by Karen White
Jack stood in front of the bar cart, usually filled with empty decanters. Because Jack and my father both were recovering alcoholics, we kept the decanters empty except when we had company. As I watched, Jack leaned down and, after hesitating for a brief moment, opened the cabinet door. Despite having a brass key in the lock, it had never been locked. Because there’d been no reason to lock it.
Jack reached inside to the back of the cabinet and pulled out what looked like a full bottle of Glenfiddich. Having grown up with an alcoholic father, I recognized the bottle like an old friend. I continued to hold my breath, not daring to move even though I wanted nothing more than to back away and pretend I hadn’t seen him.
He held the bottle with both hands, looking at it for a long time, as if it might be the face of an old lover. I guess, in some ways, it was. And then, without a word, he leaned down and put the bottle back where it had been.
“Jack?” I said softly.
He started at the sound of his name but didn’t turn around. “I thought you’d go check on Nola.”
I moved to stand next to him, staring pointedly at the open door of the cabinet. “And that would give you time for what?” I found myself very close to tears. “What’s going on?”
His beautiful eyes bored into mine, but there was none of the humor or love I usually saw in them. They weren’t empty, but there was definitely something missing. “What’s going on?” he repeated. “What’s going on besides my career getting flushed down the toilet?”
I took his hand, and being unaccustomed to having our roles reversed, I led Jack to the sofa, pulling him down next to me. “What’s happened?” I asked.
He jumped up and began pacing the room, keeping his distance from the bar cart. “Oh, just the usual in the life of a writer trying to resurrect his career. I write ten pages, then delete nine of them, and after I rewrite them I realize it’s all total crap. So I went for a run because fresh air and exercise are supposed to help creativity, but as I’m running down Legare I practically trip over Rebecca and that little dog of hers—with ears dyed pink now, I kid you not—and she asked me how I am in the way somebody asks a person with some life-threatening disease, and then tells me she’s sorry, and she seemed surprised that I had no idea what she was talking about or why she should be sorry and then wouldn’t meet my eyes. So I rushed back home to check my messages and sure enough, there’s one from my agent.”
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I knew was not going to be good news. I wanted to suggest a time-out so I could find a doughnut or two to bury my worries in and to distract me from the looming problem. But that was what the old, single Mellie would have done. Now I was a married and responsible adult and mother of three. And I loved Jack. I had for even longer than I’d known. I needed to slap down the old Mellie and figure out a way to get us through this. That’s what marriage was. We were a team. And if it was my turn to be the strong one, then I’d better figure out how. Even if I had no clue as to how to start.
My voice was a lot stronger than I felt. “And what did he say?”
Jack stopped in front of the grandfather clock, staring at it as if it might still be holding on to secrets. “I didn’t get to speak with him—just his assistant. She said my agent’s taking early retirement; he’s already gone. She said I would be given the option of working with another agent inside the agency or I could find my own.”
If Rebecca had known bad news was coming, then there was only one place she could have heard it. I pushed the thought from my head, unwilling to go there, and swallowed, tried to put on a relaxed smile. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”
He turned around and looked at me with wild eyes. “No—of course it’s not. A literary agent is not the same as a real estate agent. They’re not interchangeable.”
I stood quickly, my temper pushing aside my attempt at being the rational adult. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that not every real estate agent is the same. . . .”
He held up his hand. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I wanted to say that it’s a personal connection between a literary agent and an editor and the writer. There has to be a strong belief in the writer’s abilities for them to be able to work together. I can’t just be handed off to someone who doesn’t know anything about me or my books. Like Desmarae, my new editor. Did I tell you that she actually suggested we should aim for a younger audience with this book—the same book that she still hasn’t read the first chapters of yet so she has no idea what it’s about—and ask Kim Kardashian for a cover blurb?” He slapped his palm against his forehead so hard it left a red mark.
“Oh, Jack.” I moved to his side, reaching up to touch his shoulder, hard and tense beneath my hand. “I’m so sorry. I know this is all sudden, and unexpected, and certainly not welcome when you’re trying to finish your book. But maybe this will be a positive change. Maybe your new agent will be even more enthusiastic and energetic. And will be happy to tell Desmarae exactly where to put her Kim Kardashian blurb.”
Jack frowned. “He or she might have to wait on that—first I need someone to tell Desmarae that we can’t wait another year before publication, which is what she’s telling me now. Apparently, they’re revisiting their publishing schedule and my previous slot has been given to a historical erotica series.”
“But—”
“I know. We need the money. I’ve already spoken with my publisher directly, who was less than receptive to my idea of keeping me where I’m scheduled, so I’m hoping my new agent—whoever that’s going to be—will have better luck.”
“Do you think . . .” I paused, ready to suggest grabbing the children and taking them for a walk. It was procrastination, sure, but playing with the children was always such a stress reliever, and it was certainly easier than figuring out what we should do.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Were you going to ask me if I think it’s a coincidence that Rebecca knew before I did?”
Our eyes met. “Because there’s no such thing as coincidence,” we said in unison.
“Exactly,” Jack said. “And I don’t have a doubt in my mind that Marc is behind this somehow.”
I didn’t want to agree, even though I had a sinking feeling that he was right. It was just too awful to think about right now. I distracted myself by looking at the red mark on Jack’s forehead. Touching it gently with my thumb, I said, “Does it hurt?”
His eyes met mine, and a little spark passed between us. He nodded. “A little.”
I stood on my tiptoes and kissed it.
“It hurts here, too,” he said, pointing to his cheek.
Without question, I placed my hands on his shoulders and reached up to give him another kiss, feeling the bristles of his beard tickle my lips. I stepped back. “Better?”
“A little. It hurts here, too.” Jack pointed to his mouth.
Pulling him closer, I happily obliged, ignoring the nagging thought that he was distracting me for a reason. His arms wrapped around me, his hands snaking under my blouse as he pressed me into him. I felt his fingers unfastening the hooks on my bra as he trailed small kisses across my cheek until he reached my ear. His hot breath fanned the bare skin on my neck as he whispered, “I think I need a little stress relief right now.”
“Me, too,” I whispered back, my hands fiddling with the button on his jeans.
There was a slight clearing of a throat behind us, and we both dropped our hands like teenagers caught in the backseat of the parents’ sedan. We turned to see Greco standing in the entranceway, his head nearly touching the top of the molding. I’d forgotten that he was supposed to be at the house, taking inventory of the furniture in Nola’s room and the attic to see what he could reuse or salvage for the redo.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, looking around the room at everything but us. “I can come back at a more convenient time.”
“N
o, no—it’s perfectly fine,” I said, smoothing my blouse and skirt, hoping that at least one of the hooks in my bra was still intact.
Greco smiled at a spot over our heads. “If you have a moment, I wanted to show you something upstairs.”
I groaned inwardly, wondering if he’d found a skull hidden under a floorboard or a human femur behind loose wainscoting. In my world, anything was possible. I feigned a relaxed smile as Jack and I followed the designer up the staircase, going over all responses to whatever it was he wanted to show us that would placate him enough so he wouldn’t quit. Why, yes, I do believe that looks like an ax mark in the back of that skull you found in the air duct. That Nola—such a prankster!
I realized Greco was speaking and I shut down my inner voice.
“The architectural details in this house, including Nola’s room, are really quite spectacular. And the antiques are top-notch. Not that I don’t appreciate the business, but except for a few cosmetic changes, I don’t think there needs to be the kind of massive redo we originally spoke about.”
Jack and I exchanged a glance. Clearing my throat, I said, “Well, when Nola moved in a few years ago, my mother-in-law did a refresh of the room with new fabrics and wall colors. The bed was here—it’s too big to be moved unless we cut a hole in the wall and lower it with a crane into the back garden, in which case my house-hugging friend would throw me in the marsh with a cinder block attached to my ankle. But we added an antique desk Jack’s mother found in the attic here, along with a few occasional pieces.”
“Like the jewelry chest?” he asked, a small hitch in his voice.
We reached the top step and stopped. “Yes,” I said. “I thought it needed to be refinished, but Amelia liked it the way it was—said it added ‘character’ to the piece.”
Greco was frowning, and I didn’t want the jewelry chest to be the reason he quit. I was ready to agree to painting everything neon green and adding a Harry Styles mural on the ceiling if that’s what it would take to retain him. “But it doesn’t have to stay if you don’t like it. And I like Harry Styles.” I was proud that I knew who that was, if only because Jack had taken Nola and me to see Dunkirk and she’d mentioned that the actor sang, too.
Greco smiled, looking a bit confused, but it didn’t erase the frown lines over his nose. “No, it really is a beautiful piece and if your daughter likes it, we can certainly incorporate it into the new design. It’s just . . .”
Jack walked toward the bedroom and grabbed the doorknob. “It’s just such a tangled jumble of chains and baubles that you can’t see how she can find anything?” He pushed open the door, then stepped back for us to enter.
We stopped at the threshold. Nola and I had scrubbed the walls clean, leaving only faint traces of the muddy letters that had appeared and had, thankfully, remained gone. But the jewelry cabinet, emptied by Nola when she’d moved to the guest room, stood in the corner now with every drawer open, the lid pulled all the way back like a gaping mouth.
“You want to use it more as a sculpture than a jewelry cabinet?” Jack suggested helpfully.
I smiled pleasantly as if that had been exactly what I’d been thinking, too, instead of what Greco was about to tell us.
“I appreciate your creativity,” he said to Jack. “But there seems to be something wrong with it. I’ll close all the drawers and the lid and turn my back, and the next thing I know, everything’s opened again.”
“How strange,” Jack and I said in unison.
Greco crossed his arms and regarded us under lowered brows. “Something tells me that it’s not.”
Jack took a step toward the jewelry chest and pulled a drawer in and out as if testing it. “You know how these old houses are, with uneven floors and varying humidity. . . .”
Greco held out his hand palm up to stop Jack from continuing. “Please. Don’t. Ever since my first visit here, I’ve been getting weird vibes from the whole house—and this room in particular.”
I held my breath, preparing myself for his words of resignation.
“I kind of like it,” he said. “I find it rather creatively inspiring. I actually grew up in a house on Broad that always had things that went bump in the night. I found it more interesting than frightening, and since I couldn’t see whatever it was causing the ruckus, nothing really bothered me.”
“Is that so?” I asked noncommittally, feeling a little jealous that the odd sounds never bothered him because he couldn’t see anything. Until I’d learned how to block out all the sights and sounds, I’d spent my childhood sleeping with my eyes open. “Well, this is an old house, and Charleston is supposed to be one of the most haunted cities in the world, so I suppose it wouldn’t be out of the question that there might be the odd spirit here or there.”
“Phew,” he said, doing a mock swipe of his forehead. “I was afraid I would scare you. Glad to know you’re not easily scared.”
Jack put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “Who, us? Never.”
“Good. Because I found something else you might find . . . interesting.” He walked over to the large four-poster bed, the intricate rice carvings winding their way up to the acorn finials. Lowering his tall frame, he pointed at the ball-and-claw foot, tapping his finger against something near the bottom edge.
As usual, I wasn’t wearing my glasses and couldn’t see what he was pointing at no matter how much I squinted.
Jack shook his head at me before leaning forward to see. “A carving of a peacock.”
“A peacock,” I repeated, trying to recall why that seemed significant.
The designer straightened to his full height. “I’m not sure if it’s connected, but the peacock was a secret symbol used here in the Carolinas during the Revolutionary War. I do a bit of Revolutionary War reenacting—on the British side—which is how I know this factoid. Of course, it could be something else entirely.”
“What do you mean by ‘secret symbol’?” Jack asked. He was wearing the expression he used when dissecting reams of information to boil down into something he could write about.
“A spy ring. From what I’ve read, it was as instrumental in leading us to an American victory as the Culper spy ring, but far less known. Mostly because to this day, historians aren’t really sure who the major players were and, of the ones whose identities are known, what side they were on.”
“Really?” Jack asked, and I could almost hear the wheels whirring in his brain.
Greco nodded. “I know you said this bed has been here for a long time, but do you know where it originally came from?”
I began shaking my head, then stopped. “The Vanderhorsts were the original owners.” I smiled at my own cleverness. “And they also owned Gallen Hall Plantation. My mother-in-law said a lot of the furniture in this house was most likely brought here from the plantation house, since so much of it predates this house. And I bet it was all made on the plantation, too, since it has the peacock mark.”
Greco lifted his eyebrows. “Well, then, this would make sense. So it probably doesn’t have anything to do with the spy ring at all.”
Jack bent down to get a closer look at the carving, touching it with deference. He turned his head to look up at me and smiled, his eyes dark. “Or maybe it does.”
Because there’s no such thing as coincidence. Neither one of us said it out loud, but we didn’t have to.
I had a sudden recollection of the smells that had pervaded the room when we’d discovered the word Betrayed smeared on the walls, as well as the scent of horse and leather, along with the lingering odor of gunpowder. Recalled now where I’d smelled it before. It had been at Gallen Hall when Jayne and I had seen the British soldier pointing a musket at us. Right before the cold, dead voice had erupted from my father’s mouth.
I leaned against the bed, feeling suddenly weak. “Oh, it definitely does,” I said, sinking down into the mattress and w
ondering if the cold breath across my cheek was only my imagination.
CHAPTER 11
Our mother stood between Jayne and me in the nursery, wearing a red-and-green silk sheath dress instead of the black-and-white referee’s shirt she should have donned for a war of wills.
I held a contented Sarah wearing a red velvet dress with a white lace Peter Pan collar and intricate smocking on the chest. White stockings with tiny candy canes covered her chubby legs, and very small black patent leather Mary Janes were neatly buckled on her plump feet. Every so often, she’d stroke the soft velvet of her dress and smile, even twisting around to see the enormous bow I’d spent a good half hour tying to perfection.
A very unhappy JJ was in the midst of a tantrum, complete with head thrown back and all four limbs rigid, as if he couldn’t bear the feel of his red velvet pantaloons or matching vest with lace cravat. His beloved whisk was clutched tightly in a small fist like a defective light saber.
Our mother was speaking in a very calm voice, making it hard to hear her over JJ’s screaming. “They don’t have to match, Mellie. They’re twins but very separate individuals. Let him wear what he wants.”
“But it’s for the Christmas card photo,” I protested. “They’re supposed to match.”
Jayne looked at me with what appeared to be her last thread of patience. “No, not really. And as long as it’s not a matter of the child’s safety or completely inappropriate—which does not include wearing colors besides red and green—he should be allowed to choose what he wants to wear.”
I looked in horror at the outfit JJ had chosen and Jayne had placed on the blue glider. “Jeans? And sneakers? For our Christmas photo?” I didn’t mention the ridiculous price I’d paid for the pantaloons and vest. If I did, I was afraid we’d all be throwing our heads back and screaming.
Jayne’s smile was more like a grimace as she placed JJ on the floor before she might drop him because of his squirming. He immediately lay facedown on the rug and began beating the floor with his hands and feet and whisk. Jayne raised her voice slightly to be heard. “The bulldozer on the sweater is red, all right? So he’ll fit right in. And we can borrow Sarah’s red shoelaces for his sneakers. That way, we’ll all have a cohesive look.”
