by Karen White
CHAPTER 12
I shoved the small shopping bag from the Finicky Filly farther under one of the folding tables set up in the stables of the Aiken-Rhett House museum on Elizabeth Street so Sophie wouldn’t see and know why I was late to our scheduled session to organize the wreath workshop supplies before the big event. Sophie wanted to make sure we had enough materials before the actual workshop, and it was my goal to ensure she saw only the boxes of the real stuff and not the faux fruit and garland I’d supplied.
After the previous day’s Christmas photo session debacle, I’d been in dire need of retail therapy, and the lovely people at my favorite clothing-and-accessories store had been more than happy to oblige. Despite wanting to buy half the store, I’d had to keep reminding myself that I was on a strict budget and that unlike in my single days, I now had other people to consider before whipping out my credit card. In the end, I’d chosen a skirt on sale as a present for my mother, a cute pair of inexpensive earrings for Jayne, and an incredibly cheap pair of shoes for me that were marked down so far that they were practically free. I felt a lot better when I left the store.
I began sorting through the boxes of Christmas-wreath-making materials, noting with aggravation that many of the oranges donated by other volunteers had randomly spaced cloves and that none of the pomegranates was of uniform size or shape.
“How did the Christmas photo turn out?” Sophie asked as she appeared next to me. I tried not to stare at her ensemble, which looked as if her toddler, Skye, had chosen it. And made it. If she hadn’t, then I imagined Sophie must have raided a defunct circus-costume stash to come up with the color-blocked balloon pants with elastic at the ankles (to better display her Birkenstocks) and clashing floral cardigan with oversized buttons of varying colors. Neon green toe socks poked out of her sandals. I’d tried for years to tell her that a pair of Keds or really any other kind of shoe besides sandals would keep her feet warm. I’d finally given up.
“How far did you have to run to get away from the clown once you took his clothes?” I asked, grabbing two more oranges, trying not to shudder at the unevenly spaced cloves.
Sophie picked up some pomegranates and began laying them out on the table to count. “The photo session was that bad, huh? Guess you won’t end up on the cover of Parents magazine now.”
“Better than being on the cover of Circus Life,” I said under my breath. Louder, I said, “It was awful, if you must know. We ended up taking the photo in Waterfront Park near the Pineapple Fountain so we wouldn’t catch any dead people in the pictures, and because it was cold outside, we all wore our coats, which hid our mismatched outfits—JJ and the dogs refused to wear their Christmas clothes, and it was a disaster. Taking the photos outside was a stroke of genius on my part.”
“A true disaster,” Sophie said. “I don’t know how you manage. You’re a real survivor, Melanie.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not, and I didn’t get the chance to ask her before she bent over one of the boxes with the fake boxwood branches I’d found at a wholesale club for ninety-nine cents per branch. She pulled out a bunch and raised it to her face and gave it a big sniff before turning back to me. “Melanie!”
“Don’t they look real?” I asked enthusiastically. “By the way, did I tell you that I have an appointment at the historical archives to return old Vanderhorst letters that someone tried to throw away?”
She threw the branches on a table, my transgression temporarily forgotten. “Really? Who tossed them?”
“Marc Longo. He stole them from the archives. And then, instead of returning them, he just tossed them. Luckily, his brother found them and gave them to Jack and me to look through.”
Her eyes narrowed. “There’s a special corner of hell for monsters like that. Anything important in them?”
“I don’t know. Jayne texted me while I was doing a little Christmas shopping just now to let me know Anthony had dropped them off. I asked her to leave them on Jack’s desk to go through first as a sort of apology.”
“Why were you apologizing?” She held up her hand to stop me from responding. “Let me guess—you labeled all of his drawers again with color-coded labels.”
She looked up, waiting for me to respond. When I didn’t she said, “Then you organized his desk the way you would organize your own without any thought to how he would want it?”
I kept silent and watched as her eyes widened. “Oh, no, Melanie. Did you try to keep something from him again?”
I turned away from her, finally giving in to the urge to pick up one of the oranges and fix it. “I really screwed up. I feel like a complete failure as a wife.”
She was silent for a moment, and I felt her gaze on me. “Melanie.” I looked up at the soft tone of her voice.
“You’re not a failure, okay? Quirky, sure. Insecure? Yeah, most of the time. But you’re a pretty great person all around. You’re a great mother and a terrific friend. Remember how you watched Blue Skye when both Chad and I had the flu even though you already had a full plate? You didn’t even think twice. And despite what you might think, you’re a great wife, too. You and Jack were really made for each other, like Chad and me. Like peas in a pod.” She smiled. “Organic, of course.”
Even I had to return her smile at that.
She continued. “But you need to remember that marriage isn’t something you walk into knowing what to do. It’s a learning process. So, yeah, you made a mistake. Just say you’re sorry and that you’ll try harder, and then move on.”
“So you think I need to apologize?”
She gave me a look that didn’t need any words.
“Okay. I get it. And thanks.” I stared at her for a long moment. “Although I find it hard to listen to you when you’re dressed like that.”
“Forget what I said about you being a terrific friend. So,” she said. “What didn’t you tell him?”
I replaced the orange, then blew into my hands to warm them before emptying a box of pomegranates. “Just about the apparition I’ve seen in Nola’s room. And the dark presence I’ve been sensing in the upstairs hallway that may or not be related to the strange man without eyes that I’ve seen at the cistern.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What strange man?”
“I didn’t ask his name, but he’s wearing old-fashioned clothing and holding a piece of jewelry. Like a bracelet or something with different- colored stones.”
“What kind of old-fashioned clothes?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know—old.”
She took a deep breath. “Was he wearing pants or knee breeches?”
I thought back, trying to remember an image I’d been desperately trying to forget. “Breeches. Definitely breeches.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “What kind of shirt?”
I closed my eyes. “It had a high neck with lots of frills in the front, and a tied bow at his throat.”
Sophie nodded. “Was the collar standing straight up or folded over a little?”
“Folded over,” I said without having to think about it. There’d been a large dark spot on his shirt, and my gaze had lingered there. But I’d noticed the bow.
“Hmm,” she murmured, nodding.
“Hmm, what?” I asked.
“Well, it’s just that you told me that the bricks from the cistern came from the old Vanderhorst plantation, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Before the plantation was turned into a winery, the graduate program at the college would use the mausoleum there to train the students on various cemetery preservation techniques—usually involving shoring up crumbling tombs and cleaning headstones. It was hard to get students to go back. A lot of them said they got bad vibes. But a few say they actually saw something.” She grimaced. “You know how sometimes people think they see a shadow and then blow it all out of proportion, so others jump on the bandw
agon and say they saw something, too? My students and I hang around a lot of old buildings and cemeteries, so I’ve learned to take it all with a grain of salt.”
“And you never mentioned this to me?”
Sophie gave me the same kind of look I imagined she gave Blue Skye when her little girl pushed her plate of organic quinoa onto the floor. “Really, Melanie? Since when do you want to talk about ghost sightings? Like never.”
“Whatever,” I said, mimicking Nola. “So, what did they see?”
“Apparently it was a full apparition of a man wearing late-eighteenth-century clothing. None of them stuck around long enough to get a lot of details, but they saw it long enough to register that he was missing his eyes. Kind of hard to miss that detail, I’d guess. And there was something odd about his shirt. Like there was a big stain on it.”
Small beads of cold sweat formed at the base of my neck. “Was he holding anything?”
Sophie thought for a moment. “I don’t remember them saying anything about that—they might have and I just forgot. Or they ran away too fast to notice it. Meghan Black is one of the students who claim to have seen something—since she’s working in the cistern, you can ask her. Just don’t tell her I told you. I really don’t want to give any credence to this kind of thing.”
I frowned. “Why? Because you don’t believe in ghosts?”
“No. Because I do. I’ve been your friend for too long to doubt their existence. See, Melanie? Some people actually do learn, change, and grow as they experience new things.”
The alarm on my watch beeped. It was one of those new watches that did everything except make dinner and clean the dishes, but the only thing I’d mastered since Jack had given it to me for my birthday was setting the alarm.
“I’m sorry—I’ve got to go. I have just enough time to get the letters at the house before my appointment at the archives.” I glanced around at the Ashley Hall moms hanging evergreen boughs and signs indicating the various wreath-decorating station stops. “Looks like you have plenty of volunteers, so you won’t miss me.”
“Hang on.” Sophie pushed a clump of plastic stems in my direction. “Take these with you. I’ll have my grad students condition the real boxwood clippings so we can use them for the workshop.” She picked up a plastic stem and held it delicately between two fingers, as if it might be contagious. “Really, Melanie. Even for you, this is pretty pathetic. I should make you work with the students to condition the stems. It would be a good lesson for them to learn what happens when we take shortcuts.”
She looked as if she might actually be serious. I spotted Veronica walking across the courtyard toward us and I eagerly waved her over. “Perfect timing—I think Sophie needs you.”
I reached under the table and pulled out my shopping bag. “I’ll send Jack over with the minivan later to retrieve the faux boxwoods—I saved the receipt just in case.”
“Just in case I noticed?”
“I would never.”
Sophie didn’t return my smile. “Remind me sometime why we’re still friends.”
“Well, it’s definitely not because we admire each other’s style,” I said, indicating her pants before backing away until I was a safe distance from being pelted with a pomegranate, then turned and left.
When I returned home, I stashed my shopping bag in the dining room so it was out of sight until I could safely reclaim it and bury my new shoes in my closet. Not that I expected to fool Jack; he noticed everything about me. I couldn’t part my hair a different way or paint my nails a new color without him noticing and saying something nice about it. Several of the women I worked with complained that they could paint their bodies blue and streak naked through their houses and their husbands wouldn’t even look up. I supposed I should be grateful, especially when every compliment came with a kiss—or two—but I was always afraid that one day he would stop. Then I’d revert to the old insecure Melanie, who couldn’t believe that Jack Trenholm had picked her.
I walked over to Jack’s office door and hesitated for a moment before gently rapping on it. “Jack?”
“Come in.”
I pushed the door open and was surprised to see him sitting on the floor with papers strewn all around him. He had a stack in his lap and was apparently sorting them. I closed the door and leaned against it. “Are you speaking to me yet?” Since the photo incident, we’d shared a bed but not much else. All our verbal exchanges had been excruciatingly polite, the aura of disappointment surrounding him as thick as the humidity before a hurricane.
He sighed and looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Mellie. I’m not trying to shut you out. I’m just trying to figure out what else I can do to make you trust me. To share everything with me. Even when you don’t think it’s the best timing.”
“It’s just that you don’t need distractions right now. . . .”
He held his finger to his lips. “Stop. I don’t want to rehash the same old thing. It won’t get us anywhere.”
The sound of screeching brakes outside followed by a quick acceleration brought our attention to the front windows. Jack stood and joined me at the window, both of us wincing as I spotted my dad’s old Jeep Cherokee being tortured as it scooted down the street.
Jack turned away from the window. “I can’t watch. It might give me nightmares. Your dad must have nerves of steel. Thank goodness Jayne is in the backseat. I think she’ll give a calming influence.”
A heat wave of some unidentifiable emotion flushed through me. “Jayne’s with them?”
Jack nodded. “Your dad asked her, and Nola thought it a good idea. I guess she was looking for backup in case your dad threw himself out of the vehicle.”
I watched for another moment before I, too, had to look away, but not for the same reason. “I wonder why Nola didn’t ask me.” I somehow managed to keep the hurt from my voice.
Jack regarded me, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to smile. “I can’t imagine that ending well, can you? It could be very stressful for both of you if she put her seat belt on in the wrong order of things.”
I frowned. “Well, there’s a right way and a wrong way for everything.”
“Exactly,” Jack said.
I watched him for a beat, waiting for him to speak first. When he didn’t, I asked, “So, are we okay?”
Jack faced me, his eyebrows raised, and didn’t say anything.
I pushed myself away from the window and walked slowly until I stood in front of him, then forced myself to meet his eyes. “I’m sor—” I stopped. Swallowed. Remembered what Sophie had said, and that I was trying to be the more mature version of myself. The version of myself who knew how to apologize, regardless of whether she thought she’d done anything wrong. I tried again. “I’m . . . sorry. About not telling you about the apparition in Nola’s room. I was just trying to—”
He silenced me with a slow kiss. When he lifted his head, he said, “Saying sorry was enough—I don’t need to hear anything else. We’re a team, Mellie. Always. I just need you to remember that before you decide again to keep something from me. There’s a lot about you that drives me crazy, but that’s the one thing that I just can’t live with.”
I pulled back. “There are other things about me that drive you crazy? Like what?”
“Where would you like me to start?” He kissed me again, his lips lingering on mine. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, since I find most of your craziness endearing. But I suppose we could start with the labeling gun. . . .”
There was a brief tap on the office door before it was opened by my father, looking flushed and rumpled, as if he’d just outrun a pack of wildcats, with wide eyes and hair standing up at attention. He clutched a manila folder stuffed with papers and his hands shook a little.
“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned about his pallor.
“I’ll be fine in a moment.”
We all tur
ned at the screech of brakes outside. Jack rushed to the window. “You didn’t leave her alone, did you?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
My dad shook his dead. “No. Jayne insisted she could handle it. I think she’s destined for sainthood.” He said it with a note of admiration, making that hot flush consume me again. I wondered if I might be experiencing the change of life already and made a mental note to call my gynecologist the next day.
He looked down at the papers strewn on the floor. “What’s all this?”
“From Anthony. He dropped by earlier with a shoebox full of old letters and documents he’d found in the garbage can at Gallen Hall, presumably stolen from the archives by Marc when he found out I was working on another book. Marc apparently tossed them instead of returning them when he discovered there was nothing interesting enough to write about. He and Melanie had hoped there might be some information in there regarding the mausoleum. Sadly, just a lot of receipts and lists—nothing helpful.”
My father held out the manila folder. “Well, maybe this will have something for you. When Yvonne was helping me find information about the gardens here and at our house, we found some misfiled paperwork. Yvonne made copies and I stuck them in the back of one of my folders, then forgot all about it until we were on the way to Gallen Hall. Remember, Melanie?”
I nodded, wishing I could forget.
He continued. “They’re newspaper clippings and architectural drawings all about the Vanderhorst plantation, but they had been stuck in with the Tradd Street garden papers. Easy to see how that would happen, since they’re both Vanderhorst properties. Yvonne said they use a lot of volunteers and interns to do filing and to return papers to the archives after someone has checked them out. So it wouldn’t be out of the question that they were simply returned to the wrong folder whenever the last person looked at them—which could have been decades ago.”
Jack began thumbing through the papers, a smile growing on his face. “Which means Marc never saw these, or he would have kept them. Or thrown them away.” He looked up at me with an excitement I hadn’t seen in a long while. He paused, his eyes widening as he gently took a yellowed page from the stack. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like we just might have beaten Marc at his own game.”
