Return to Tradd Street

  “But you’ll have to wash your hands first,” Nola said.

  She said it without any angst or drama, but as the responsible older sister of two small babies. During the pregnancy she hadn’t shown any jealousy toward the two new interlopers, but all of the parenting books Jack and I had read said it would be the natural course of things, and to be prepared to deal with it. We should have known that Nola Trenholm was no ordinary teenager.

  Both girls moved to stand in front of the pram to see the babies.

  “They’re so cute,” Alston whispered.

  “Like fun-size people,” Nola said. “If you make faces at JJ, he’ll smile at you. But if you do it to Sarah, she just stares at you like you’re an idiot.” She grinned. “I can’t wait until they get a little older and we can do stuff together. I’m going to teach them each to play an instrument so we can have our own band. Sarah already sings, so we can harmonize together. We don’t know if JJ sings. He spends most of his time eating or sleeping.”

  Alston leaned into the pram, gently tweaking one of JJ’s small feet clad in socks made to look like blue Birkenstocks. “These are adorable. Where did they come from?”

  I moved aside the blanket so she could see Sarah’s pink ones. “My friend Dr. Wallen-Arasi. She’s a big fan of the real things. She’s expecting a baby girl in May, and I already bought her a pair of socks made to look like black patent-leather Mary Janes with lace around the ankles.”

  Smiling, I stood. “I’ll let the three of you babysit while I go inside and pump some milk for tonight.”

  Alston looked confused but Nola said, “Ew.”

  “Unless you want your grandparents having to deal with two very cranky babies who like only breast milk and who won’t be very happy when they’re fed formula in a bottle instead.”

  With a small shudder, she said, “I’ve learned more about the human reproductive system and childbirth than I think is healthy for a young girl. It’s enough to make me want to become a nun.”

  “That’s a plan,” Jack chimed in.

  “Well, I don’t think Cooper would be too happy to hear that,” Alston said matter-of-factly, until she caught Jack’s expression and began to blush profusely.

  I said good-bye, then left them in the garden under the watchful eyes of the old oak tree, its swing swaying gently.

  I walked through the house to the kitchen and stopped, surprised to see a cup of coffee on the kitchen table. Mrs. Houlihan always left at noon on Wednesdays, and she didn’t drink coffee. Neither thought occurred to me until I was already halfway into the room and felt a presence by the pantry. It was definitely the living, breathing type of presence, because to my knowledge, the dead didn’t drink coffee.

  As I spun to face whoever it was, I fleetingly wished for General Lee’s protection. He could have at least latched onto an ankle long enough to give me ample time to make my escape.

  “Sorry to startle you, Melanie. I was just hoping to find a doughnut to go with my coffee. All I can find is this organic and whole-grain stuff.”

  “Dad,” I said, pressing my hand against my heart. “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”

  “No, sorry. I dropped in unannounced. I used my key—hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. You don’t need an excuse to come visit. If you want to see the babies, Jack’s with them in the—”

  “I know. But I wanted to get you alone first, if that’s all right. I figured if I waited in the kitchen, you’d show up eventually. Growing up, it was always your favorite spot.”

  I walked past him with a grimace. “That’s because I knew I’d always find something in there I liked. Now I have to be a little more creative.”

  I reached behind the plastic containers of flaxseed and granola and grabbed an old familiar paper sack with the beloved grease stains on the sides. “I picked these up at Ruth’s Bakery yesterday, so they should still be fresh.” I put them on a plate, then placed them on the kitchen table.

  “I’m surprised there’re any left,” he said.

  “Actually, I haven’t had any yet. Nola spotted them yesterday after I’d brought them home, and made of point of telling me how many calories were in each one and how much harder it is for women to lose weight after they’re forty. Pretty much killed it for me.”

  He stood and retrieved a knife from a drawer, then cut a doughnut in half before placing one half on a napkin and sliding it over to me; then he took the other half for himself. “You know you’ll always look beautiful to me, and you’ve inherited your knockout figure from your mother. But if you want to lose weight, depriving yourself isn’t the answer. Portion control is.”

  Smiling, I picked up my half and took a bite, chewing slowly and savoring it. It was the first sweet thing I’d had in months, and I wanted to make it last as long as possible. I was enjoying it immensely until I opened my eyes and caught my dad’s expression.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, forcing myself to swallow.

  He looked down at his untouched doughnut half. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Is it Mother? Is she okay?”

  He reached across the table and patted my hand. “She’s fine. We’re fine. Still healthy—nothing to worry about there.” He gave me a weak smile, then withdrew his hand.

  “So what’s wrong?”

  He picked up the mug of coffee, then set it down. “There’s really no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to give it to you straight. The trust is out of money. There’s nothing left.”

  I blinked, trying to get the words to register. “But what about the Confederate diamonds that Jack and I found? There were three of them and all very valuable. Surely . . . ?”

  He slowly shook his head. “I sold them. I consulted with a financial adviser—at your suggestion—and he advised that I sell the diamonds and invest in what we both agreed at the time were good solid stocks that were expected to triple in value.”

  “No.” I was shaking my head, trying to make all of this go away. “No,” I said again, as if repeating the word might make it true.

  “That was about the time that the market crashed. I was able to salvage some of it, but with all the repairs, it just completely wiped out the rest.” My father seemed diminished all of a sudden, his military bearing completely deserting him. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Sorry is so completely inadequate. I thought I was being so careful, seeking professional advice. And then . . .”

  “It’s not your fault, Dad. And I was the one who told you to consult with the adviser, and I agreed with everything he said. It was just bad timing.” I stood and got a drink of water from the tap, but I still couldn’t wash away the horrible taste in my mouth.

  “Your mother and I talked about selling her house, but she bought it at the top of the market and nobody’s willing to pay what it’s worth right now. And she can’t get a second mortgage because it’s worth less now than what she paid for it, so she hasn’t built any equity.”

  “Dad, stop. I would never ask Mother to sell her house. This is separate—something I need to deal with. Somehow. We just put Jack’s condo on the market, and although it’s not the right time to be selling a condo in the French Quarter, we can take a loss on a sale if we really find ourselves cash-strapped. But I’m going back to work next week, and Jack’s book just sold at auction for a really nice advance. We finally have an income again. We’ll be fine. And hopefully all the major repairs are behind us.”

  My words seemed to have no effect on him. “That’s all well and good, Melanie. But there’s something else to consider.”

  I sat back in my chair, mentally bracing myself. “What?”

  “The Gilberts. The DNA evidence doesn’t look good for you, sweetheart. If they want this house, and the legal system says it’s theirs, then you lose. But I met them. They’re a great couple, really nice, but I didn’t get the impression that they really wanted to uproot their family and move to Charleston. But what’s theirs is theirs. Unless . .
.”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you wanted to buy them out.”

  I was silent for a moment, understanding finally dawning on me. “But now I don’t have the money to do that.”

  “No,” he said, choking on the word, and for a horrible moment I thought my father would start crying.

  The grandfather clock chimed in the front of the house, the sound somehow unbearably sad. “Daddy?” I said. I suppose in moments of crisis, we all revert to our childhoods, when questions usually had answers. “What am I supposed to do?”

  He stared into his coffee mug for a long moment before looking at me. “The DNA evidence tells only part of the story. Maybe the rest of it will back you up. You just need to find out what it is.” He shook his head as if he were arguing with himself. “I know your mother is coming here tonight, and I can guess why. Just do whatever it takes to get the whole story.”

  My eyes widened in surprise. “Are you saying that you believe us now?”

  “I believe,” he said, stabbing his index finger into the top of the table, “in anything that will fix this and make it right for you. Just do what you need to do.”

  A mewling cry of a newborn came from the monitor sitting on the kitchen counter. He looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. “I thought the babies were outside.”

  “They are.” I watched as his gaze followed the cord to where the plug had been pulled out of the outlet.

  “Is there a battery in there?”

  I shook my head. “It died and I haven’t had a chance to replace it.”

  He turned back to me, and our gazes locked. Finally he stood, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Just do what needs to be done.”

  I watched him let himself out the back door while the crying of the baby suddenly stopped, replaced by a heavy silence. And then in a deep, hollow voice that had no heartbeat behind it, a single word: Mine.

  CHAPTER 31

  After Amelia and James had left with the babies, and Alston’s mother left with the girls, I collapsed on one of the white wicker rockers on the front porch, barely able to breathe.

  Jack climbed the steps to the piazza and stopped in front of me. “The babies will be fine with my parents, Mellie. They already have one great success story behind them.”

  I couldn’t even smile. “My dad was here earlier. He was waiting for me when I came inside.” I swallowed, promising myself that I was going to keep it all together. “He came to tell me that we’re broke. If it comes down to us having to buy out the Gilberts, we can’t.”

  He sat down in the rocker next to me. “I know.”

  I met his gaze, happy to let anger sweep over my feelings of helplessness. “You know? But how? And how could you not tell me?”

  He expelled a deep breath, making me wonder exactly how long he’d been holding it in, waiting for me to find out. “Right before the babies were born, Rich Kobylt came to see me. He said your father’s check to him had bounced, and he was wondering if maybe I could help with getting him his money. I went ahead and paid him, then went to see your dad. He told me the whole story.”

  I stood up quickly, too angry and restless to sit down and rock. “But you didn’t tell me! It’s my house, Jack. Didn’t you think I should know?”

  “You were on bed rest, Mellie. I told your dad to wait until after the twins were born before he told you. He’s waited this long because he’s been talking to people to see what can be done. He’d hoped to bring you good news.”

  I slapped my palm against the porch railings, making the skin sting. “Great. Is there anything else you’ve been holding back from me?”

  “Sit down, Mellie. Sit down so we can talk.”

  Slowly I turned, my stomach suddenly queasy. “Why? There’s more?”

  He reached out his leg to hook onto my rocker and pull it closer. “Sit down, and we’ll talk.”

  Instead I leaned back against the piazza railing and crossed my arms over my chest, trying to make myself look as if I were in control, even if I didn’t feel it. Especially with him looking at me that way, the fading light making his eyes seem darker. “Just tell me.”

  “Fine,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m going to tell you what I think is the real story of this house and how it came to be yours. I think you need to hear this first before you decide what you’re going to do next, all right?”

  I gave him a reluctant nod.

  He continued. “Anytime you think what I’m saying contradicts the facts, let me know. But I don’t think that you will.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “So much of what I’m about to say seems circumstantial, but when you put it all together, it starts to make sense,” Jack said softly, as if he could imagine my mind working to see past the obvious to only what I wanted to see. “I think that Camille Vanderhorst gave birth to twin boys in March 1860. One died, either as a stillborn or shortly afterward, and was buried in the foundation, since, as we know, work was being done to the house at the same time.”

  “But why would they hide the body? Why not just have a funeral and bury it in the family mausoleum in Magnolia Cemetery?”

  “Because there was a third baby.” He paused, letting me absorb what he’d just said. “Not a triplet, because even though all three babies shared the same father, this third baby had a different mother than the twins.”

  “But who . . . ?” I stopped, beginning to understand where his story was heading.

  “Charlotte was Camille’s best friend, and joined the newlyweds on their honeymoon. When they returned, Camille was pregnant with twins, although it’s likely she didn’t know there was more than one baby. What if John strayed while on his honeymoon and Charlotte was pregnant, too? Charlotte—as an unmarried pregnant woman—could have gone into seclusion—maybe even at the mental hospital where her father saw patients—to hide the pregnancy. It’s been known to happen.”

  I was shaking my head. “But Bridget Gilbert said she heard the healthy cry of Cornelius’s brother, William. She saw the baby.” My fingernails bit into my palms, helping me to focus. I needed to prove that he was wrong. I had to.

  “Bridget saw only what they allowed her to see, Mellie. Charlotte’s baby might have been close by. She might have been living in a nearby house, set up as John’s mistress, right under Camille’s nose. Charlotte was in the room, assisting with the birth. When the first baby was born, and it wasn’t breathing, she must have seen her chance. Somebody—it could have been John, or Charlotte, or even her father—made the decision to switch babies, and hide the body of the dead child so nobody would know.”

  “Wouldn’t Camille have known it wasn’t her baby?” I protested. “I look at Sarah and JJ and I know in my heart that they’re mine. I could have picked them out in a nursery with hundreds of babies—by their smell, their expressions. What they look like. A mother knows these things, Jack. You can’t just plop any baby in a mother’s arms and tell her it’s her baby.”

  He watched me in the soft light of late afternoon, his eyes sympathetic. I wished I’d sat down, as he’d asked me to, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of sitting down now. Gently, he said, “Camille died in a mental institution. Maybe that’s why people thought she was crazy—because she didn’t believe the baby everybody said she’d given birth to was hers.

  “Think, Mellie. Think how simple it would have been back then. Dr. Pringle, perhaps a family friend or at least a well-compensated one, has Camille committed to an asylum for psychosis. It would have been easy to call a mother crazy who denies her own child.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. How would that kill her at only twenty-one?”

  Our eyes met with mutual understanding. Oh. My mouth formed the word, but nothing came out.

  Jack continued, his voice soft. “Camille was young, and a year before her death she was writing to her mother about a dining room table and what a lovely time she was having on her honeymoon. It’s hard to imagine a
young woman with so much to live for dying so soon from psychosis.” He paused. “Unless it wasn’t from that. Charlotte’s father signed the death certificate. He was a well-respected physician, so no one would have questioned him.”

  “No, Jack. No. That’s murder. They were best friends.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, unfortunately. Think how much Charlotte stood to gain. She would be the wife, a mother to a son being raised as the legitimate heir, the mistress of this beautiful house. In 1861, that was a lot better than being her friend’s husband’s mistress.”

  When I didn’t say anything, he continued, his voice still soft and cajoling, as if he needed me to understand what he was saying as much as I didn’t want to. “I believe that’s why Camille didn’t start haunting until her baby’s remains were found. She’d finally found out what had happened to her babies. To both of them.”

  I couldn’t stand any more, so I sat back down in my rocking chair. Jack tried to take my hand, but I brushed him away.

  “Mellie, it all makes sense. Nevin Vanderhorst is the direct descendant of Charlotte’s illegitimate son, whom they named William after passing him off as John and Camille’s baby. George Gilbert is descended from Cornelius, one of two legitimate sons born to John and Camille, but given away because of his physical deformity. If he had not been given to Bridget Gilbert, and was brought up here with his biological parents instead, this house would rightfully belong to his heirs.”

  “But inheritance laws don’t work that way anymore,” I protested, seeing a glimmer of hope. “How can they claim something that I inherited in good faith?”

  “Because if they contest Nevin Vanderhorst’s will in a court of law, the court could decide in their favor because they are the legitimate heirs. They have Vanderhorst blood. You don’t, and you inherited it from somebody whose bloodline was illegitimate. And whose very existence on the family tree might be due to murder.”

  “This is the twenty-first century. What jury wouldn’t understand that things are done differently now?”

  “It’s a matter of a jury’s sympathy for the victims—in this case poor Cornelius and his heirs. Seemingly unwinnable cases have been won in the past for just that reason.”