The Strangers On Montagu Street Part 7

He pointed at the diamond-shaped inlays on the double-tier top of what appeared to be mahogany wood. "This inlay design is characteristic of Robert Walker. He was a cabinetmaker from Scotland who had a shop here in Charleston. His furniture is very rare and valuable now, and my mother had a very similar piece in her store a few years ago."

I sat back in my chair. "Meaning . . . ?"

"Meaning that if what we're a.s.suming is correct-that the house and its contents were modeled after a real home-then the house was mostly likely in Charleston, and might even still be. That should help us find the original owners and find out whether any of them are still hanging on in the miniature version."

"So no luck tracing previous owners?"

"Not much. Following the sales records, all I've been able to determine so far is that it's been all over the South and spent a year at a house in Boston. The dollhouse doesn't seem to be a favorite with any owner. The longest it's lasted at the same location is a year and a half."

I thought for a moment, remembering the figure of the boy and the broken dog, and could pretty much figure out why n.o.body wanted to keep the dollhouse for very long. "But if the house it's modeled on is still here, why wouldn't Sophie or I recognize it? Between the two of us, we know every single historic house in Charleston, at least by sight. But not this one."

"Well, a.s.suming it wasn't torn down before the Preservation Society got its teeth into the area, it could be disguised. Over the years owners made changes to make a house seem more modern. We've seen Greek Revivals remade into Victorians and vice versa, depending on the current day's style. Our house could be hiding behind a Georgian pediment, for all we know." He slid the sideboard toward me. "I'll let you have this now so you can put it back before Nola sees that it's missing."

"Good idea," I said. "And speaking of Nola, I learned something interesting this week. We were in the car and that new hit by Jimmy Gordon, 'I'm Just Getting Started,' came on the radio, and Nola got pretty upset. Had us change the station even. Said that she'd met him and she didn't like him."

Jack leaned back in his chair. "Did she say anything more? Like how she'd met him?"

"No, actually. She made it very clear that it was a subject she didn't want to pursue."

He tapped his fingers against the desktop. "She and I need to spend more time together. Maybe while I'm gone you can think of something that a father and daughter could do together that would be fun."

I didn't think it would be helpful to point out to him that I had no frame of reference for that sort of thing. My childhood with my father consisted of me trying to keep him sober, or making sure he at least appeared that way.

Jack continued to look at me, but I could tell that he wasn't really seeing me, and I wondered whether he was thinking about Bonnie. Finally, he said, "In the meantime, I'll do a little checking on Jimmy Gordon. Could be he and Nola met through Bonnie, since she was a songwriter. Would make sense, I guess. It's worth checking out, anyway. Anything to get through to Nola would be a help at this point, since nothing else is working."

His voice sounded full of defeat. I didn't want to, but I found myself feeling sorry for him. "How long will you be gone?" I asked gently.

His eyes brightened, and I could tell that the old Jack was back. "Why? Are you planning on missing me?"

I sighed, all sympathy vanished. "No. I just wanted to know whether I should be the one to check back with your mother about the piece of furniture. If you're off somewhere having fun, I wasn't sure you'd remember to call."

He rested his elbows on the chair arms, steepling his hands in front of him. "I'm going to New York, but not for fun. Unless you'd like to come with me."

Again, something stirred in the general region of my abdomen, and I made a mental note to skip the double cream in my latte next time. "I believe I mentioned that some of us are required to work. And have a teenager at home." I sent him a pointed look as I sat up. I spread my hands on my calendar as an indication that I was ready to get back to work instead of ready to drop everything and join him. Which all of a sudden didn't seem like such a bad idea. "Besides, I don't think Rebecca would like it if you and I took a trip together."

His eyes didn't leave my face. "I said nothing about a romantic getaway with you, Mellie. I was merely implying that you could use some fun, and New York with me would be a great way to experience it. I didn't for one moment believe that you would a.s.sume we'd be sharing a room and all that comes with it."

I knew there were flaws in his logic, but I was too busy feeling fl.u.s.tered, because that was exactly what I'd been thinking and he knew it. Without dropping my gaze, I reached out to the phone and pressed a b.u.t.ton for the receptionist's desk. "Can you get me somebody on the phone? Anybody. It doesn't matter."

Jack smirked as he stood. "Don't worry; I'm leaving. I've already spoken to Nola, so she knows where I am and how to reach me. And you know that I appreciate you taking her in and keeping an eye on her." He lifted his backpack onto his shoulder. "Just let me know if my mother turns up anything."

My boss's voice interrupted my mental struggle to come up with a parting shot at Jack's back. "Melanie? Is that you? I don't really think it's my job to be placing phone calls for you."

I froze, staring at the phone as I realized I'd hit the wrong b.u.t.ton. "Sorry, Dave, my mistake," I said in a voice I hoped sounded as groveling as possible. I looked up and saw that Jack had already left, but the sound of his laughter carried down the hall and through my open door.

I recognized Sophie's new white Prius parked in front of my mother's house on Legare Street. She sat on a curved iron bench in my grandmother's rose garden with her left hand held out in front of her as if catching the sparkle of sunlight through her new ring. An unexpected pang of . . . something hit me hard as I watched her. It wasn't jealousy, I knew. I was truly happy for her and Chad and really only wondered what had taken them so long to figure out how perfect they were for each other. I walked quicker, not wanting to have the time to examine my feelings more closely, afraid that the source might be more about lost opportunities and the pa.s.sing of time.

"Hi, Sophie. Were we supposed to be meeting? I don't remember seeing it on my calendars."

She quickly placed her hand in her lap, then shook her head, her wild, unruly curls held off of her face at random intervals with several multihued scrunchies. "Nope. Was driving by and decided to stop in and see if you were home. Your mom and dad said I could wait. They were on their way to Sn.o.b for dinner and then a movie, and told me to tell you that you don't have to wait up."

"Where's Nola?"

"With her grandparents. They were invited to a Lowcountry boil at the Ravenels' house out on Sullivan's Island, and their granddaughter, Alston, invited Nola. They'll bring her back, but it will be late. I have no idea who any of these people are-I'm just repeating what your mother told me. Said it would save her a phone call to you, since she was already running late for her date." Sophie's eyes widened. "I didn't know a woman in her sixties could get away with a plunging neckline, but your mother sure can carry it off."

I didn't want to think about my mother dressing up for a man-my father, no less-so I quickly changed the subject. "Can I sit?"

She moved over to her side of the bench and I settled myself next to her, dropping my briefcase on the ground. "So what did you want to see me about?"

She held up her left hand, the sun making the diamond on her fourth finger shoot sparks of light through all of its prisms. "This."

"Oh." I smiled. "It's beautiful."

"Amelia helped Chad pick it out. You know how big he is on recycling, and he thought an estate piece made more sense than buying something new." She stared down at the antique setting in the platinum band, the intricate design around the round diamond unusual and marking the piece as an antique. "I think it's beautiful just because it's mine, but I'm not really good at being able to tell if something's actually beautiful, you know?"

I tried to reply with a straight face. "Yeah, I've noticed." I took her hand to move the ring in the light. "But it really is stunning. Chad-and Amelia-did a fabulous job."

She placed her other hand over mine and squeezed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I really did want you to be the first to know. Things just sort of . . . got out of hand."

"Yeah, I figured. I'm not upset-not anymore."

Sophie sat back and looked at me. "Really? Because you still have that pinched look around your mouth."

"That what?"

"You know, that look you get when you have an unexpected visitor you hadn't planned on, or some task on your spreadsheet takes longer than it should and messes up everything that follows. Or when you see Jack and Rebecca together. That look."

I concentrated on making my face neutral. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. But I am happy for you and Chad. I knew you were made for each other the minute I saw him. I mean, you're both vegans, and he likes the way you dress. Believe me, he's one of a kind."

Sophie elbowed me. "Yeah, I know." Serious again, she said, "I'm glad you're okay with it, because I wanted to ask you if you'd be my maid of honor."

The unmistakable pinp.r.i.c.ks of tears threatened my eyes. I blinked hard and forced myself to look stern. "That would depend."

"On what?" Sophie said, her expression guarded.

"On who's picking out the bridesmaids' dresses."

She tossed back her head and laughed. "Oh, gosh, Melanie. You had me worried there for a moment. Like that would matter."

"I'm serious. I won't wear gauze, or tie-dye, or anything with beading. And definitely no hemp."

Sophie threw her arms around me in a tight hug. "You're the best, Melanie. I'm sure we can find something we both like. But just so you understand, we want it to be outside so everybody can come barefoot."

I nodded slowly, holding back from saying what I really thought of the idea. It was Sophie's wedding, after all, and if she wanted me to walk down an aisle barefoot and swinging incense, it was her call. And if I ever got married, I would simply pay her back by making her wear a hoop-skirted taffeta confection with her hair tucked into a neat chignon.

"Sure. Whatever you want. It's your wedding. Let me know if you need any help. I'm pretty good at organizing things."

Her eyes widened, and it took her a moment before she could come up with an answer. "Thanks, Melanie. I'll keep that in mind. Although I don't think I'll need much organizing. It's going to be a small wedding-just family and friends. But I'll be sure to let you know if we need any spreadsheets."

I patted her knee and stood. "You do that." I looked up at the empty house. Not that long ago, I had relished my solitary existence: coming and going as I wanted, enjoying the quiet and solitude of an empty house. Now it just seemed . . . well . . . lonely. I looked down at Sophie. "Want to come watch Glee with me? I've seen a few episodes with Nola, because she made me, and it's kind of addictive."

Sophie stood, too. "Thanks, but Chad's cooking a vegan lasagna tonight. You could join us, but I know you'd go home hungry and have to raid Mrs. Houlihan's pantry."

"Yeah. That's all right. Maybe General Lee will watch with me."

Impulsively, Sophie hugged me again. "Thanks for agreeing to be my maid of honor. You know I'd do the same for you."

"Don't hold your breath," I said as I pulled away and headed for the front steps under the imposing double-tiered portico.

I could hear the smile in Sophie's voice. "And I promise not to tell anybody you watch Glee. I think that would turn off more prospective clients than telling them you see dead people."

I smirked at her retreating back, watching her for a moment as she approached her car, probably already antic.i.p.ating her romantic evening with Chad and vegan lasagna. I almost called back to her that I'd changed my mind, but stopped myself. They were engaged and probably wouldn't welcome a third wheel, regardless of how much they said they wouldn't mind.

I entered the foyer and breathed in the old-house smell that I'd grown to love, along with the smell of boxwoods and lemon oil. They were comforting scents that must have been familiar to the generations of my family who'd lived in this house before me. The scents no longer brought to mind the alarming sound of money being sucked out the windows and chimneys. Lately I'd discovered that instead they made me think of how lucky I really was. Not that I would ever admit that out loud, of course.

After kicking off my heels and placing them neatly on the steps to carry upstairs when I went, I placed my briefcase next to my grandmother's desk in the parlor. I was halfway through the foyer on the way to the kitchen when I heard an odd whimpering, followed by a scratching sound. I paused, wondering whether I'd imagined it, then heard it again. General Lee.

In my bare feet I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, automatically heading down the hall in the direction of Nola's bedroom. I found the dog standing in front of the closed door, his plumed tail-usually curled above his back-now tucked between his hind legs. As I approached, he whimpered again, then raised a front paw and scratched at the door.

I knelt down and he leaped into my outstretched arms. I hugged him to me, surprised at my relief at finding him safe. I did not like dogs. I wasn't prepared to take the first step on the road to becoming one of those old spinster women who lived alone but with a thousand pets.

I buried my face in his soft fur. "Are you okay, sweetness? Mommy's here." I looked around, just to make sure n.o.body was listening. I turned my attention to the door, wondering whether the strip of light beneath the door had become brighter.

The doork.n.o.b turned in my hand, and I pushed the door open, staying safely in the hallway. I listened as the door struck the doorstop on the wall behind it, icy cold air hitting my face.

The large windows on the facing wall were all thrown wide-open, allowing inside the warm late-afternoon air. b.u.t.tery light from the lowering sun crept like long fingers across the wood floor and four-poster bed, across the putrid rug, and toward the dollhouse that now dominated the far corner of the room.

Once again the dollhouse family, minus the son and the dog, stood crowded at the turret window. I stepped forward and General Lee began to whimper again. I put my hand on the back of his head so he wouldn't jump out of my arms and hurt himself. And personally, I didn't really want to be alone at that moment.

I looked around the floor for the two missing figures, even knelt down to see whether either one had rolled under Nola's bed. I was just about to shut the windows when I spotted them. They were standing on the antique captain's chest that was used as a bench seat under the windows. I could see the lines of dried glue where I'd reattached both sides of the dog's skull and fixed the boy's neck.

A strong breeze blew into the windows, although the trees outside weren't moving. Then, one by one, each window shut as if a person moved down the line, closing them in succession.

I swallowed. It was always easier when they approached me first. And if they didn't, I ignored them and then they usually went away. But this was Nola's room, and I had no idea who this spirit or spirits were. I couldn't just let them be.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said, my voice cracking. "h.e.l.lo?" I said again, more forcefully. I could see my breath as I spoke, my lips and teeth cold.

I heard the flutter of paper and turned around to where Bonnie's guitar case had fallen open, a stack of sheet music in a heap on the floor in front of it. The pages shook and shimmied as if somebody were thumbing through them.

"Bonnie?"

The rustling stopped just as the radio on the night table turned on, the volume set as loud as it could go. I recognized Jimmy Gordon's "I'm Just Getting Started." I quickly walked toward the bed and flipped off the radio, the sound of my thudding heart filling the void.

"Bonnie?" I said again, but the room had already begun to warm up again and I knew that she was gone.

General Lee managed to leap from my arms to the bed, and then off the bed and out the door as fast as he could go.

I stared at the kaleidoscope of colors in the room, the contrast with the nineteenth-century furniture, and felt the press of years enveloped in the room push down on me. A heavy sigh filled the s.p.a.ce as I backed myself toward the doorway, and I wasn't sure whether it was mine. "Never mind," I said to the empty room, then closed the door on its ghosts.

CHAPTER 8.

My eyes flickered open. A narrow strip of gray eked its way through the tall, dark drapes and I lay still, wondering why I wasn't in my bedroom in my house on Tradd Street. Then I remembered the crumbling foundation and yet another forced evacuation, and I allowed my eyes to flutter closed again. Until I realized that General Lee wasn't on the pillow next to me, and that the noise I'd heard that must have awakened me was the sound of footsteps outside my door.

I bolted upright, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. Not that there was a lot on that list under the "historic Charleston home" heading. If your house didn't pop, groan, creak, or moan, it just wasn't old enough. I grabbed my robe from the foot of the bed, then slid my feet into the fluffy slippers and made my way into the darkened hallway.

Nola's door was open, and when I peeked inside I saw that the room was empty and, fortunately, quiet, with all windows shut. Even the guitar was behaving itself and resting silently in the corner like a guitar should be. I squelched a gnawing worry as I headed for the stairs, noticing my mother's bedroom door was closed at the same time I caught the scent of my father's cologne. I focused on not tripping on my robe as I descended the stairs, wondering what was the least awful thought to contemplate-a missing teenager or one's parents sharing a bed. As I pushed open the kitchen door, I still wasn't sure.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was dark, with lonely shards of light from the outside streetlamps stealing inside the tall windows. Slivered fingers of gray touched the stainless-steel appliances and the newly restored mantel of the fireplace that had hidden a room behind it for two centuries. The room was emptied now of all its secrets and, I had thought, its ghosts.

I heard a slight rustling sound and my eyes scanned the far wall. "Wilhelm?" I whispered the name of my protector, a Hessian soldier whom I thought I'd sent to the light a month before. I sniffed the air, expecting to smell the unmistakable scent of gunpowder that surrounded his apparition. I stopped abruptly, recognizing a completely different smell instead. Sugar?

Without turning around, I stuck my hand out behind me and flipped on the light switch. The overhead canned lights and pendants over the island shone brightly, illuminating the granite countertops, polished floors, and Nola and General Lee sitting on the floor in front of the pantry door with a package of powdered doughnuts opened between them. Both wore identical guilty expressions and equally matching patches of powdered sugar on their faces.

Relief at finding them both safe overrode my surprise. I knelt on the floor and patted my knees for General Lee to come to me. With a reluctant look back at Nola, he slowly walked over to me and allowed me to pick him up. As I brushed the powdered sugar off of his muzzle, I looked more closely at Nola and saw tearstains on her cheeks, leaking into the sugar encrusted on her lips and chin.

As a child the one thing I'd hated the most was to be caught crying. If I'd wanted people to see my tears and ask me what was bothering me, I would have stood in the middle of the street and screamed out how unfair it was to have a mother who didn't want me.

"Don't worry; I won't tell anybody you're eating refined sugar," I said, scratching General Lee under his chin. Lowering my voice as if I were speaking in a confessional, I added, "I actually had some of Chad's vegan lasagna that Sophie brought over for you, and it was pretty good. But I will deny it with my last breath if you tell them."

I turned around and put General Lee on the floor. "But before you put those doughnuts back in the pantry, take a couple out and sit down at the table."

With a loud groan, Nola slid up the refrigerator to a stand and did as I asked and plopped two doughnuts on a clean plate Mrs. Houlihan had left in the dish drain. I took two gla.s.ses out of a gla.s.s-fronted cabinet, then removed two cartons of milk from the fridge-one soy and one regular-and filled each gla.s.s nearly to the brim.

I put a gla.s.s in front of Nola at the table, then sat across from her, reaching for my doughnut at the same time. I took a bite and chewed slowly, hopefully giving Nola a chance to talk. But she said nothing. Taking a chance, I said, "The house makes a lot of noises at night, doesn't it? I hope it's not keeping you awake."

She shrugged, and I noticed her oversize T-shirt from a Rush concert in 1993. Bonnie. I knew then that her sitting on the floor in a dark kitchen and crying wasn't because of something like being scared in an old house or being lonely or misunderstood. Her mother had abandoned her in the most permanent, irrevocable way possible. It was hard to accept and understand that from the perspective of a grown woman, and I couldn't begin to understand how a thirteen-year-old would try to wrap her head around it. I kept remembering the glimpses I'd had of Bonnie, and the lingering despair she left behind, and I knew there was much more to her story.

"Are you missing your mom?" I ventured.

Nola slid her plate across the table, her doughnut untouched, and looked away, but not before I saw her lower lip trembling. I almost told her then: that I kept seeing her mother and that if I kept trying, I might be able to get her to talk to me. But reason intervened; it was still too early, and if I ever wanted her to trust me, now didn't seem to be the time to make her think that I might be mentally unstable and delusional.

Her voice was so quiet that when she did speak I thought for a moment that I was imagining it. "I sometimes hear her playing her songs on her guitar, like she's still here. Do you think that means I'm crazy?"

I tried not to shake my head too vigorously. "No. Not at all." I thought for a moment, wondering whether I'd ever seen eyes that sad before. "I think it means that you miss her, and you're holding on to the thing you both loved-the music. You know, Ashley Hall has a wonderful music program. Maybe if you got involved . . ." I stopped, the thunderous look on her face telling me I'd gone too far.

General Lee walked over to Nola's chair and hoisted himself up on his hind legs, placing his front paws on her leg. His face had that pathetic-cute expression he must spend hours practicing in a mirror that's impossible to deny. I watched as Nola scowled at him before emitting a put-upon sigh and picking him up. She cradled him in her arms, and I saw some of the tension leave her shoulders. I'd give the dog an extra treat later.

With her face buried in his fur, she said, "My mom didn't want me, and neither does my dad."

I was completely out of my league here; this wasn't a real estate negotiation, or an exclusive listing, or a counteroffer-all things I was competent at. All things that required hard bottom lines and no emotions. I was as out of place and unprepared here at my mother's kitchen table as I would have been taking over for the pope in Rome.

I closed my eyes, wishing Sophie were there. She always knew the right thing to say. Instead I found myself channeling my mother and repeating something she had said to me, a truth I was still discovering, tasting it slowly like a long-simmered soup. "Sometimes we have to do the right thing even if it means letting go of the one thing we love most in the world."