Return to Tradd Street

  I scrolled down past a picture of the house—my house—and then a photograph of the Gilberts, presumably with their two teenage sons. I glanced up at Thomas, then returned to the article, feeling like a motorist gawking at a train wreck. Except I was the one who seemed to be pinned in the wreckage.

  Inside the trunk Mrs. Gilbert found a lace-and-linen baby’s bonnet, as well as an apparent deathbed confession from a Bridget Monahan Gilbert dated 1898. Miss Monahan had been in service at 55 Tradd Street before moving to New York, and what she claimed she was asked to do by the family she worked for sent Mrs. Gilbert on the hunt for clues in a mystery taken right out of a Jack Trenholm book.

  I tried to scroll down farther but there was nothing else. “Where’s the rest of the article?” I asked, my voice high with panic.

  Thomas looked at me apologetically. “I’m afraid that’s it for this week’s installment. I don’t think the next one is even written yet—Ms. Dorf is waiting to see how things develop. They’re apparently making it into a serial over several weeks—or longer, depending on my investigation and what we turn up. And what happens with the ownership of the house. Apparently, the whole series is about old Charleston families and their houses—so the story could take years if it needs to, and she can just fill in the weeks where there’s nothing going on with the case with stories of other families.”

  I reached up to the scarf around my neck to loosen it, only to realize that I wasn’t wearing one. “So I have to wait for who knows how long while my name is dragged through the muck. She’s making it seem like I was the instigator here, strong-arming Mr. Vanderhorst into leaving me his house.”

  “I suggest you call her and give her your side of the story so it won’t sound so biased. I would also get a lawyer.”

  “That’s what Jack said, too.”

  “Then we both have your best interests at heart.”

  “I’m not sure I need one. I’d like to think we could just talk it out like reasonable adults.”

  He didn’t say anything right away and a shiver of apprehension tightened my skin. “I think you need to get a lawyer now, because the Gilberts are requesting a court order to exhume Mr. Vanderhorst to extract DNA.”

  I sat up, indignant. “What will that prove?”

  Again, he paused. “Perhaps nothing. But they want to compare the DNA with Mr. Gilbert’s to prove that they’re related.”

  “And I need a lawyer to block them?”

  “You probably won’t be able to do that. But a lawyer will know how to stall them—at least until you know where you stand and can build your own defense.”

  I slumped back in my chair. “Maybe he can help me claim bankruptcy. I can’t imagine that article will send sellers flocking to me.”

  Thomas smiled softly. It was a Jack smile, but without the zing that always left my heart singed. “You’d be amazed how people react to things. I bet buyers will be ringing your phone off the hook come Monday. You’re obviously a Realtor who gets results.”

  “I used to be, anyway,” I said, rubbing my belly as it let out a loud growl.

  “Hungry?” Thomas asked.

  I nodded. “I couldn’t face more than saltines this morning.”

  “Can you handle eggs? Sometimes pregnant women can’t stand the thought of them.”

  “I could eat about a dozen right now. Preferably with bacon, biscuits, and gravy.” I tilted my head. “How do you know so much about pregnant women?”

  “I have three sisters, with twelve kids between them. I know so much about pregnancy and child development that I feel as if I’ve been pregnant myself.”

  I laughed, the article momentarily forgotten, and I eyed him gratefully. “So where can I get some eggs?”

  He stood and walked behind my chair. “I happen to make a mean omelet, and my condo is right over on Bay Street, if you don’t mind my bachelor mess.”

  I hesitated, eyeing my computer and notepad. “I really need to work. . . .”

  “But you’re hungry, and you’re eating for two.”

  “Three, actually.”

  His eyes widened in comprehension. “Wow. Congratulations.” He even looked as if he meant it. And he didn’t run screaming from the room.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Because I like you. You’re . . . different.”

  “Quirky?” I asked, not sure how I wanted him to answer.

  “Yeah. In a good way. And I’d like to get to know you better.”

  “Even though I’m pregnant?”

  He chuckled. “What can I say? I love kids. Ask my nieces and nephews who their favorite uncle is. So how about those eggs?”

  My stomach growled again as he pulled back my chair and I stood. “Only if you don’t mind cooking.”

  “I love to cook. My mother and my sisters made sure I knew how, so that some poor woman would want to marry me one day.”

  My smile matched his as I thought of his sisters teaching their gorgeous brother how to cook—as if he’d need a skill to attract women. He put his hand on the small of my back and led me to the door of my office, then paused.

  “So you and Jack . . .”

  “We’re not a couple.”

  He seemed relieved. “But . . .” His gaze traveled to my belly.

  “Yes, he’s the father. And he will want to be very involved in his children’s lives.” I thought of Jack buying the minivan and I had to suppress a wistful smile. “But beyond that, there’s no attachment.”

  Thomas drew his head back. “So he didn’t offer to marry you when he found out you were pregnant?”

  I sighed and leaned against the door. “He did. But I turned him down. He was only doing it because he thought it was the right thing to do. He doesn’t love me, and I didn’t want duty to be the only reason he’d marry me. So I said no.”

  He was regarding me very closely, like I imagined he would examine a crime scene to make sure no evidence was overlooked. “How do you know he doesn’t love you?”

  My smile faltered. “Because when I told him that I loved him, all he said was that he was sorry.”

  “Ouch,” he said. His gaze met mine. “Do you still love him?”

  Yes, I wanted to shout. But then I looked into Thomas’s hopeful face and knew that if I was serious about moving on, I couldn’t tell him the truth. “I don’t know,” I said instead.

  “Good,” he said, opening the door and allowing me to go first. “So at least I have a chance.”

  I led the way out of my office, thinking about chances and wondering why his words had suddenly made me feel so sad.

  CHAPTER 12

  I walked down the garden path of my mother’s Legare Street house and passed the blooming crape myrtles and boxwoods, the scent of the tea olive trees flitting through the leaves and blooms like a ghost. This had been my grandmother’s house, the only place as a child where I’d felt as if I were truly at home. Grandmother Sarah had been dead since I was a little girl, but her presence here was as palpable as the humidity that permeated the city for much of the year. Grandmother had once told me that if I stayed out of the sun I’d have good skin, since the humidity would always keep it moist. I was almost glad that she couldn’t see me now. Or was at least keeping quiet on the subject.

  “It’s twins, isn’t it?” my mother asked before I’d even reached her where she sat at the wrought-iron table near the hummingbird feeder my father had given her for Christmas.

  I sighed. It was impossible to keep anything a secret from my mother. As much as I’d missed her during my childhood, I also realized that having a psychic mother during one’s teenage years could have been a distinct disadvantage.

  I slipped my purse from my shoulder and set it on one of the chairs. “Jack and I are hosting a barbecue at my house on Saturday with his parents. We were planning on telling you all then. Can you at least pretend to be surprised?”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said with a smile.

 
I sat down, noticing a small packing box on the ground, strips of old masking tape pulled up and curling around the edges. “What’s that?”

  “Your baby clothes.”

  I stared at the box, surprised at its very existence. My mother had disappeared from my life when I was six, and my nomadic life with my army father meant that we traveled light, leaving little room for anything as sentimental as baby clothes.

  “Where did you find them?” I asked.

  “Wherever I’ve called home, I kept the box in my closet so that I’d know where it was. In case you ever needed proof that I hadn’t forgotten you.”

  I blinked, hoping the sting in my eyes was from something in the air. “So why now?”

  “I figured you didn’t need any more proof. But I thought you might want to go through it and see if there’s anything you’d like for the babies. There are blankets and bonnets, and a couple of smocked dresses that your grandmother made for me when I was a little girl. I’ve always thought that old clothes are a lot like old houses; they bring the past and present together.”

  My eyes met hers, and I could see that hers were damp, too.

  She continued, her voice soft. “For a long time I didn’t wash them, wanting to be able to smell you whenever I pressed my face into one of the blankets. But then I realized that they’d be better off if I had them cleaned properly before storing them. They all look to be in perfect condition.”

  I rubbed my eyes, wishing the sting would go away. “Have you gone through it all?” I bent to pick up the box, but my mother stopped me with her gloved hand.

  “I’ll do that. You shouldn’t do any lifting, even if you don’t think it’s heavy.”

  “Mother . . .”

  She gave me a look that brooked no argument. I wondered whether I’d be learning how to imitate it in the very near future, or if it was a natural gift given to all mothers.

  She lifted the box and set it on the table. After opening the lid, she took out several layers of tissue paper, then began gently placing articles of baby clothing on top—dresses and other outfits in soft pinks and pastels, cushiony blankets, a tiny bathing suit with bright polka dots and a large bow, and a bag full of plastic barrettes and other hair accessories.

  I held up the bag. “Were these mine or Sophie’s?”

  “Definitely yours. You were as bald as a bowling ball until you were well past three years old. Even when you wore pink dresses, people thought you were a boy. So I improvised. Sadly, what hair you had was so fine that most of the barrettes and headbands just slid from your scalp. I will admit to using tape to affix a bow on a couple of picture-taking occasions.” She sighed. “I just didn’t want you to feel less about yourself because of what a stranger or photographer might say in a careless comment. I knew that you would grow into your looks. And I was right.”

  My eyes continued to sting as I stared at the bag, not remembering the little girl my mother spoke about. Not remembering a mother who wanted to protect her child. I cleared my throat. “Hopefully at least one of the babies is a girl. But maybe she’ll get Jack’s hair. Don’t tell him I said so, but he’s got the most gorgeous head of hair I’ve ever seen on anybody.”

  My mother smiled gently. “Your secret is safe with me. But if the children look like their mother, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, either.”

  Embarrassed, I dug into the bottom of the box and pulled out a large, hard-sided book with a spiral binding. A pink bunny with bows on its ears and chewing a carrot decorated the front cover. “What’s this?”

  “Well, it started as your baby book, but after I left, it became more like a scrapbook of all of your accomplishments.”

  I opened up the front cover and found tucked inside a piece of cardboard with two impossibly small footprints stamped in the middle. “Mine?” I asked, forcing the single word past my tight throat.

  “Yes.” She reached over and turned the page, where a small curl of hair, held together with a tiny pink bow, was taped to the paper. “And this is hair from your first haircut. You were four and a half and didn’t really need it, but all of your friends were getting theirs cut and I didn’t want you to think that you were being left out.”

  I touched the curl gently with my index finger, marveling at how fine it was, and how light. “So I was a blonde.”

  “Most babies are. Jack wasn’t. He was born with a head full of thick, dark hair.”

  “Of course he was. And he probably smiled at the nurse and dimpled, and she brought him extra milk.”

  My mother laughed quietly as I turned another page, this one full of pictures of me in this very garden and house, sitting on a swing or a bench, and one in the middle of the fountain, completely naked. These were photos I’d never seen, had never known even existed—photos with my grandmother and parents, and with little friends whose names I could no longer remember.

  I pulled the album closer, examining a scene at the beach. I appeared to be about five or six, and there was a younger, dark-haired little boy sitting in the middle of a sand castle—or what remained of one—while the younger version of me had her hands on her ruffled hips and looked as if she were trying very hard not to cry. Behind me, lying on the sand, was a collection of sand-castle building tools, all placed in a deliberate, neatly spaced row.

  “Some things never change, do they?” my mother said, leaning over to look at the photo.

  “That’s Jack?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Of course. Look how much enjoyment he’s getting from sitting in the middle of your sand castle.”

  I shook my head. “When I met him a few years ago, I didn’t remember knowing him when we were children.”

  “Despite Amelia and me being such close friends, our lives were so different that we didn’t have a lot of time to spend together once we had children. And then I left. . . .” She took a deep breath. “Amelia’s parents had a house on Edisto, and we took you and Jack a couple of times. We didn’t do it a lot, because the two of you seemed to enjoy tormenting each other. Made the experience more trying than relaxing.”

  Some things never change, do they? I wasn’t sure whether I should be appalled or amused.

  The photographs ended when I was about six years old, and the last pages of the book were filled with old newspaper clippings from my high school and college graduations, and then from my real estate ads. “You collected these?”

  “I had friends clip them and send them to me.” Leaning forward, my mother pointed at my picture from one of the more recent ads. “I’m glad you’re not wearing your hair like that anymore, Mellie. It wasn’t a good choice.”

  She was right, of course. I’d only wished she’d been there to tell me before I’d gotten the haircut.

  “Mother?”

  She looked at me, her eyes glowing. “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you’re here now. I have no idea what I’m doing, and no idea how to be a mom. So I wanted you to know that I’m thankful beyond all reason that you are here to show me the way.”

  Putting her arms around me, she said, “I’m trying to make up for all the years I wasn’t here for you. I didn’t expect you to give me twin grandchildren to give me the opportunity, but I’m glad just the same.”

  She hugged me tightly, and I was tempted to remain there for a very long time, at least until all of my fears and anxieties about encroaching motherhood had dissipated to a manageable level. But that could take years.

  Slowly she pulled away. “Did you bring the christening gown?”

  I nodded. “Against my better judgment.”

  “Mellie, we have to figure out the truth before the Gilberts do. We have access to this gown and they don’t. Let me help. Please.”

  “If this is from some misplaced sense of guilt—”

  She cut me off. “It’s not misplaced. Besides, I’m your mother. Let me help.” She started putting the baby clothes back into the box. “Let’s clear off the table first.”

  I hesitated, then began foldi
ng the little dresses and sweaters. When we were finished, I reached into my purse and pulled out the gown, now wrapped in a clean pillowcase.

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea. We’re meeting with Yvonne tomorrow and can find out who Susan Bivens is. . . .”

  “And that’s all well and good,” my mother said. “But she can’t tell you who sent it to you. Or who it belongs to.”

  I carefully placed the pillowcase on the table and began to unroll it, revealing the old linen gown little by little. We stared down at the small garment for a long moment.

  “Have you shown this to anybody else yet? Detective Riley?”

  I shook my head. “Only Sophie’s seen it. But I told Jack about it. We were going over questions to ask Yvonne and he mentioned the bonnet. I thought it was important that he know that both were made by the same seamstress.”

  “Good. This is our secret weapon for now, so the fewer people who know about it, the better.”

  She sat down, then indicated the chair next to her. I sat, too, then held out my hand.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to take any chances with the babies. If I’m mentally prepared—and I am now—and I focus on the message instead of the surprise, I can handle it. Having you nearby will help, too, as well as being here in your grandmother’s garden. Together we are stronger than any spirit.”

  “Are you very, very sure?” She had been back in my life only a short while, and I was unwilling to let her go again so soon. I leaned closer to her, realizing with a bit of a shock that she actually looked even better than usual. Her eyes sparkled, and her skin gleamed. Even her cheeks appeared rosier. Despite the outward appearances, I had to make sure for myself. “Jack told me that Dad had to bring you home last night after you touched the Gilberts’ bonnet.”

  The color in her cheeks deepened, and I recalled what Sophie had said about my father now practically living in this house. Even though they had once been married long enough to have a child together, the thought was still a bit unsettling. They were my parents.

  I sat back in my seat. “Yes, well. You do seem completely recovered. So if you’re really, really sure . . .”