The Strangers on Montagu Street (39 page)
Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
“Relax, Mellie,” my mother said for the third time, her eyes closed, as if she could sense my tenseness. “This is supposed to be fun, remember?”
“Yeah. So is bungee jumping, but you don’t see me doing that, do you?”
Ignoring my response, she said, “Your contractor, Rich Kobylt, stopped by earlier.”
I groaned. “What now?”
“Oh, come now, Mellie. It’s not always bad news.”
“From him, actually, it usually is.”
“Well, not this time. He said his workers and all their equipment will be removed by eleven o’clock this morning and won’t return until Monday. That should give the caterers plenty of time to set up and clean up without getting in the way of the construction workers. Rich even wrapped a black tarp around the uncovered foundation to make it easier on the eyes, and Nola and Alston have volunteered to decorate the tarp for the party.”
I sat up suddenly, earning a tight squeeze on the wrist by the manicurist. I sent her a look of apology before turning back to my mother. “Please tell me you gave them some parameters on what it should look like.”
She actually looked affronted. “I did no such thing. They’re very creative girls, and I’m sure whatever they come up with will be fine—and certainly better than staring into the dusty hole beneath your house. Now, stop worrying and relax.”
The manicurist pried my index finger off the armrest to slap on another coat of polish while I made a conscious effort to rest my head on the seat back.
“Anyway,” my mother continued, “Rich said that it’s safe to use the kitchen entrance to gain access to the downstairs bathroom for guests. We will also have two discreetly hidden high-end Porta-Johns for the gentlemen at the back of the garden. I won’t bother to mention what Chad and Sophie suggested we do instead for a more environmentally friendly solution.”
My head jerked up again.
“Don’t worry; I told them no. Besides, your father would never consider that for his garden. Nor do I think it’s legal.”
Feeling my jaw beginning to ache, I forcibly relaxed it and rested my head again on the back of the chair.
“Rich did mention something about the pipes he uncovered, but he said he’d wait to talk to you about that later.”
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the image of large amounts of cash flying out the windows of my Tradd Street house, and a tarp-covered foundation as the backdrop to my fortieth birthday party. I’d suggested we have the party in my mother’s garden instead, but both she and my father had dissuaded me, saying that it would mean more to me to have the party at my own house: the house that I’d brought back to life in more ways than one. Just because it was empty of furnishings and the foundation was torn up wasn’t enough reason to move venues, according to them. Besides, my father insisted, it would be a testament to his skills as gardener to transform the workspace into an art form. I hadn’t been allowed into the garden to see what he’d done, but from the puffed look of pride he gave me every time I asked, I imagined it was something good.
There was a tap on the door, followed by Sophie sticking her head around the corner. “Is it safe?”
I grinned. “Come on in. But if you stay too long, my mother will have you crimped and painted and stuffed into some hooker dress before you know it.”
My mother frowned at me while I tried to surreptitiously study Sophie’s figure for any sign of a bulging abdomen. Rebecca’s dreams about a baby had me curious, but not curious enough to ask Sophie outright and embarrass her. And me. I figured if she were expecting, she’d tell me. I could only hope that if it were true, I’d be one of the first to know. I was still smarting at the indignity of finding out about her engagement with everybody else. Being BFFs—as Nola called us—should mean priority notification.
Sophie caught me looking and held her arms out. “You like it? It’s a tablecloth I found at a garage sale, but since I’m so handy with a needle and thread, I thought it would make a cute summer dress. I found this piece of rope in my trunk and voilà! I had a belt.”
I kept the smile on my face as I took in the red-and-white-checked pattern of the fabric, the stitching done with multicolored thread—presumably leftovers from previous jobs that she didn’t want to waste—and the deep scissored vee for the neck and armholes. I couldn’t imagine even ants at a picnic finding it appealing. Unfortunately, it also fit like a belted tablecloth, making it virtually impossible to ascertain whether she was actually female, much less pregnant.
Luckily, I was spared a response when Nola appeared behind her. I glanced at the small Meissen clock on my mother’s dressing table. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Miss Julia’s right now?” She’d been going about three times a week, at her own suggestion. Jack had been too surprised and happy to question her motives. I remained suspicious.
“Dee Davenport called and canceled, and also wanted me to tell you that Miss Julia won’t be at the party tonight.”
Sophie held up the newspaper. “And I think I know why.”
The manicurist glared at me as I tried to reach for the paper. Sending her yet another apologetic smile, I said, “You’re going to have to read it to me.”
Sophie opened the paper and then folded it over to the section she needed. Clearing her throat, she read:
Human remains of two individuals, thought to be a male and female, have been found by a Cobb Homebuilders construction crew during the clearing at Belle Meade plantation in Georgetown County. There is no indication how long the bodies have been there, but preliminary reports indicate they are not recent burials. No headstones were immediately apparent.The remains were discovered behind the ruins of the main house that burned in 1938 from a lightning strike. All construction has been halted until it is confirmed that there are no further bodies buried in the vicinity and the remains are identified and reinterred elsewhere.
Sophie crumpled the paper as she lowered it. “That’s the property you said Julia Manigault is selling to Cobb, right? I actually picketed the place before the judge ruled in the developer’s favor, and didn’t even realize it was hers. But I’m guessing the news isn’t sitting well with her right now.”
Nola sat on top of my mother’s bedspread, almost jumping up and down with excitement. “I bet one of those environmental groups moved some bodies just to stop the construction. I mean, everybody’s seen
Poltergeist,
right? Who wants to live in a house that used to be a cemetery? You get all those spooky people coming out of your closet and then green slimy stuff dripping down your walls.” She turned to me, her eyes wide. “Why don’t you go out there and talk to those dead people and find out who they are?”
Poltergeist,
right? Who wants to live in a house that used to be a cemetery? You get all those spooky people coming out of your closet and then green slimy stuff dripping down your walls.” She turned to me, her eyes wide. “Why don’t you go out there and talk to those dead people and find out who they are?”
Both the manicurist and pedicurist stopped in midbrushstroke and turned in unison to look from Nola to me and then back again.
I forced a laugh. “Right. Like that wouldn’t scare me to death. Besides, I think those kind of special effects are only in the movies.” I shot her a warning look. “Anyway, my mother’s got me booked for the rest of the day for various procedures.” Glancing over at my mother, I asked, “What’s next on the agenda?”
“Well, I wanted you to try on your dress one last time to see whether any small alterations need to be made. I actually thought we could sew a little more... bulk in the bodice area to fill it out a bit more.”
“I’d be happy to do it for you,” Sophie volunteered.
“No, but thank you,” my mother and I said in unison.
While my mother pretended to cough, I said, “I appreciate it, but I think we’ve got it covered. All I want you to do is get yourself dressed, and then you and Chad come to the party and have fun.”
Her face sobered. “But I
am
dressed for the party.”
am
dressed for the party.”
If crickets had been present, we would have heard them chirping.
“Kidding!” she said, earning a howling laugh from Nola and a relieved sigh from both beauticians and my mother. “Sorry—couldn’t resist. I did get a party dress. Not as hot as yours, but Chad likes it.”
That did nothing to reassure me, but it had to be better than a tablecloth. “Great,” I said, smiling. “I’ll see you later, then. Thanks for bringing the newspaper or I might never have known.”
“I know. That’s why I brought it.” She placed the rumpled copy on top of the bed. “Come on, Nola. I’ll drop you off on Tradd Street so you can finish your mural.” Turning back to me, she said, “Wait till you see it. It’s awesome.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I smiled anyway. “Can’t wait!”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see the manicurist pushing me back against the seat. “Try to relax, Miss Middleton. It’s more enjoyable that way.”
Pressing my head into the cushion, I said, “This is as relaxed as I get.”
I heard her sigh as she forcibly straightened my pinkie again, then gave it another swipe with the polish brush.
Despite the fact that the distance between our two houses was only a few blocks and we could have been driven by my father, my mother insisted that we have a chauffeured limousine to take the three of us and Nola to my house on Tradd Street. Only Nola’s presence prevented this from being a trial run for my wedding day. Or, as was most likely the case, a substitution.
I could almost smell the scent of flowers through the closed windows of the limo as we pulled up to the curb in front of my house. Unable to wait for the driver to open my door, I rolled down my window, breathing in the perfume of hundreds of summer blooms. There were clusters of them everywhere—on the front gates, atop the garden wall, wrapped around the piazza railings, and dropping from window boxes. An arbor had been constructed inside the garden gates, entwined with transplanted purple clematis, for each guest to walk through. From what I could see beyond the gates, the brick paths and hedges, and even the fountain, showed no signs that a construction crew had been anywhere near the house. Only my bank account knew the truth.
My father sat next to me in the limo, and I reached for his hand and squeezed, knowing he was personally responsible for the transformation. Gardening had become his passion when alcohol had ceased to be, and I’d found the joy it gave him contagious. “Thank you, Daddy,” I said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “I can’t believe you did all of this! It’s just . . . stunning.”
He patted my hand. “I can’t take all the credit, you know. Louisa Vanderhorst planned the rose garden and the fountain, and Loutrel Briggs designed the rest. All I’ve done is clean up a neglected garden and tweak some of the older designs.”
“And raid all the florists in Charleston,” my mother added. “He wouldn’t dream of actually hiring a florist for the party. Insisted on doing all of it himself.” She beamed at him, her face radiating a different kind of passion, and for a moment I was torn between admiring the deepening of their relationship and being nauseated by it. They were my parents, after all.
The chauffeur opened the door and helped me, and my dress, out of the limo. Nola scrambled out next and I looked at her, grudgingly admiring her outfit. She wore a simple Lilly Pulitzer shantung sheath in a pale lilac that set off her complexion and eyes beautifully. Amelia had purchased it for her, but Nola completed the look with the purple Converse sneakers Jack had given her. A gauzy purple scarf was wrapped around her neck, with a big saucy bow tied off center. As my mother had pointed out before, Nola’s style might not be mine, but it suited her, making it a perfect complement to her unique personality.
As the chauffeur helped my mother out of the car, Nola whispered to me, “Who’s Loutrel Briggs?”
I quickly tried to come up with a way to explain who the late, great landscape architect was into words Nola would understand. “He’s a dead guy from New York who designed many of the most beautiful gardens here in Charleston in the nineteen twenties. It’s a big deal if your house has a Loutrel Briggs garden.”
She scrunched up her nose. “What kind of name is Loutrel?”
Looking down at her, I said, “What kind of name is Nola?”
She snorted, earning a concerned expression from my mother as she and my father moved to stand with us as the limo drove away. Nola spotted Alston, who’d arrived early with Sophie and Chad, and ran to join her.
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