The Strangers on Montagu Street (41 page)

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Authors: Karen White

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

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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“Has anyone told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
I focused my attention on Jack again and thought for a moment. “Not in those exact words. But somebody did quote Shakespeare to me.”
He smiled again, his face very close to mine, and I was pretty sure it was the punch that made me close my eyes and lean forward.
“Mellie!” My mother’s voice carried from across the garden as she and my father approached. “Your guests are beginning to arrive. Let’s go welcome them.”
My parents greeted Jack before placing me between them as we turned in unison to greet the first arrivals, my boss, Dave Henderson, and his wife, Robin. I glanced over my shoulder to see whether Jack was calculating what almost-kiss number that had been, but he’d disappeared into the garden, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his cologne and an unsettled feeling somewhere inside me at about the same spot where my plunging neckline ended.
CHAPTER 24
 
D
arkness crept unannounced into my garden. Thousands of twinkling lights had been strung through the crape myrtles and their garnet-hued blooms, around the thick trunk of the large oak, and through all the hedges, creating the illusion of stars in a sky of green. The garden sparkled like a Ferris wheel, my head spinning accordingly as I chatted and laughed and danced, all the while aware of Jack nearby but never close enough.
The band, dressed like members of the Rat Pack, kept dancers on the dance floor all night long, playing standards from just about every decade, representing the wide disparity in ages of the partygoers. Chad was a surprisingly good dancer and happily moonwalked to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” and danced a superb shag with me to the Tams’ “Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy.” The only time the band began to lose dancers was when Nola and Alston put in a request for “Why We Thugs” by Ice Cube. I was the only person over fourteen to actually recognize the song, because I’d heard it played so many times blaring from Nola’s room. To save the day, I suggested ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and sent a triumphant look in Nola’s direction as dancers returned to the dance floor. She responded by rolling her eyes.
Marc asked me to dance twice. His moves were more practiced than natural, but he was an adequate dance partner and certainly nice to look at while I was facing him in close proximity. Both times, Rebecca sought Jack out and brought him to the dance floor. I found I couldn’t look at them, and not because I was afraid of a dance-off between the two couples, but because seeing the two of them was too painful despite the fact that I knew they were no longer a couple. I did look long enough to notice that Jack was a great dancer, with none of the awkward moves most white guys felt compelled to display on a dance floor, and I found myself wishing, just for a moment, that I were the one being twirled under his arm, that it was my waist his hands touched.
Just when I thought I couldn’t eat any more or drink any more punch, the band began playing the familiar and cringe-worthy strains of “Happy Birthday” as an enormous cake lit with an alarming amount of burning candles was brought out on a large tray by two of the caterers and placed on an empty table festooned with Louisa roses from my garden.
I stood before the cake as everyone sang to me, and I looked around at the array of familiar and beloved faces, feeling as truly close to happiness as I’d ever felt. Even the backdrop of my old house with its wounded foundation couldn’t put a ding in that emotion and might, if I’d admit it to myself, actually be contributing to my overall sense of satisfaction.
But as I thanked the people around me and hugged my mother and father, I became acutely aware that despite all that I had to be thankful for, a void hovered somewhere on the periphery of my awareness, like a vague scent that, no matter where I turned, continued to elude me. I’d always known it was there, but had always assumed that once my mother and father were reconciled into my life, it would go away. And although it didn’t seem so dark and deep anymore, it was still there—the thing in the closet I didn’t want to see.
“Are you all right?”
I turned and found myself looking up into Jack’s very blue eyes, and like puzzle pieces my world suddenly slid into focus, with all the lines and curves fitting into their proper grooves. I took a step toward him, and instead of my falling into the abyss, as I’d always imagined, my foot met solid ground as my hands gripped his arms. “I’m fine.” I smiled like a giddy teenager. “I’m great, actually.”
He looked at me strangely. “Because it looked like you were having an out-of-body experience.”
I threw back my head and laughed, bursting with knowledge but unsure what to do with it. “I think I was.”
Reluctantly, I let go of Jack to face the bandleader, who was asking for everyone’s attention again.
“Without further ado, I’d like to introduce Miss Nola Pettigrew and Mrs. Ginnette Prioleau Middleton in a duet to honor Miss Middleton’s fortieth birthday.”
I winced at the public announcement of my age before being propelled forward by the crowd to stand in front of the stage. Nola sat with Bonnie’s guitar across her lap, and my mother stood next to her holding a microphone. A soft breeze in my hair and the distant strums of the now-familiar tune told me Bonnie was near, but I didn’t see her. It was as if she knew this was Nola’s moment to shine in the spotlight, and was content to remain in the shadows. With a hesitant smile in my direction, Nola held the guitar closer and began strumming.
When I recognized “Fernando,” one of my favorite ABBA songs, the tears welled in my eyes. I knew what it cost Nola emotionally to play her mother’s guitar, but to play an ABBA song in public must have been devastating to her.
And then Nola and my mother began to sing, their harmonizing so tight the notes seemed to come from a single voice. The garden quieted as everyone focused on the stage as the music and singers became as much a part of the night as the sky and the moon and the lights that twinkled above us in the trees. A soft hush fell over the crowd as the last note drifted into the darkness and then was followed by a deafening roar of applause and shouts of “Brava, brava.”
I turned to say something to Jack, but he was gone. I looked back to where Nola and my mother were leaving the stage and spotted Nola allowing her father to hug her and kiss her cheek. They gave each other identical smiles and my heart did that squishy thing in my chest again. I tried to walk toward them, but too many people were stopping me to wish me happy birthday and ask about Nola. I could only watch from the corner of my eye as Jack kissed my mother’s cheek and shook my father’s hand before heading out of the garden gate. By the time I finally reached Nola and my mother, he was gone.
I stifled my disappointment as I hugged them. “That was amazing—both of you. And, Nola, wow. I know how hard that must have been for you, which makes your gift that much more special. Your mother would be very, very proud.”
She looked at me and her eyes were wet. “Do you think she’ll move on now? That’s why I did it. I figured if she could see that I was okay, she could move on. I didn’t want to be the reason she’s hanging on.”
I looked into the eyes of this brave and beautiful girl with the unique name and purple sneakers and wondered how Jack had gotten so lucky. “I hope so.”
I stepped back to make room for other guests to congratulate the singers and found myself bumping into Marc Longo. He grabbed my elbow to steady me, and then didn’t bother letting go. He took a sip of amber liquid from a glass and looked down at me. “I saw our friend Jack leave. He must have gotten the news.”
“News?”
“Yeah, about why his publisher is pulling out of his contract.”
Something inside me stilled. “How would you know about that?”
He gave a short laugh, then took another swallow from his drink before giving me a considering look. “Who do you think wrote the book that got his booted out? Think about it—I’m a direct descendant of Joseph Longo. My publisher recognized that I was more bankable, since I have the insider’s take on the whole sordid tale. And it’s got it all—lust, greed, and murder. That’s the title, by the way. Kind of catchy, don’t you think?”
I stared at him for a long moment, the sounds of the crowds around us oddly muted. “You wrote a book about my house and what happened in it, even though you knew Jack was writing one, too.”
His smile was all smugness and self-satisfaction. “Hey, he got the girl. I figured it was a fair trade.”
I was shaking my head, trying to negate everything he was telling me, and thinking he should add the words “deceit” and “prevarication” to the title. “Does he know it’s you?”
Marc finished his drink, then shrugged. “Not yet. But after his conversation with his editor today it should click pretty soon. I don’t think our Jack is going to be very happy with me.” He winked. “Or you.”
“Me?”
With a smirk, he said, “He’s going to think you knew it all along. Seriously, Melanie. I can understand how Jack didn’t figure it out. But you’re a pretty smart cookie. Even he won’t believe that you didn’t know, or at least suspect.”
I wanted to slap the smug smile right off of his face, but I didn’t want to waste another minute. All the pieces were going to fall into place for Jack, and I needed to be there when they did. If he wasn’t drinking already, I had little doubt that this would be the one thing that could send him over the edge.
I turned on my heel, in search of my mother, but the sound of Marc’s laughter made me retrace my steps. “You know why I didn’t want to go out with you again? Because you make love like you dance—like you’ve been practicing by yourself too long, so a partner’s just superfluous.”
He stopped laughing as I rushed past him, spotting my mother by the tree swing and reaching her before she could head toward a cluster of people who were calling out to her. “Mother, I have to leave now.”
“But we’re just serving the cake! What’s wrong? Are you ill? Too much punch?”
I shook my head. “It’s Jack. I think he might be in real trouble and I need to go to him.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Then go. I’ll make your excuses and take care of things here, and I’ll ask Chad to meet you out front to take you wherever you need to go. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I kissed her cheek and hugged her tightly. “And thanks for tonight. I know I complained a lot, but I’m glad you did it.”
“You’re welcome. I just hope that it made up a little for all the birthdays I missed.”
I kissed her cheek again; then I left the lights of the brilliant and fragrant garden behind me, stepping out into the darkness to find Jack.
 
It was a lot harder driving in my gown and heels than I’d imagined, or I would have changed clothes after Chad dropped me off at my mother’s house to get my keys and purse. I’d been happily ignorant of any knowledge of where Jack spent his time away from me, but now I silently cursed my own stupidity, as if knowing where he was and imagining what he might be doing would somehow solidify or define my feelings for him. As if not knowing had mattered at all.
With surprising clearheadedness, I drove to the one place I knew of—his condo in the French Quarter. The building had garage parking, so I couldn’t drive around looking for his car. Instead, I found a parking spot on the curb a block away and toddled to his building on my high heels. I earned a few admiring glances from male passersby as I concentrated on not turning an ankle, and wished again that I’d thought to change.
Taking a deep breath, I pressed the intercom button and waited for Jack to answer and allow me entry. I waited for at least a minute, until I lost patience and pressed the button again. As I stood there holding my breath, a couple exited the building. Looking appropriately grateful, I pointed at my purse as if to indicate a lost key, then thanked the man as he held the door open for me. Maybe not changing clothes hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
Humming the tune to “Fernando” to still my jumping nerves, I rode the elevator up to Jack’s floor, going over in my mind what my plan B would be if he wasn’t in his condo. Or if he was there and just wouldn’t answer his door. Or if he did actually answer his door. I drew a blank on all three scenarios, wondering how somebody who had her shoes and their monthly polishing schedule on a spreadsheet could show up at a man’s door at nearly midnight without a thought as to what should happen next.

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