The Guests on South Battery

by Karen White

  “No. I don’t need to. I don’t like old houses as a rule, so there’s no reason for me to go inside.”

  I stared at her. “You don’t like old houses?”

  “I don’t like all that . . . history in a place. I want something fresh and new. Lots of metal and glass and stone.”

  “I see,” I said, jotting down notes. I did see. I’d said those exact same words when I first inherited my house on Tradd Street and had said them often since, the most recent this very morning as I’d turned my back on my sunken garden and headed toward my car. “Where is your house located?”

  “On South Battery Street. Right near the corner of Legare—the big white house with the portico and columns.”

  I thought for a moment. “The old Pinckney house?” I knew it, of course. I was on a first-name basis with just about every old house in Charleston either through a family connection or from my job as a Realtor specializing in historic real estate. “Button Pinckney was an acquaintance of my mine—a lovely woman. Was she a close relative?”

  Jayne looked down at her hands as if embarrassed. “Actually, I’d never met her. And I didn’t know until now that Caroline Pinckney had a nickname. I didn’t even know of her existence until three weeks ago when her lawyers contacted me to let me know I’d inherited her estate.”

  Déjà vu. I had a flash of memory of me sitting in a lawyer’s office not far from here as a lawyer explained to me that Nevin Vanderhorst, a man I’d met just once, had left me his crumbling house on Tradd Street that I neither wanted nor needed.

  I was clenching the pencil so tightly that I had to place it on the pad of paper. I forced a smile. “Miss Pinckney was a friend of both my mother’s and my mother-in-law’s. They all went to school together at Ashley Hall.” I thought for a moment. “As far as I recall, Button never married or had any children. There was an older brother, I believe, who died a few years back. I don’t believe he had any children, either, although I’m pretty sure he was married at some point.” I remembered, too, that there had been some sort of tragedy associated with the family, but I couldn’t recall the details.

  Jayne sighed. “Yes, well, you can’t imagine my surprise to hear that I’ve inherited an old house from a complete stranger.”

  “Believe it or not, I actually can.” I closed my mouth, unwilling to share my personal feelings toward old houses and the way the walls always seemed to be whispering. “Maybe your mother or father or some other family member might want to see it first before you make any decisions. Surely they’ll have some idea as to why Miss Pinckney left her house to you.”

  Jayne went very still. “There’s no one.” She slowly raised her eyes to mine. “I don’t have a family. I was raised in the foster care system and was never adopted.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. A disturbance in the air behind her made the space shimmer, like the shift in air pressure before a storm. I stared hard, trying to see what it was, but saw nothing. But I knew it was there, watching us. Listening. Wanting to be seen but unable to show itself. My gaze met Jayne’s. She stared back at me unblinking, and again I felt as if we’d met before.

  She continued. “I’m fine with it now—it was a long time ago. Maybe this inheritance is just karma for an unsettled childhood and I shouldn’t question it too closely.” She smiled brightly, and I almost believed her.

  “Did the lawyer give any indication why Miss Pinckney chose you?”

  “I did ask, but he said she didn’t share any details or more information, even though he asked her repeatedly, anticipating, correctly, that I’d have my own questions. He did say he’d done a little bit of research on his own but hadn’t been able to discover anything.”

  There was something about this woman that I liked, that made me want to help her. Maybe it was because I remembered a time in my life when I’d felt like an abandoned orphan, navigating life all on my own. “My husband is a writer who writes books about the area and knows everybody in Charleston, living or dead. He has a real knack for finding unturned stones. If you’d like, I could ask him to help.”

  “Thank you—I’ll think about it,” she said. “I can’t help wondering if finding out why would be a bit like looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  I nodded, understanding her position more than she could imagine. “And you’re sure you want to sell it?”

  “Absolutely. Old houses don’t appeal to me at all. They all have that . . . smell about them. Like decay and mildew and dust. That’s why I’d like to take the money from the sale of the house and find something more modern and fresh. Preferably built within the last five years.”

  I nodded, thinking about my old condo in Mt. Pleasant, with its plain white walls and gleaming chrome and glass surfaces, where I’d lived before my unexpected inheritance and still thought fondly of from time to time. Usually directly after writing out another check to Rich Kobylt for a repair. “All right. But we’ll have to go into the house to get a value. To see what kind of shape it’s in and if it needs any immediate repairs before putting it on the market. Sadly, most of them do.” I thought of Mr. Vanderhorst and his sad smile. “It’s like a piece of history you can hold in your hands.” I smiled at Jayne, trying to appear hopeful. “A good friend of mine—Dr. Sophie Wallen-Arasi—is a professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston, and I know she’d love to come along and give us her professional opinion.”

  I could hear her swallow. “You can do that on your own, right? I wouldn’t have to go inside, too, would I?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, studying her. “But I think it would be a very good idea for you to see it for yourself. Who knows? Maybe you’ll change your mind about selling. It’s been known to happen.”

  “I won’t,” she said quickly. “So, ballpark—how much do you think the house could be worth? I’m not being mercenary or anything; it’s just that I’ll need to know how much I can spend on the new condo. I have no idea how long it will take to get a job here, so I won’t be able to rely on a salary at first.”

  “To be honest, I have to go inside before I could make any determination. There are several houses on the same street that have sold in the low seven figures in the past few years, but there are also some that have sold for quite a bit less, mostly because of their condition. Buyers get them for a steal but then end up spending three or four times over the purchase price in restoration work. It would be in your best interest to get the highest selling price possible, which might mean doing some basic renovations before it hits the market.”

  She nodded slowly. “Well, that’s a start anyway. And I’ve already made appointments with several agencies to start the job hunt. It’s just a long process with background checks and all, and I really want the sale of the house behind me before I start working full-time. And I can’t buy a new place until it sells.”

  I was busy writing down notes, including reminders to talk to Jack and my mother about Button Pinckney and her family, and their connection with Jayne Smith. “What is it that you do?” I asked absently.

  “I’m a certified professional nanny.”

  The lead from my mechanical pencil snapped. “A nanny? Like, for small children?”

  She laughed. “Are there any other kinds? But yes, a nanny for small children—and older ones, too. Some people find it odd that somebody raised without siblings would want to be a nanny, but I think that’s why I am. I was in lots of foster families, and I always ended up taking care of the younger children. I guess even back then I knew that would be my only chance at having siblings—at least for a short time.”

  I placed the pencil down on my desk and leaned back in my chair. “What is your take on sleeping and feeding schedules for infants?”

  “A definite must. Schedules are incredibly important to growing children. They need regular feeding and sleeping times.”

  “Family bed?”

  “A bad
idea.”

  “Bottles in the crib?”

  “Never. Rots their teeth.”

  “Spanking?”

  “Time-out chair is more effective.”

  “Cloth or disposable?”

  “Disposable.”

  “Baby French lessons?”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Infant beauty pageants?”

  Jayne sent me a sidewise glance. “Seriously? You don’t seem the type.”

  I smiled. “I’m not—just checking.” I pushed my chair back from the desk. “So, it just happens that I’m looking for a nanny for my ten-month-old twins. Their last one left rather suddenly and we’re a bit desperate, I’m afraid. It seems as if we agree on many child-rearing issues. If you’re interested, I’d love for you to come meet them and allow us to get to know each other better. Perhaps even make it a permanent thing if it all works out.”

  She practically beamed and I had to restrain myself from doing cartwheels around the room and giving myself fist bumps. “I’m definitely interested,” she said.

  “Good. I’ll have to do a background check, of course.”

  “Absolutely. I can give you all the contact information from my agency in Birmingham, as well as references from my last three families. I think you’ll be happy with my past performance.”

  I pulled out one of my business cards from the holder on my desk and handed it to her. I waited for her to say something about the multiple phone numbers, but instead she responded by sliding her own card across the desk toward me. I picked it up and saw that she had two cell phone numbers. I looked at her and smiled, feeling as if I had finally met a kindred spirit.

  “Because you never know when one phone will stop working or has a dead battery,” she explained.

  “Exactly.” My smile widened. “It’s so nice to finally meet somebody who thinks ahead. Everybody else seems to only understand how to live in the minute.”

  Jayne stood, too. “I know, right? It can be annoying to be the only one prepared for the ‘just in case’ scenario.” She reached her hand across the desk and we shook. “It’s a pleasure meeting you. I’ll get all my information together and bring it over later today so you can get started with my background check. And call me anytime to set up an appointment to meet your children and husband.”

  “And to go over and look at the Pinckney house. I’ll check with Sophie about her availability and let you know.”

  Her smile dimmed. “All right. I guess the sooner we start, the sooner we can get it sold.”

  We said good-bye and I returned to my desk, spotting the pink slips Jolly had given me. Two were from my annoying cousin and Jack’s ex-girlfriend, Rebecca, and one was from the journalist at the Post and Courier, Suzy Dorf, who had an abnormal interest in me and my house. Since I would have preferred to stick a knitting needle into my eyeball rather than speak with either of them, I folded each note up into tiny little squares, then placed them in the bottom of my trash can.

  It was only when I picked up the phone to call Sophie that I realized the presence was gone, leaving only the fresh scent of rain as evidence that it had ever been there at all.

  CHAPTER 3

  Despite my battered and bruised feet, I nearly skipped home. It had been a long day, the bright spot being Skyping with Jack while he fed the babies their lunches of strained peas and pureed peaches. He’d still worn the T-shirt and pajama bottoms he’d slept in, but I refrained from commenting. I’d come to understand that writers had a few eccentricities I had to learn to live with. Not scheduling certain things like dressing in the morning or vetting one’s sock and underwear drawer on a monthly basis were just a few of the quirks to which I was making an effort to adjust.

  I couldn’t wait to get home and kiss my babies and tell Jack that not only did I have a lead on a nanny, but I had three new clients—in addition to Jayne Smith—and six house showings already scheduled for the rest of the week. They’d all seen the ad I’d placed in the latest edition of Charleston Magazine, for which Nola had suggested including a picture of Jack and me, all three children, and the dogs in front of my Tradd Street house. She said it would make people believe that I knew what people meant when they said they were looking for a family home, and that I understood that historic homes were meant to be lived in.

  I wasn’t sure I believed all that, but if it helped me sell houses, so be it. During my downtime, in which I’d dealt with the prospect of losing my home, an angry ghost, a difficult pregnancy that included months of bed rest, and my undefined relationship with Jack, I’d lost out on two news-making sales in Charleston—the Chisholm-Alston Greek Revival purchased by a well-known international fashion designer and the old, dilapidated yet still magnificent Renaissance mansion known as Villa Margherita on South Battery. I’d cried for days after learning those homes had sold and I hadn’t been the one to broker the deals. If anything, my anguish meant that my competitive spirit, dormant for so long, had reemerged kicking and screaming.

  It was a good thing, considering we owed Nola for the money she’d given us to purchase the house when my ownership was contested. She was already a successful songwriter, having sold two songs to pop artist Jimmy Gordon and having one of them featured in an iPhone commercial, and she’d willingly given us the money, but neither Jack nor I would feel good about it until we paid her back in full with interest. Despite recent career setbacks, Jack had just signed a healthy two-book contract with his new publisher, but we were still trying to recover financially. Not to mention the fact that we owned an old house whose favorite hobby seemed to be hemorrhaging money.

  My pace slowed as I neared my house, catching sight of not only Sophie’s white Prius parked at the curb, but also Rich Kobylt’s truck still in the same spot as I’d last seen it. This couldn’t be good. I hadn’t been able to reach Sophie when I tried earlier, and I wondered if she’d been avoiding speaking to me on the phone. She mistakenly believed that people would prefer bad news to be delivered in person. I didn’t, simply because if there were no witnesses to me hearing the news, then I could pretend it never happened.

  I stopped, considering retreating to the office, but I suddenly became aware of my feet—or what was left of them—and knew I couldn’t. With a heavy sigh, I slipped off my shoes and limped the last hundred feet to the garden gate barefoot.

  Sophie and Rich were standing by the indentation in my yard, now surrounded by yellow tape, along with a woman in her early twenties. Sophie spotted me and turned around with a huge smile. Her daughter, two months younger than my own babies, was worn in an outward-facing papoose, and gave me a single-toothed smile. She had dark, curly hair like her mother, big blue eyes like her father, Chad, and baby Birkenstocks over socks on her tiny feet. In my opinion, only babies looked good in Birkenstocks.

  “Melanie!” Sophie said enthusiastically, making me immediately suspicious.

  “Good to see you, Sophie. I’ve got to go change and check on the babies. . . .”

  “Nice try. Nola and Jack are with the children.” She looked down at my shoes dangling from my hand. “And you’re almost undressed anyway. You know, if you wore Birkenstocks, your feet wouldn’t hurt.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have any self-respect.” As I approached, a frigid wind blew across my face and lifted my hair, but I could see that no one else was affected. Ignoring it, I headed straight for Sophie and the baby. My new-mother status made me a magnet for small babies with soft skin and pudgy toes, and I gently squeezed the baby’s plump cheek. “How is Blue Skye today?” I no longer cringed when I said her name, which was a good thing, since I saw her frequently. Still, I shortened it to Skye often enough that I hoped they’d stop expecting to hear “Blue” in front of it. There was only so much Bohemian I could take.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” I said to Sophie, studying the brightly colored tie-dyed kerchief that kept her curls at bay, and her
similarly hued pants and T-shirt ensemble, all worn under a rainbow-striped parka opened at the front to accommodate the baby. I couldn’t see much of the bundled baby except for her face and the tie-dyed knit hat and socks beneath her Birkenstocks, but I had the horrible feeling that they were wearing matching outfits.

  Sophie smiled brightly, confirming my earlier suspicions. “Yes, well, I had two classes to teach today, and then Mr. Kobylt called. Seems like he’s found something interesting in your backyard.”

  I waited for someone to say the words “dead body,” my gaze moving from Sophie to Rich and to the young woman who kept staring at me as if she knew me.

  Instead Sophie said, “I’d like you to meet my new research assistant, Meghan Black. She’s a second-year in the historic preservation program at the college. Her thesis is on this very thing, so I knew she would be the right person to bring over to take a look.”

  I introduced myself to the grad student, distracted by the pearls around her neck, the pale green cardigan and khakis she wore, and the Kate Spade flats on her feet. Not the sort of thing one might wear to dig in the dirt. She had pretty brown eyes and long light brown hair she wore in a high ponytail, and had the same kind of enthusiasm Sophie had when surrounded by old things. I wondered absently how long it would take before she began wearing Birkenstocks, too, and how her mother might feel about that.

  I focused on Sophie again. “What sort of thing?”

  “An old cistern. Right here in the back of your property!” She sounded as if we’d just found Blackbeard’s buried treasure.

  “A cistern? As in an old water collector?”

  “Exactly!” She beamed as if I were her favorite student. “This thing has been sitting here since probably before the house was built in 1848. I’m thinking it might even predate the Revolutionary War and was the cistern for a previous building on the site.”

  At the mention of something even older than my house being found in my backyard, I’d already begun to shake my head in denial before Meghan said, “From what we can already see, the bricks are mismatched and were probably taken from other structures. Could have been from outbuildings that were no longer used from here or different places. I’ve even seen a few cases where bricks were taken from cemeteries when they were moved to make way for new streets and buildings.”