him inside.
“Wow, Mellie,” he said as a dimple deepened in his cheek. “Your eagerness to get me into your bedroom is flattering.” His eyes slowly swept over me, returning to my face with a satisfied look of appreciation. Belatedly, I realized I wore a nearly sheer summer nightgown that my mother had given me after the air-conditioning on the top floor had lost its cooling power and we’d been left to suffer for a few days until the repairman could come and fix it. It was almost like sleeping naked—something I’d never done—but gave the illusion of wearing a nightgown.
Quickly crossing my arms over my chest, I backed across the room until I reached my bathroom, where I pulled my thick bathrobe off a hook and threw it on.
Jack looked disappointed when I reappeared. “I liked the other outfit better.”

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