Return to Tradd Street

  I turned to look, along with the tourists, at the lovely homes that had welcomed visitors and marauders alike to the Holy City for nearly two hundred years, expecting to see the specters of the old residents. But the piazzas and windows were empty and still, like an unfinished painting.

  The tour guide continued. “In addition to the wartime history of the Battery, there’s a seedy history, too. Dozens of pirates were hanged from oak trees and gallows in the early seventeen hundreds and left dangling for days. This was to deter other pirates from entering Charleston Harbor. Many people still believe that there is sunken treasure just waiting to be discovered in the waters.”

  My gaze strayed toward the spot where the gallows had stood, and where I’d once been able to see the twitching bodies of doomed pirates swinging for eternity.

  “Still nothing?” Sophie asked quietly.

  I shook my head, my frustration sprouting wings of apprehension.

  She was silent for a moment. “Have you had a chance to figure out if your ghost is Charlotte or Camille?”

  I met her eyes. “Not yet. Whoever it is doesn’t like my saying their names.” I shrugged. “It’s a little scary when I can’t see them coming.”

  “But you’re probably more scared of what they might tell you.”

  I began stretching my own quads, suddenly eager to begin. “Do you want to walk the boardwalk on the waterfront and then head down East Bay Street?”

  “Come on, Melanie. It’s me you’re talking to. What is it that you’re so afraid of?”

  “You’re almost worse than my mother, you know?” I tried to laugh, but couldn’t. “It’s just the feeling I get that they’re . . . waiting.”

  “Who?”

  “All the ghosts in the house. Camille/Charlotte—or whoever she is. And Louisa, and my grandmother. And I think Nevin might be hanging around now, too.”

  She was silent for a moment. “What do you think they’re waiting for?”

  I blurted out the words that I hadn’t realized I was thinking before I’d said them. “For me to see. It’s like they’re as frustrated as I am. I get the feeling that they’re waiting for me to see more than just ghosts.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “Well, this pregnancy is good for you in more ways than one.” She began walking across the park toward the walkway that edged the harbor along East and South Battery.

  I rushed to follow her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re a lot more insightful than you were before. It’s sort of poetic, don’t you think? How you can see things better in your head now that you can’t see ghosts.”

  I hated that she was always right, but I was already too winded to argue. We walked almost the entire length of the park before I’d managed to regulate my breathing enough to ask a question.

  “You can tell me what you found out about the Vanderhorsts now. I’m walking.”

  She glanced over at me and something she saw made her slow her pace. “I went back to the college’s archives on the Vanderhorst house, where I’d found that postcard from Camille to her mother about the dining room table, and I was right. The friend she mentioned is Charlotte Pringle. It might not be the same Charlotte, but that’s the same name as John’s second wife.”

  “Charlotte and Camille.” I gasped from exertion. “It certainly gets a little more interesting if both wives knew each other.”

  Sophie’s voice was steady, as if she were sitting in a rocking chair instead of pounding the pavement. “You could ask them. That’s worked before.”

  “I’m just not sure I can afford more replacement windows or chandeliers. Not to mention that I can barely hear the spirits anymore. The voices I’ve been hearing since our trip to the museum have begun to sound like an AM radio—lots of fading in and out, and filled with static. Besides, I need to get my mother to be with me, and she’s a little preoccupied.” I took a few deep breaths. “What was the context of the mention of Charlotte’s name?”

  When she looked at me she was grinning, as if she’d been waiting for me to ask. “Charlotte was traveling with them, apparently. Yvonne might be able to dig up more information, but Charlotte was Camille’s childhood friend. It wasn’t that unusual for friends and family to accompany a newlywed couple on their extended honeymoon.”

  “Awkward,” I said, borrowing one of Nola’s favorite words. We descended the steps that led from the boardwalk, then walked across the street to the sidewalk in front of the stately houses facing the harbor that I’d once called money-sucking pits. It wasn’t that I no longer considered old houses to be like holes in the ground into which their owners shoveled their hard-earned money, because no matter how much one loved antique architecture and creaking floors and warped doors, there was no denying that they were like a downtown parking meter, always requiring an influx of money.

  But now when I looked up at their elegant facades, their painted blue porch ceilings and overflowing window boxes, their tall windows with wavy glass and hand-hewn pediments, I could sense the passage of time and the weight of years these houses and their inhabitants had witnessed. In my own house I’d begun to awaken to the pitter-patter of little feet running down the halls, and I could imagine the house smiling. It’s like a piece of history you can hold in your hand. Maybe I was finally beginning to understand what Mr. Vanderhorst had been trying to tell me.

  Just as we reached the line of houses in pastel hues known as Rainbow Row, we turned around and began walking back the way we’d come. We were silent for a long time, our thoughts churning in rhythm to our steps. The sidewalk was uneven and I had to focus more on my feet than the houses, which didn’t stop me from attempting peeks at the windows to see whether I could catch a brief glimpse of a ghost. Finally I faced Sophie, my thoughts focusing on something she’d said. “What did you say Charlotte’s last name was?”

  “Pringle. Charlotte Pringle. Why? Have you heard it before?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes, I’m pretty sure I have. I don’t remember where, but it’ll come to me.”

  We’d reached the pavilion where we’d started, and I was surprised that I wasn’t as out of breath as I had thought I’d be. I sat down while Sophie dug the water bottles from her backpack. She handed one to me, then pulled out something else. “Wasn’t sure if you’d gotten around to reading your own copy yet, but thought I’d show you mine just in case.”

  I peered over the bottom of my bottle to see the Sunday edition of the Post and Courier. I almost spit out my water. “I can’t believe I forgot that came out today. This pregnancy has turned my brain to mush.” I reached for the paper. “How bad is it?”

  “As an impartial observer, I don’t think it’s bad at all, but you might freak out a bit. It’s only a single column, since they’re apparently running three serial stories simultaneously. But there’s a nice picture of you at the cemetery.”

  I slapped the paper across my legs and began thumbing through it until I found the right page. The picture under the headline showed me in all of my pregnant glory, my hair looking like somebody had rubbed a balloon on it to give it static, and my expression was a definite scowl. They’d cut Thomas out of the picture completely, not realizing that leaving him in it would have been the only thing saving the photo from being classified as wretched. “Why did they even bother to put this in there? To make people hate me?” I read the headline and groaned. “Nevin Vanderhorst Speaks from Beyond the Grave.”

  For a moment, I thought that Suzy Dorf had managed to overhear the voice that had spoken to me at Magnolia Cemetery. Flattening the page on my lap, I began to read:

  On a rainy and cold Tuesday morning, the Charleston County coroner’s office exhumed the remains of Nevin Vanderhorst at the request of New York residents Irene and George Gilbert. After months of legal delays, their claim to be Vanderhorst heirs is about to be put to the litmus test.

  Present at the exhumation was the current heir apparent, Melanie Middleton. In Lust, Greed and Murder in the Holy Ci
ty, an upcoming book by Charleston resident and debut author Marc Longo, Mr. Longo hints at the possibility of help from the “other side” that may have assisted Ms. Middleton in attaining her current status as heir.

  Although reluctant to be interviewed, Ms. Middleton did speak a few words at the exhumation, defending her position by saying that Mr. Vanderhorst was a kind old man and she allowed him to believe what he wanted to believe to make him happy. Whether or not that included telling him that she saw his late mother in the garden will never be known, as one of the witnesses won’t say and the other one can’t.

  When asked about Ms. Middleton and her affinity for old houses (she lived for several years as a child at the Prioleau house on Legare Street), Middleton family friend and author Jack Trenholm would comment only that Ms. Middleton’s “thoughts and feelings are rarely shared with even those closest to her, including herself.”

  The results of the DNA tests on Mr. Vanderhorst and the remains found in the foundation of his house are expected to take a few months, and will not be announced until after the first of the year.

  As for Ms. Middleton, all she would say when asked whether she would fight the Gilberts if their claims turned out to be legitimate was, “The Gilberts and I both want the truth.”

  But what the truth might be remains to be seen.

  I looked up at Sophie, resisting the impulse to shred the entire newspaper. “I’m not sure who I should kill first—the journalist or Jack.”

  Sophie steadied me with her professor look. “Did she write anything in the article that wasn’t true?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “And did Jack say anything that wasn’t true?”

  “Of course not. I mean . . .” My mouth worked as if I were speaking, but nothing was coming out. “Well, it was his opinion, I suppose, however misguided it is. People are going to think I’m some sort of adolescent who is afraid of her feelings.”

  I glanced up at Sophie, hoping to see a look of compassion and understanding. Instead, she continued to regard me with her professor look, the one that prodded a student who had given a partially correct answer and was still working on figuring out the rest.

  I folded up the newspaper as best I could, then handed it back to Sophie. “I’ve got to go. Jack and Nola went out to brunch, so I’ve got the house to myself. I’d like to start organizing all of the gifts in the nursery, and sorting the children’s books alphabetically by author on the little bookcase my dad made.”

  After taking a final swig of my water, I stood up. Sophie hadn’t moved, her expression unchanged, her arms crossed over her still-small chest. “You know, Melanie, one day you’ll realize that all of life’s problems can’t be solved by immersing yourself in spreadsheets and perfectly organized drawers.”

  I forced a smile. “Yes, well, it’s all I know how to do.” I swallowed, my throat thick. “Do you want a lift?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. I think I’ll call Chad and see if he wants to meet me at goat. sheep. cow. I’m craving cheese in the worst way.”

  I gave her a quick hug to hide my teary eyes. “Okay. Say hi to Chad for me.”

  “Will do. Have fun with your organizing.”

  I’d already started walking away and gave a quick wave to show that I’d heard her. I walked briskly to my car, trying to fake pep in my step, because I knew she was watching me. I made it all the way to my driveway before I realized I was crying and had no idea why.

  CHAPTER 23

  I smoothed down the red maternity dress, noticing how it fit much more snugly than when my mother had purchased it for me only a few months before. I’d resisted wearing it, but it was Nola’s Christmas play and I wanted to look festive. I wore my mother’s diamond pendant earrings that, according to her, would draw the eye upward, away from my expanding girth. As I stared at myself in the vestibule mirror, I knew it was like planting flowers in the window boxes of a burned-out house so nobody would notice it needed painting.

  “I do like you in red.”

  I turned toward Jack’s voice, ready with a retort, but the words stuck to the inside of my mouth. He was walking down the stairs wearing a dark suit and red tie, his face freshly shaven, his hair combed and tamed. Even his shoes gleamed like the star on top of a Christmas tree. I could only hope that standing next to him, I wouldn’t be noticed.

  He stopped in front of me, smelling nicely of soap with a hint of cologne, and I resisted the impulse to lean toward him like a thirsty giraffe spotting an engorged creek. “It’s been so long since I wore a tie that I can’t seem to get the knot right. Can you help?”

  I took a step forward, glad that my belly created just enough of a barrier so I couldn’t melt into him. “I used to do this for my dad every morning, so I’m a bit of an expert.” I didn’t tell him that I’d had to learn to knot a tie because my dad’s hands were never steady following his nightly benders. Jack already knew this about me, and there was something comforting about that, knowing he would never judge me, or my dad, because we shared the same demons.

  Ever since the column in the Post and Courier had come out, I’d been avoiding him, leaving for work early, and returning only after I knew he was at his condo writing, or out with Nola or friends. If Nola was home alone in the evenings, I made it a point to sit down and have dinner with her—even if it meant I was forced to share a vegan meal—but most of the time I found myself a shadow in my own house. My anger at him for telling the reporter that my “thoughts and feelings are rarely shared with even those closest to her, including herself” had faded to a slow burn, then disappeared completely when I’d finally accepted that there may have been some truth to his words. But I continued to avoid him so I wouldn’t have to actually acknowledge it.

  I also didn’t want to give him an excuse to move back to his condo. The windows had been replaced at a cost that still made my eyes sting when I thought about it, but I felt safer having him so near. There had been no more big incidents like shattering windows, but I couldn’t help but feel as if I were sitting on a fault line, knowing that it was a matter of when and not if the angry spirit would make her presence known again.

  I felt his eyes on me as I undid his tie and reknotted it, moving slower than necessary as I kept brushing his neck with my fingers, pretending I wasn’t doing it on purpose. When I was finished, I stepped back to admire my handiwork, eventually lifting my gaze to meet his.

  “Like what you see?” he asked evenly, without even a hint of a smirk.

  “It’ll do.” I stepped back, then slid my purse over my shoulder. “Let’s hurry—I don’t want to be late. It’s open seating, and I hate to think of our parents lying across the front pews to block other people from getting our seats.”

  He chuckled at the mental image. “Personally, I think a well-placed look from either of our mothers would suffice. Not to mention being intimidated by Cooper in dress uniform.”

  I walked toward the door, waiting for him to open it for me.

  “Don’t you need a coat?”

  “It’s pretty mild outside. Besides, these babies have made me into a little furnace. I swear they’re burning logs in there, because I can’t seem to cool off. I actually had to take off my nightgown to sleep last night.”

  He pulled open the door, and I welcomed the cool air on my face. “Be still, my beating heart. The mental image is doing all sorts of wonderful things for me.”

  I turned to face him, our noses almost touching as we stood in the doorway. “Really, Jack? I’m as big as a house.”

  “Really,” he said, his tone so suggestive that I felt as if two more logs had been thrown onto my internal stove.

  I pressed my fingers against my temples while I waited on the piazza as he set the alarm and locked the door.

  “Mellie?” His voice was full of concern.

  “I have a headache, that’s all. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  Jack’s eyebrow lifted, and I fleetingly thought to ask whether he’d considered pate
nting the look. “I have a remedy for sleeplessness, and it works quite well if you’ll recall.”

  “So does General Lee, and his snores are softer.”

  “I don’t snore,” he said, his voice low. More seriously, he asked, “So, what’s wrong?”

  I looked at him, surprised for a moment that he hadn’t heard the noises, too, until I remembered that much of what happened in my house was for my benefit only. “I hear footsteps all night long. From little feet, as if small children are racing up and down the hallways and stairs. It’s not scary—at least, not until I remember the baby being bricked up in the foundation. Then it just makes me sad. When I get to that point, I hear the baby crying again. Even with earplugs, I can still hear it.”

  “You have earplugs?”

  I knew he was trying to distract my thoughts, and I eagerly allowed him. “So that if you fall asleep in my room again I can block out your snores.”

  He leaned in close to me. “I told you, I don’t snore. And if you spent more time with me in bed, you’d know that.”

  A cool breeze swept dead leaves across the marble floor of the piazza, making me shiver despite my overheated internal temperature. My temples throbbed and I pressed my fingers against my skull in an attempt to make it stop. “Dr. Wise said I could take a Tylenol, but I really hate taking any medication. I was just wondering if I should anyway.”

  “If Dr. Wise says it’s okay, then maybe you should.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s all right. I’ll be fine. It’s only a couple of hours, right?”

  He sent me a dubious look, but held out his arm for me. “My mother carries an entire drugstore in her purse, so she’s bound to have something if you change your mind.”

  As he helped me into the van, he paused. “Mellie, if I say something to you, will you promise not to be mad?”

  I frowned at him. “What are we—still in high school?”

  His eyes widened like those of a judge in a spelling bee, waiting for the correct answer.