The Strangers on Montagu Street (7 page)
Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
I began to walk down King Street toward Market, and Nola followed. I had almost two hours before my next appointment, and even though I liked to spend my mornings coordinating my BlackBerry with my other two calendars I kept for backup, I figured a chat with Nola was overdue.
I turned to her. “I’ve got a little time right now, so I figured I’d show you a bit of Charleston. If you don’t mind the walk, I thought we’d go to the open-air market. It’s kind of touristy this time of year, but there are some pretty neat local vendors and handcrafted items you might enjoy.”
Nola shrugged and I took that as a yes. We continued walking past the windows of the small boutiques and chain stores along King Street, but I kept my gaze focused straight ahead. I didn’t want to be distracted by the tempting displays or from my real reason for taking a long walk with Nola.
Although the temperature was only in the high seventies, the humidity hovered around ninety percent, and I could feel it in the way my skirt was beginning to stick to my legs. I glanced over at Nola and saw beads of perspiration on her upper lip, her heavy makeup beginning to run. I reached into my purse and pulled out a neatly folded tissue before handing it to her. Frowning, she stared at it for a moment before taking it and pressing it against her cheeks. “It’s so frigging hot here,” she said.
I refrained from mentioning that it wasn’t even summer yet, or that she wore too many clothes for the climate. I also didn’t comment on her choice of words. I figured all that could wait for later. Instead I said, “I know you took the money from your father’s wallet.”
Her steps didn’t falter and she didn’t look at me, but I saw her shoulders go back as if preparing for an assault. “So?”
At least she hadn’t denied it. Still, I hadn’t been raised by an army father for nothing. Despite his battles with alcohol, I’d been raised by the strict military code and still adhered to it. “It’s stealing. There are two things I won’t tolerate and that’s stealing and lying. Don’t do it again. Do you understand?”
She didn’t say anything, and when I stopped walking, she stopped, too. “Do you understand?” I asked again.
She met my eyes—something I hadn’t expected—and replied, “Yeah. I get it.” There was still defiance in her words, but there was relief there, too. “It’s stuffed under my pillow. I’ll give it back.”
I thought for a moment that she wanted to say something else, but when she didn’t I said, “Good,” and continued walking. “I’m glad we understand each other.” I knew the conversation wasn’t over, but I also knew that she wasn’t ready to continue just yet. And if I wanted to get to the bottom of why she’d taken the money in the first place, I’d have to bide my time. There was more than just stealing involved, something I’d been convinced of when she’d met my eyes and told the truth. Her resemblance then to the young me had been uncanny, and I couldn’t help but want to give her a second chance.
We reached the covered open-air market that stretched between Meeting and East Bay streets, where long tables were set up displaying wares for the throngs of tourists in their kaleidoscope-colored T-shirts. The pungent scents of horses, from the nearby tourist carriage barns, and cooking food mingled in the air like new neighbors still trying to get to know each other.
The rumor was that the market had once been a slave auction house, but that was just something made up for the tourists. The land had actually been donated in the late eighteenth century for a food market, and while its wares had changed over the years, its purpose had not. I generally avoided it because, slave market or not, it was filled with the spirits of Charlestonians both past and present.
We strolled slowly through the crowds of people until Nola paused by a table displaying the traditional sweetgrass baskets. A woman whose black skin had been baked by the sun into the color of dark coal sat in a chair behind the table weaving a basket in the time-honored tradition passed down by the generations of women in her family. A middle-aged woman sat next to her, watching carefully as Nola picked up a tiny basket only slightly larger than my hand. She held it up to get a better look, studying the intricately woven blades of sweetgrass done with such skill that the beginning and end of each blade disappeared into a seamless weave.
I smiled at both women before turning to Nola. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? These baskets are part of the local Gullah history brought over with slaves from West Africa. Dr. Wallen takes some of her classes on a field trip to Edisto Island to see how they’re made. She says there’s a direct correlation between the making of these baskets and the restoration of the old houses here in the city. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I do love these baskets.”
Reluctantly, Nola put the basket down and prepared to move on. I noticed again the ratty condition of her backpack and the frayed rubber of her Converse sneakers and made the educated guess that she didn’t have much spending money. In a move that I can only call impulsive, since I rarely did anything without advance planning, I picked up the basket and held it out to the younger woman. “How much is this one?”
“Seventy-five dollars,” she said as she stood and moved to the edge of the table to face me. “All made by hand.”
The price was high, and I could tell by Nola’s quick intake of breath that she thought so, too. But I figured any kid who’d had the guts to get on a bus and take it to the other side of the country to live with strangers needed a little something to call her own.
“I’ll take it,” I said, drawing my wallet from my purse. The woman quickly processed the transaction and placed the basket in a plain white paper bag before handing it to Nola.
Nola kept her arms crossed in front of her, pressing the Palm Avenue shopping bag against her chest. “It’s not mine,” she protested.
“I got it for you,” I said, taking the bag and pressing it into Nola’s hand. “It’s a welcome to the Lowcountry. Besides,” I added, as I drew her away from the table, “I’m going to make your dad pay me back.” I winked at her, eliciting a small smile, and began walking again.
We passed tables of beaded jewelry and homemade perfumes, wreaths made of twigs and dried marsh grass, and individually wrapped bags of candied pecans and peanut brittle. Never one to pass up sugar, I bought one of each and held one up to Nola.
She shook her head. “No, thanks. It’s probably made with real eggs and lots of sugar.”
I took a bite of peanut brittle, savoring the burst of sweetness on my tongue. “I certainly hope so.”
“How can you put that stuff into your body?” she asked with disgust as I took another bite.
I swallowed with a smile. “Very easily, thank you.”
As Nola paused at a booth selling hand-carved wooden animals, I broached the next question. Gently, I asked, “Why did you take the money from the wallet?”
She picked up a statue of a sleeping cat and moved it up to her face to study it closely. “I needed to buy something.”
“You do know that you can ask your dad for money, right? Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he’s a pretty reasonable and fair-minded guy. I don’t think he’d be a pushover, but he’d listen.”
She continued to study the cat, turning it over and running her fingers over the smooth, dark wood. “I know.” She placed the cat gently on the table, keeping her eyes averted. “That’s not the problem.”
I frowned, not understanding until I saw the stain of pink rise on her cheeks. “Oh,” I said, unsure how to continue. “You needed . . . female things?”
She gave a short nod, followed by a shrug.
I placed my hand on her arm and gently led her away from the table. “I think he could handle it, Nola. He’s not as clueless as he looks.”
That brought another slight upward turn to her lips. Still, she wouldn’t meet my eyes as she turned to walk back in the direction we’d come.
I followed. “He’s your father, Nola. No matter how embarrassing you think it would have been to ask him, it would have been better than stealing the money.”
She stopped so suddenly that I nearly ran into her back.
The hand clutching the two shopping bags turned nearly white. “My mom never had money for that stuff, so once a month I took a bus to a different town and stole what we needed. I figured paying money for it would be better.” She turned and continued walking.
It took a moment for her words to sink in, and then I had to jog in my high heels to catch up. “Look, Nola. Let’s go to Trellis Pharmacy and we’ll get you everything you need, okay? Even makeup. But don’t ask me to buy you any black eyeliner. You’ve got the most beautiful blue eyes, and nobody can see them with all that black goo smeared around them.”
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered in a look I was already beginning to recognize as defiance, and I cut her off before she could speak. “You can keep the red lipstick for now if you like. Just get rid of the black eyeliner.” I’d work on ditching the lipstick and multiple earrings later.
Her expression didn’t change as she spoke. “If you’re not trying to hook up with Jack, then why are you being so nice to me?”
Her question brought all kinds of thoughts to mind—like why she was referring to her father by his first name, and how somebody so young could know so much about circumspect adult behavior.
I took a deep breath and met her eyes. “Because you remind me a lot of somebody I used to know.” Before she could ask any more questions, I started walking. “Come on; the store’s not too far.”
She shrugged and fell into step beside me, and we walked in silence for several blocks before she spoke again. “Mellie?”
I didn’t register surprise that she was not only calling me by my first name, but that she was using my nickname, because it occurred to me that it was the first time she’d addressed me directly.
“Yes?” I replied, keeping my gaze focused straight ahead.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, forcing my smile to remain small. And as I turned to look at her I caught our reflections in the front window of a store as we passed by, seeing the unmistakable image of a third woman following closely at our heels. I stopped, turning abruptly, and found myself staring at nothing at all.
CHAPTER 4
I
had just finished discussing the menu for that night’s barbecue with Mrs. Houlihan—which included tofu burgers and baconless baked beans served on a separate table so unsuspecting guests wouldn’t accidentally eat any—when I heard a tapping on the back kitchen door.
had just finished discussing the menu for that night’s barbecue with Mrs. Houlihan—which included tofu burgers and baconless baked beans served on a separate table so unsuspecting guests wouldn’t accidentally eat any—when I heard a tapping on the back kitchen door.
I stood to let my mother in, along with a blast of hot air. Despite the heat, my mother barely glowed with perspiration and carried with her the scent of flowers. She closely resembled a more refined, albeit brunette, version of Dolly Parton, with the same enviable proportions. If not for the fact that I closely resembled her in almost every other way, including our ability to communicate with those no longer living, I would have demanded my DNA be checked.
She kissed me on both cheeks and that’s when I noticed the yellow rose in her hair.
“Nice flower,” I said as I closed the door, then led her out of the kitchen. Mrs. Houlihan was very protective of her domain, and when it was time to get to work you didn’t want to get in her way. General Lee remained on his bed in the corner, his eyes trained on the housekeeper, hoping to catch a stray scrap.
“Thank you. An early-morning gift from your father and his garden.”
I didn’t bother to ask her what my father was doing at her house in the early morning, because I really didn’t want to know. Although they’d been divorced and estranged for over thirty years, their budding romance might have actually been sweet if it weren’t for the fact that they were my parents.
As my mother followed me into the front parlor, she asked, “Are you expecting the ladies from the Historical Society for tea or something?”
I sat down on the sofa while my mother took the Queen Anne chair opposite. “No, why do you ask?” I began to pour coffee from the tray Mrs. Houlihan had brought in earlier while I’d been doing paperwork at my grandmother’s desk. Amelia had found the desk at an estate auction, and my mother had given it to me. It gave me no small comfort to sit at it to go through mail or pay bills and feel my beloved grandmother with me, despite the fact that with her phone calls I never felt that she was that far from me anyway.
My mother made a point of studying my heels, white linen dress, and Grandmother’s pearls before responding. “Are you wearing that for a barbecue?”
I handed my mother a cup of black coffee on a saucer while I filled my own cup with four sugar cubes before filling it, making sure to leave enough room for cream.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? The hem’s not hanging out, is it?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t you have, oh, I don’t know, a pair of skinny jeans or something? Something that would make you look young and hip, maybe a little sexy?”
I tried to pretend that my mother hadn’t just used the word “sexy” in a sentence directed at me. A thumping beat began to reverberate throughout the house, followed shortly by two slamming doors and then the sound of water being forced through old pipes.
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