The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  Pucci whimpered, and Rebecca held the little dog’s head against her chest. “I’m sure you don’t mean that. Marc is my husband, remember.”

  “Oh, that’s not something I’d forget.”

  I thought she’d jump up and leave in a huff, but she stayed where she was, an expression that I’d come to recognize on her face. A signal that she had something unpleasant to tell me.

  “I had a dream,” she said.

  I almost stood and left right then. All of my life, avoidance had been my modus operandi. But ever since my marriage to Jack, I’d been trying to change. To be a more mature version of myself by facing unpleasant things instead of pretending they didn’t exist. I still failed as many times as I succeeded, but Jack said that as long as I tried, it wasn’t a complete loss. I took a deep breath. “And?”

  “It was about Jack. He’s in danger.”

  She had my full attention. “From what?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s another man—no one I recognized. And he was . . .” She stopped.

  “And he was what?”

  “He was burying Jack alive.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I’d halfway opened the bottom drawer of my desk, my mouth already salivating at the thought of the leftover doughnut from Glazed still nestled all soft and sugary in its bag. I’d resisted it for a day and a half and knew I had to eat it now because it couldn’t be expected to stay fresh forever.

  At the sound of my phone beeping my hand jerked, bumping hard against the solid wood of my desk. I hit the intercom button. “Yes, Jolly—what is it?”

  The receptionist’s voice was hushed. “Someone is here to see you, but he doesn’t have an appointment. I told him that you have a showing in half an hour and to make an appointment when you’d have more time, but he was very insistent.” The disapproving tone brought my attention away from the sweet-smelling bag and back to the intercom.

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Just that you were old friends and he’d explain when he saw you.”

  I sat up straighter. “What’s his name?”

  “Marc Longo. Should I send him back?”

  I slammed my desk drawer. Marc? He was the last person I expected or wanted to see, and I briefly considered stealthily opening one of the windows in my office and escaping into the parking lot. But that’s what the old Melanie would have done. The Melanie who used to hide from her problems and avoided confrontation at all cost. I was the new, grown-up version of Melanie who didn’t do things like that anymore. Most of the time.

  I picked up my cell phone to call Jack to come over but changed my mind. He was working on a book that meant a lot to his career, and I didn’t want to distract him. It was the same reason, I kept telling myself, why I hadn’t told him about the face in Nola’s window. Or about Rebecca’s dream. It had nothing to do with my insecurities and fears of abandonment, despite all of Jack’s reassurances that he loved me and was with me for keeps, even if I was prone to distractions of the paranormal kind. Old habits, I’d found, are like a favorite pair of worn-out old shoes; you just can’t toss them out. You allow them to linger in your closet until you’re tempted into walking around in them again because you crave the comfortable and familiar.

  “Thank you, Jolly. Send him back.”

  I stood, straightening my skirt and trying out several relaxed and non-posed poses. I was awkwardly perched on the edge of my desk when Marc walked into my office, but I was spared greeting him by the avalanche of my phone, agenda, and desk lamp cascading to the floor because of an accidental tug of the cord by the leg I nonchalantly tried to cross.

  “Let me help you,” he said, crouching down to pick up the lamp, which had miraculously survived the tumble.

  “Just leave it,” I said. “Really. I’d rather you just tell me why you’re here and then go.”

  He placed the lamp in the middle of my desk, the shade completely askew, and he grinned at me when he caught me noticing. I clenched my hands into fists so I wouldn’t reach over and right it, and somehow managed not to start singing ABBA songs backward.

  “Is that how you talk to all your clients, Melanie?”

  “Well, you’re not a client so it doesn’t count.”

  He sat down in one of the chairs where legitimate clients usually sat and smiled. The resemblance to his brother was apparent: the same coloring and build, the same sexy smile. Except where I’d detected warmth behind Anthony’s eyes, Marc’s were like cold, lifeless stones. All his attention and devotion were directed inward. I couldn’t remember if they’d been like that when I’d dated him or if this was something new. Being married to Rebecca could do that to anyone, I supposed.

  He stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his Italian-loafer-clad feet at the ankles. “Oh, but I could be.”

  Having given up on a casual lean on my desk, I returned to my chair. “I doubt it.” I made a big show of avoiding looking at the crooked lampshade and instead glanced at my watch. “I’m afraid I have an appointment—”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, he said, “I’d like to buy a house. A nice, big, old one south of Broad. And I’m willing to pay a lot more than what it’s worth.”

  I suddenly recalled what Anthony had said about Marc wanting my house, and frigidity spread from the base of my neck to my toes. I squared my shoulders, preparing to do battle. “If you’re referring to our house on Tradd Street, I’m afraid it’s off the market and I don’t anticipate it being available for purchase for at least another hundred years or so.”

  He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. Tilting his head slightly, he said, “When we were dating, I don’t remember you being quite so . . . unwilling.”

  He’d emphasized the last word, making it seem sordid, and I felt my cheeks redden. His smile widened, his strike intentional. I stood. “Seeing as how we have nothing else to discuss, I’d like you to leave. I’ve got a lot of work—”

  Marc cut me off. “Did Jack tell you his editor was let go?”

  “What?” I groaned inwardly, wishing I hadn’t allowed him to take me by surprise.

  “Ah, I see he hasn’t mentioned it. Happened last week. Not to repeat hearsay, but the rumors had something to do with being too friendly with an intern. A relation of mine, actually—what a small world, right? And now other victims are crawling out of the woodwork, eager to add to the growing pile of accusations. With the current social climate regarding workplace harassment, the publisher had no choice but to let him go.” He grinned again. “Regardless of whether it was warranted. High-profile companies just can’t take the chance, now, can they?”

  I shivered, either from the chill that wouldn’t dissipate or from the way he looked when he said the accuser was related to him. Something Anthony said pinged at my brain. Marc has lots of connections. Has a lot of influence, even in the publishing world. I tried very hard to keep my voice even. “I’m sure the reason Jack hasn’t mentioned it is because it has no impact on him or his work. There are lots of really good editors at his publishing house. I’m sure with such a valuable asset as Jack is to them, they’ll make sure they match him up to someone who’s a good fit.”

  Marc sat up, a look of mock concern on his face. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but when an editor who has been the single and loudest championing voice for a particular author or book is suddenly let go, the author is, effectively, orphaned. Sure, Jack will be assigned to a new editor. But it just won’t be the same, will it? Not unless the new editor shares the same passion and enthusiasm for the book as the previous editor. And that, my dear Melanie, rarely—if ever—happens.”

  I walked to the door and held it open so my intent was obvious. “I’m sure Jack and his project will be fine. Sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Ah, Melanie. Still so naïve.” He stood but didn’t move, instead taking his time examining
the contents of the top of my desk.

  My voice shook a little when I spoke. “I’m not naïve. I know Jack is a very talented author, with a solid track record, and his new publisher knows this. His new book idea is brilliant and will succeed with whatever editor he’s assigned to. He’s got a fabulous agent who believes in him and has his back. So stop making these stupid threats and go away. We’re not selling our house, nor will your movie be filmed there. And there is nothing you can say or do that will make us change our minds. You think your big donation to the Ashley Hall fund-raiser might give you a loophole to get stills or shots or whatever it is filmmakers do, but I will fight you every step of the way. And you won’t get a single scene shot anywhere near my home.”

  When he didn’t move, I jiggled the doorknob to remind him that he was just leaving.

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. “I’m being nice now because you and I have a history. But this courtesy has a limited time span.” He walked slowly toward me, and stopped so that he was definitely invading my personal space. I didn’t step back. “I’m not a patient man, Melanie. And I always get what I want. One way or another.”

  “You didn’t get the Confederate diamonds,” I said, referring to the treasure hidden in the house by a former Vanderhorst owner at the end of the Civil War. Jack and I had found them before Marc could, much to Marc’s ire. I hadn’t meant to antagonize him, but I couldn’t stop myself. His smugness on top of what he’d done to Jack—to us—was too much for me to let it slide.

  His nostrils flared. “You can make this easy, or you can make this hard. Either way, my wife and I will be moving into Fifty-five Tradd Street in the very near future, and we will happily open our doors to a film crew who are champing at the bit to begin filming what I’m sure will be a huge blockbuster hit.” He leaned closer so I could see hazel flecks in his eyes. “And you can tell your historic-house-hugging professor friend that I have all sorts of ideas of what I’d like to do in the house once it’s mine and that there will be nothing she can do to stop me. Just know that it will involve the removal of most of the interior walls and all of those tacky wedding-cake moldings.”

  Of all the things Marc said, that hurt me the most. My back still ached when I thought about how I’d hand sanded the wood floors, banister, and spindles. My head hurt as I recalled how much money I’d spent on replacing the roof, and the time and focus it had taken Sophie to repair the antique silk Chinese wallpaper in the foyer. Most of all, I couldn’t forget the beautiful garden my father had brought back from ruin, or the memory of walking with Nola down the grand staircase on my wedding day and then carrying the twins up to their nursery on their first day home from the hospital. What Marc was suggesting was pure desecration. Considering I’d never wanted the house in the first place, I was stunned at the ache in my heart at just the thought of Marc and Rebecca moving in and ruining my house.

  I leaned forward so that our noses were almost touching. “Over my dead body,” I hissed.

  Something flickered in his eyes before he stepped back, a crooked grin splitting his face. “That could be arranged.”

  A small frisson of fear erupted inside of me, but I refused to look away or even blink. Marc Longo was a bully, and I wouldn’t be cowed by him. “Get out,” I said through my teeth. “And don’t even think you or your film crew will get past the front gate.”

  He walked out into the hallway, then turned around to face me. “I made another rather generous donation to Ashley Hall and promised them that I’d have movie professionals document the progressive dinner so they can use it for promotion. I think you’ll have a hard time telling them no. But that’s really just to annoy you and Jack. Sure, I’ll be able to get some great interior shots of the house, but I think I’ll wait until my name is on the deed before I make plans for the real filming to begin.” He scratched his chin as if deep in thought. “I’m thinking Emma Stone—she’d have to dye her hair again, of course—would be the perfect actress to play Rebecca, don’t you?”

  Something pinged again at the back of my brain, and my anger slipped away, replaced again by something that felt a lot like fear. I just needed to make sure he didn’t see it. “Why do you want it so badly, Marc? There are plenty of other beautiful historic houses much grander than mine for sale. What is it about my house?”

  He paused for a moment. “Simple, really. It belongs to Jack. And you. But not for long.” He raised his eyebrows before turning on his heel and walking away.

  I watched him until he disappeared around a bend in the corridor, a sense of unease settling in the pit of my stomach. Marc was a businessman. Everything he did had to be a means to make money or get ahead in some way. Marc had originally purchased the Vanderhorst plantation because he’d thought the Confederate diamonds had been hidden there. And then he’d lied to his own brother about turning it into a winery to extricate himself from a bad investment. He’d even professed his love for me just to access the house I’d inherited so he’d be in a good position to search for the diamonds.

  There was something else about my house on Tradd Street besides jealousy that made Marc Longo want it. I just needed to figure out what it was before it was too late. I returned to my desk and sat down, knowing whom I needed to talk to. My finger was poised over the intercom button when Jolly tapped on the doorframe, her dragonfly earrings swinging. I could tell by the look on her face that she’d heard every word.

  “He is not a nice man,” she said, a deep crease between her brows. “He has a black karma cloud that hovers around him, but I think you have to be a psychic like me to see it.” She gave me a sympathetic stare.

  “I’m sure.” Jolly was convinced she had psychic abilities and had begun taking classes to learn how to use them. So far, she’d had more misses than hits and had arrived at the firm conclusion that I had no abilities of my own. I was more than happy to have her continue to believe that.

  “Would you like me to call Jack for you?” Her green eyes were wide with concern.

  He probably was the first person I should call, but I couldn’t. Not yet. If it was true that he’d lost his editor and hadn’t told me, he had enough to worry about. “No. But I do need you to find a number for me. For Anthony Longo.”

  Jolly raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Yes, Marc’s brother. I believe he’s local. I seem to recall Marc once telling me that his younger brother owned a house downtown. Hopefully he has a landline.”

  “Would you like me to put the call through if I can get him on the line?”

  I shook my head. “No. Just get me the number. Please.”

  She nodded, then left my office, and I reached over to straighten the lampshade because I couldn’t take it anymore. My iPhone buzzed and I looked down at the screen and saw a text from Rebecca.

  I dreamed of a man in old-fashioned clothes with empty sockets for eyes. He said he was coming for you. And Jack.

  I quickly hit CLEAR before leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes, wondering how, once again, my formerly orderly world had suddenly become everything but, and why the restless dead never seemed to want to leave me alone.

  CHAPTER 4

  When I walked in the front door after work, the smell of Mrs. Houlihan’s Christmas cookies baking in the oven wafted from the kitchen, drawing me to the room like a cat to catnip. Or a dog to, well, baking cookies, since General Lee, Porgy, and Bess were all camped out in front of the kitchen door, gazing at the solid wood surface as if just the weight of their stares might open it.

  It was still November, but Mrs. Houlihan insisted on stuffing the freezers with sugary holiday treats way in advance of any Christmas company we might have. I personally thought she did it to torment me, especially because only she and Jack had the keys to the large freezer in the carriage house and it was always locked. I knew because I checked. Daily.

  I joined the dogs in their vigil, holding my breath to listen for any signs
of movement from the other side of the door. I’d recently been banned from the kitchen while my housekeeper, Mrs. Houlihan—inherited along with General Lee and the house—did her Christmas baking, following the infamous cookie-cutting incident in which I was showing the children how to use cute winter shapes on the rolled-out cookie dough. I’d been eating all the leftover dough to make cleanup easier, ensuring the children didn’t see me because Jayne said raw dough wasn’t good for them. I’d eaten raw dough my entire life without issue, so I was sure Jayne’s ban hadn’t included me.

  Mrs. Houlihan had been upset when she discovered she didn’t have enough dough for a second batch and gave me a warning, not seeming to care that I was hungry or sugar deprived—or that I paid her salary. When her stash of red and green M&M’S, which were supposed to be the snowmen’s buttons, mysteriously disappeared, she threatened to quit if I didn’t leave, and I had no choice but to exit the kitchen in defeat. Even the twins had watched my departure with what looked like disappointment in their eyes.

  Pressing my ear against the door, I could hear Mrs. Houlihan bustling about inside. With a sigh, I turned to the dogs. “Sorry. We’ll have to wait until she leaves, and then I promise to sneak us something to sample.”

  “I heard that!” Mrs. Houlihan called out from the other side of the door. “Just be aware that one of my pies and three dozen of the cookies were made from recipes Dr. Wallen-Arasi gave me with all vegan, gluten-free, and sugar-free ingredients. And I’m not going to tell you which ones they are.”

  I found my mouth puckering with the memory of some of Sophie’s culinary recommendations and gave an involuntary shudder. I squatted to scratch behind three sets of furry ears. “Don’t worry. I promise to stop by Woof Gang Bakery tomorrow and bring you home something tasty.”

  They resumed their vigil as I carefully hung up my coat in the small cloak closet. It took me longer than it should have because no one had buttoned and zipped up their coats or hung them all in the same direction, so I had to fix them. I made a mental note to bring it up with Nola and Jack during dinner. I was halfway to the stairs to head up to the nursery when I heard JJ’s squealing laughter followed by Jack’s deep-chested chuckle coming from behind me. I followed the sound toward Jack’s closed office door, then carefully opened it before thrusting my head into the opening.