“I understand how you feel, Dad. But I’ll never be able to lead a normal life until I figure out what that thing is.”
Ellie heard a rattling engine and squeaky brakes out in front of her house. She threw back the covers and hurried over to the window. Her moving truck had arrived four hours early and was attempting to parallel park on the street. She brushed her teeth and, ignoring the rat’s nest of hair at the crown of her head, changed into a pair of pink overall shorts and a white tee. She dashed down the stairs, noticing as she passed her grandmother’s bedroom that the door was once again closed. No matter how many times she opened it, the door somehow managed to close itself again.
The movers were already unloading her things and placing them about the yard. She went out to greet them. The crew leader tipped his hat at her. “Morning, ma’am. If you’ll tell us where to put everything, we’ll get started bringing it all inside.”
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stared up at the man whose shoulders were as broad as her front porch. She stifled a smile when she imagined him lifting his moving truck with a single hand. “That’s a good question.” As excited as she’d been for her things to arrive, Ellie had given little consideration to where she would store the things she didn’t need.
She noticed her housekeeper observing them from the porch. “Maddie, is there any room in the attic for some of this stuff?” She’d abandoned her tour of the upstairs after she’d gotten locked in her grandmother’s bedroom.
“Lawd, yes! There’s plenty of room. Your attic runs from one end of the house to the other. It’s easy to get up there, too.”
Ellie turned back to the monster mover. “Let’s put the bed, mattress, and this chest”—she ran her hand across the dresser she’d used in her bedroom in San Francisco—“in the attic. The rest of the furniture will go in the sunroom at the back of the house. The wardrobes go upstairs in my room. It’s the corner front bedroom, first door on the left at the top of the stairs.”
With Maddie leading the way, Ellie and the movers paraded into the house and up two flights of stairs to the attic. Buckets in every shape and size were scattered about under the eaves at the front of the house. “What’s all this?” Ellie asked Maddie.
“The roof leaks,” Maddie said. “Didn’t the roofing man tell you that when he was here?”
“He mentioned that the roof had leaks, but I never envisioned it being this bad. No wonder his proposal was so high. Did my grandmother know about this?”
“Yes’m. She made me move everything out of the way so it wouldn’t get wet.” Maddie gestured at the odd assortment of furniture and lamps, cardboard boxes and steamer trunks, fans, and garment racks lined with old ball gowns pushed to the back of the attic.
Ellie shook her head. “I can’t believe she was too cheap to have the roof fixed.”
“Your gramma was ninety-five years old, Miss Ellie. She wasn’t interested in much of anything, least of all fixing things that were broke.”
Instead, she left this mess for me, Ellie thought to herself.
For the rest of the morning, Ellie supervised the movers, instructing them on where to place her things throughout the house. She dug through the boxes marked Kitchen for her microwave, Keurig, electric corkscrew, and stemless wineglasses. She positioned her upholstered furniture—all covered in textured fabrics in shades of pale gray—to take advantage of the view of the garden, with the back of the sofa facing the hallway and the two club chairs in front of the bookcases. Her sisal rug covered most of the floor with the exception of several feet at the end of the room where her grandmother’s portrait once hung. The space was the perfect place to set up her easels. She put her Lucite desk behind the sofa and replaced the card table with her antique walnut table and four chairs, items she’d purchase years ago with proceeds from the sale of her first painting. When the monster mover brought in her computer monitor and flat-screen television, she made a mental note to call the cable and Internet provider.
Late that afternoon, as she and Maddie stood admiring her new studio, Ellie said, “I understand why a ninety-five-year-old woman wouldn’t have Wi-Fi, but I’m surprised there’s no TV in the house. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t realize it until today.”
“Your gramma didn’t approve of television.”
“Well that’s gonna change, but not until Wednesday of next week. That’s the earliest Verizon can come. I don’t watch much TV, but I like to have at least one in the house for special news and sporting events.”
“Put one in the kitchen, and I might sneak a peek at my stories while I’m doing the ironing.” Maddie let out a cackle that made Ellie smile.
“Consider it done,” Ellie said. “You deserve to watch your stories after all these years.”
“Want me to bring a painting from one of the other rooms to cover that up?” Ellie followed her gaze to the white rectangle on the far wall where her grandmother’s portrait once hung.
“Don’t you dare! I have big plans for that wall.”
First thing on Thursday morning, Ellie drove her rental car to Lowe’s in West Ashley for supplies. She found a stepladder in the corner of the detached garage out back and positioned it in front of the wall. She then rolled the entire wall in dove gray and waited for that to dry. She spent the afternoon creating an abstract mural by splattering paint—in shades of charcoal and white and several hues of pink that matched the decorative pillows on her sofa—in an organized fashion all over the wall. She put her supplies away, tidied up the room, and stretched out on the sofa to admire her work. She’d transformed her grandmother’s shabby Florida room into a comfortable studio that was beginning to feel the tiniest bit like home.
“One room down, Pix. A whole house full of rooms to go.” Pixie looked up at her, thumping her tail on her pink doggy bed. Suddenly overwhelmed, Ellie scooped the dog up and held her tight to her body. “We’re out of our league here, you know? We have enough money to live anywhere in the world we’d like. We could go someplace exotic—a city or island or countryside where I’ll never run out of scenes to paint and you’ll never run out of places to explore.”
Her eyes came in contact with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “But first I need to find the answers I’m looking for.” She jumped up. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.” One by one, she removed the books from the shelves, studying each one carefully for clues—a newspaper clipping or photograph or pressed corsage from a long-ago dance. She found nothing, not even a church bulletin from her grandfather’s funeral.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ellie
Bennett’s wife, Lucille, invited Ellie to go for coffee on Friday morning. “Black Tap Coffee caters to the college crowd,” Lucille had said on the phone. “But the coffee’s the best in town.” The quaint coffee shop was located on Beaufain Street, a seven-minute bike ride from home. Ellie had been thrilled to see her vintage bicycle complete with front basket being unloaded from the moving truck. Considering the congestion problem in Charleston, she suspected that two wheels might be the easiest and fastest way to explore downtown without having to navigate traffic or worry about finding a place to park.
Lucille was waiting for her at a table by the window. She was the picture of casual elegance with her sleek silvery-blonde bob tucked behind her ears and the tanned skin on her face pulled tight over prominent cheekbones by an expert. They went to the counter together to order. Ellie requested the latte with homemade lavender syrup and a pastry, while Lucille asked for the Guatemalan brew.
After questioning her about her work for a few minutes, Lucille asked, “How is it that a lovely young woman such as yourself never married?”
Normally Ellie would’ve been bothered by such a personal question, and especially from someone she’d just met. But Lucille asked in a manner of genuine interest. “I just never met the right man,” Ellie said with a shrug. “My one regret is not having children.”
“Have you looked around lately?” Lucille waved her bony hand at the near
ly empty coffee shop. “Women your age are giving birth every day. I have a friend whose daughter recently gave birth to triplets at age fifty. That’s the drawback, of course. The older you are, the more likely you’ll need to resort to a fertility treatment, which increases your chances of having more than one baby. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this.”
“I should probably find the daddy for my baby first,” Ellie said as she sipped her latte.
“Now that I can help you with!” Lucille slid back in her chair and crossed her legs. “We’ll get started right away introducing you around town. Bennett and I are attending a gallery showing tonight. You must come with us. I know nothing about the artist. I’m going as a favor to the gallery owner, who is an acquaintance of mine.”
Ellie opened her mouth to decline the invitation. She was not yet ready to meet Charleston’s elite, the offspring of ancestors who were among the soldiers that fired their cannons from Fort Sumter. But Lucille didn’t give her a chance to speak. “We’ll pick you up a few minutes before six. The gallery is on Meeting. We’ll walk, of course. Finding a place to park has become such an ordeal in this town.”
She could tell from the firm set of Lucille’s delicate jaw that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “That sounds lovely. Thank you for the invitation.”
Ellie spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating the blank canvas on her easel and feeling overwhelmed by her choices of subject matter. This extraordinary city with its eccentric inhabitants and pungent smells enamored her, but she found it strange that everything seemed so foreign to her. After all, she’d lived here as a child. Shouldn’t she at least have a vague recollection of the area—the park, the waterfront, the marketplace?
She took off on foot with her camera slung over her shoulder. She meandered through the vendors at the market until she found an old basket weaver who allowed Ellie to take her picture. In exchange, despite the high price, Ellie purchased an oval-shaped sweetgrass basket from her. Admiring its craftsmanship, she thought she got the better end of the bargain. She snapped photographs of window boxes overflowing with flowers and of horse-drawn carriages packed with tourists. She walked along the waterfront imagining the sun rising over the harbor, and she strolled through Battery Park admiring the majestic live oaks. In the end, she decided to start with her garden—more specifically the view of her garden through her studio window.
The breakup with Jake had zapped her creativity. Six weeks had passed since she last set down her brush and abandoned the piece she’d been working on—a row of houses with vividly painted front doors in Russian Hill. She needed to ease back into her work, to start with a simple project to tune up her skills. First thing in the morning, she would get to work.
Ellie deliberated on what to wear for nearly an hour before finally settling on a pair of slim-fitting cropped pants, a hot-pink sleeveless silk top, and a pair of gold Tory Burch strappy sandals. Better to be underdressed than overdressed for her first social function in Charleston. At the last minute, she added a tassel necklace in shades of pink, orange, and turquoise, and a tan silk sweater that matched her pants.
“You look smashing,” Bennett said when she greeted him at the door.
Lucille nodded approvingly. “I’ve always admired a redhead who can pull off that shade of pink.”
As she locked the door, Ellie heard Pixie whimpering down the hall in her studio. Her dog seemed content in Maddie’s care, but being left alone was stressful for her. Truth be told, Ellie felt the same way. Aside from the two rooms she’d marked as her own—the guest bedroom and her studio—the house felt like a mausoleum. Eleanor Pringle’s tomb with her knickknacks displayed on every furniture surface, her urn of ashes in position of honor on the mantel, and her restless soul still occupying her bedroom upstairs.
As they walked up Church Street toward the gallery, she admired some of the smaller, more charming homes. If she decided to stay in Charleston, wouldn’t a house like one of these be better suited for her needs? She dismissed the idea, reminding herself that staying in Charleston was a big if.
When Lucille’s cell phone rang, she dropped back several paces to accept the call.
“You know that all eyes are closely watching this hurricane,” Bennett said to Ellie.
She cut a sideways glance at him. “What hurricane? I’m afraid I’m out of the loop without a TV.”
He gaped at her. “Who in this day and age doesn’t own a TV?”
Ellie smiled. “Funny thing is, I didn’t realize there was no Internet or cable until my flat screen arrived with the moving van on Wednesday. I’ve called the cable company, but they can’t get to me until next week.”
Bennett took hold of her elbow, steering her around a sidewalk that had buckled from tree roots. “There’s no need to worry about the storm yet; just be aware of it. It’s bearing down on the Caribbean as we speak. There’s a cold front making its way across the country. The hope is the cold front will push the hurricane out to sea. If the cold front weakens, though, as several models are predicting it might, the storm could pose a threat to the South Carolina coast. Best thing to do now is stay tuned to the local stations for updates, which presents a problem since you don’t have a TV.”
She removed her phone from her small shoulder bag. “I have the weather app on my iPhone. It’ll tell me what I need to know.”
“The Weather Channel is useless in situations like these,” Bennett said. “Do you have a transistor radio?”
Ellie thought about it, but she didn’t remember seeing a radio anywhere around the house. “Not that I know of, but I’ll check with Maddie.”
“I’ll be keeping an eye on the storm and will let you know if we need to make preparations.”
They cut over a block to Meeting Street and entered the art gallery. A woman with dark cropped hair and heavily made-up eyes strode toward them like a fashion model making her way down a Paris runway. “Lucille.” She kissed the air beside Lucille’s cheek and then offered her hand to Bennett. “I’m so glad you both could make it.”
Lucille grabbed Ellie by the elbow. “Felicia, I’d like you to meet my friend, Eleanor Pringle. Ellie is an artist as well.”
Felicia gave Ellie a quick once-over. “Did you say Pringle? I don’t believe I’ve heard of you.”
Ellie flashed Felicia her most brilliant smile, the one she reserved for snooty women. “Oh, but you will. I’ve only just moved to town.”
Bennett drew himself to his full height like a proud papa, and Lucille pressed her lips together to hide her amusement.
“Right. I’ll be sure to be on the lookout.” Felicia glanced around the crowded room. “I must greet my other guests. Be sure to introduce yourselves to Faye Ryan, the artist. She’s floating around here somewhere.”
Ellie waited until Felicia was out of earshot before asking, “What was all that about?”
“Felicia fancies herself the darling of contemporary art in this town,” Bennett said in a low voice.
Ellie watched the gallery owner mingling with patrons on the other side of the room. “Leave it to me to get off on the wrong foot with the woman who can make or break my career.”
Lucille patted her arm. “No need to worry, dear. You handled her well. She has a higher opinion of herself than she deserves. Felicia is best taken with a grain of salt.”
Lucille and Bennett introduced her to so many of their friends, Ellie stopped trying to remember their names. She’d never been good at meeting people. She preferred socializing in more intimate gatherings. She waited until Lucille and Bennett struck up a conversation about the hurricane with a group of their peers before sneaking off to explore the exhibit. She was particularly drawn to an abstract of a tree in bloom, its branches with their waxy green leaves and dinner-plate-size, cream-color blooms. She was standing out of the way of the crowd, admiring the painting, when she felt someone’s presence behind her.
In a gentle Southern drawl, a deep voice asked, “Are you a fan?”
She glanced back to see a handsome man about her age staring down at her. His unusual eyes, more golden than chocolate, the color of cognac, studied her from behind black-rimmed glasses. His lips were curled up in a soft smile that produced a dimple on his right cheek.
“Of the artist or the painting?” she asked.
He inched closer to her. “The subject. How do you feel about Southern magnolias?”
Of course. The magnolia tree. How could she have forgotten?
A memory of her five-year-old self curled up at the foot of her mother’s bed rushed back to her from out of the blue. Her mother lifted a weak arm and pointed her long finger at the window. “Be a love and open the window for Mama,” she said in a hoarse murmur.
Ellie slid off the bed and padded over to the window in bare feet. She struggled with the window, managing to open it enough for the cool night air to penetrate her mother’s stuffy bedroom with the intoxicating aroma of magnolias in bloom.
“My grandmother has an enormous tree like that in the back corner of her garden,” Ellie said to the man. “I’ve been trying to remember the name. Magnolias don’t grow well in San Francisco where I’m from.”
“I don’t imagine they do. They’re indigenous to the South.” He stepped in line with her and offered his hand. “I’m Julian Hagood. Welcome to Charleston. Are you in town visiting your grandmother?”
She gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Actually, I live here now, in my grandmother’s house. She recently passed away. I’m Ellie Pringle.”
“That would make you Eleanor Pringle’s granddaughter. Our grandmothers were acquaintances. If I’m not mistaken, they were once in the same bridge club, decades ago before your grandmother became a recluse. No offense.”
“None taken.” She turned to face him. “I didn’t know my grandmother, but she didn’t have any other living relatives, so she left her house to me.”
Magnolia Nights Page 5
