The Guests on South Battery

by Karen White

  Amelia paused on the landing and rubbed her hands over her arms. “I suppose the air-conditioning must be on up here, because it’s definitely colder than downstairs.”

  “Probably,” I said, remembering the window unit in Button’s room and praying that was what it was. I turned to look at Jayne and saw her chilled breath rising from her opened mouth.

  Amelia resumed climbing. “I never really blamed Anna for being the way she was. She was an only child, left behind with staff so her parents could travel the world without her. Her father owned an architecture and construction company, so they were very wealthy, and they made sure she had the best of everything, except themselves. She was always starving for affection. I think that’s why she was never really one of our crowd. Button, Ginette, and I were good friends and would have welcomed her into our circle, but Anna didn’t know how to share her affections.”

  I paused on the landing, feeling the warring between two separate and distinct entities, the push and pull that I had quickly begun to associate with being in this house. I slowly climbed each step, feeling like a woman being led to the scaffold, Jayne close behind me.

  I half expected to see that doll again by the attic door, but I hadn’t received a panicked phone call from Sophie, so I was hoping it was still locked up in the safe in her friend’s office. Behind a pile of bricks. And a Catholic priest with holy water.

  A door shut behind us, and I jumped. “That’s Button’s room,” I said. “It must be the air conditioner,” I added hopefully, praying that my companions wouldn’t point out that the door would have been blown open, not closed.

  “Good,” Amelia said. “Leave it closed and let’s give the upstairs a few minutes to warm up.” She headed toward the attic door, seemingly unaware of the pulsating air that shimmered around us, or the putrid smell of rotting flesh.

  She turned the doorknob and I held my breath in the split second after I realized that I didn’t need to. The curtain had come down again inside my head with an almost audible pop. The air had settled, the smell gone, leaving only the fresh scent of sawdust and new plaster.

  I drew in a deep breath as she pushed the door open. I glanced back at Jayne, who seemed completely unaware that something had just happened. I was relieved, not wanting to relive the scene of her being pushed down the stairs.

  We began to climb another set of steps to the attic, well lit from the window at the top.

  “Why would they put a sickly child up in the attic?” Jayne asked.

  Amelia reached the top of the stairs and turned to look at us. “It was Hasell’s choice. She always wanted to travel the world but couldn’t. So she satisfied her longing by being able to see the water and the boats and ships passing by. She would make up stories of the great adventures she imagined the passengers were having, and a lot of other really creative stories of her own imaginary world. She actually wrote them down in a large notebook, always saying that one day she’d like to have them published. Not that she ever had the chance, of course. I actually looked for the notebook earlier, but it must have been removed at some point.”

  Jayne was humming something to herself as we both stepped into the attic, the sound immediately stopping as we took it all in. Despite the peaked ceiling and an exposed rafter bisecting the middle, it would not have been apparent that this room was an attic. There was water damage evident on one entire wall, but the rest of the room, although musty, was mostly unscathed.

  The four walls had been painted a bright, azure blue, with vivid depictions of sea and sky and foreign lands. In one small section a replica of the house had been painted on a spit of land next to what was labeled the Ashley River, and there were other bits of land throughout the mural showing the Eiffel Tower and the British houses of Parliament and other known landmarks from around the world.

  “This is amazing,” Jayne said with awe in her voice. “Who painted this?”

  “Her father—Sumter,” Amelia said. “He was very artistic—although you’d never guess it from his choice of profession. And he loved his daughter. Button once told me that he was glad they had this huge house so that he would have room for the dozen or so children he planned to have.”

  I walked toward the bed, a hulking ghost beneath white sheets draped over four posts, one edge having slipped to reveal a delicate white eyelet nightgown draped at the foot of the bed, its color faded yellow with age. “Could Anna not have any more children after Hasell?”

  Amelia turned on the ceiling fan, stirring up dust but moving the still, heavy air. “She didn’t want to. Hasell needed all her attention, and Anna didn’t think it would be fair to any siblings not to give them the attention they deserved. I don’t think it ever occurred to her or to Sumter that Hasell might not live to adulthood.”

  Jayne gasped and I turned around in time to see the black cat running down the steps, then disappearing into the hallway.

  “What’s wrong?” Amelia asked.

  “That cat,” I said. “We have no idea how it gets inside the house. I hate to think there’s a hole somewhere—who knows what else might be crawling inside?”

  Amelia frowned. “I do hope you find out where it’s gaining access. Maybe when the security people come to wire the house they’ll find it.”

  I was only half listening. A reflection of sunlight had refocused my attention on a corner étagère that had been covered by a dust sheet that must have come loose and slipped to the floor. It had to have been recently, because there was very little dust on the shelves or on what appeared to be hundreds of snow globes in all sizes covering all the available surfaces.

  “Oh, yes, Hasell’s snow globe collection,” Amelia said as she approached. “Whenever Sumter had to travel on business, he’d bring one back for Hasell. But a lot of these places he visited only because Hasell wanted to go there. I think that sometimes he went out of his way to make a stopover just to pick up a snow globe.” She picked up one that had a giant sun wearing sunglasses floating in water tinted blue by the painted background, the word “MIAMI” spelled out in bright orange on the base. Amelia gave it a shake and we watched specks of sparkling sand erupt from the bottom like a sudden typhoon and rain on the sun, blocking its smile for a moment.

  Amelia replaced the snow globe. “That’s why I wanted you to see all this. Of course you can decide to donate it all to Goodwill or some other worthy organization. Or keep it here, or even store it somewhere. I just didn’t think it was something that should be left up to somebody else. You didn’t know Button, but she entrusted you with the care of this house and everything in it.”

  Jayne had gone very pale, her skin and lips appearing almost bloodless. “I need to be alone for a moment—do you mind? I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “You don’t look well at all,” Amelia said kindly, approaching with her hand outstretched.

  Jayne shook her head rigorously. “No, I’m fine. You two go on. I’ll be down in just a minute.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, feeling the temperature drop again, and the familiar sensation of skin prickling on my scalp and neck.

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “Just go.”

  With a quick glance back at Jayne, Amelia and I climbed down both sets of stairs and stopped in the downstairs foyer. “You go on,” I told Amelia. “I’ll wait here and make sure she’s all right.”

  She nodded, a delicate fold in the skin over her nose. “There’s something about her. . . .” She paused.

  “She reminds you of somebody?”

  Amelia shook her head. “It’s more than that. It’s not even that I think I might have met her before. There’s just something so . . . familiar.” She smiled. “Never mind.” She kissed me on both cheeks and then headed for the door. “Let me know that she’s all right.”

  “I will.” We said good-bye and I stood in the dining room watching the workers painstakingly chiseling away a small patch of r
otten woodwork, something that would have tempted me to whip out an ax and make firewood.

  A door slammed, and I looked up the stairs to find Jayne walking quickly down them, clutching tightly to the banister as if remembering the last time she’d descended them. When she reached the bottom, a loud meow brought our attention to the landing behind her, where the cat sat, licking its chops as if it had just eaten. I looked at Jayne, eager to talk with her, but she avoided my eyes.

  “Stupid cat—I think it scratched me,” she said, and walked past me, pulling up the neck of her T-shirt, but not before I saw the unmistakable red welts that could only have been caused by fingernails raking across the pale skin of her neck.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ilooked out the front window to see if anybody had arrived yet for the predance party, then held up a tray of canapés to Jack. He shook his head, taking a sip from his glass of Coke instead, making the ice cubes clink. I turned my back and quickly shoved a Brie and prosciutto wrap in my mouth, taking my time replacing the tray and rearranging the other appetizers on the sideboard. I glanced up, noticing that the grandfather clock had once again stopped at ten minutes past four, and the food stuck in my throat.

  I took a sip of wine to make sure the food was all washed down before speaking. “Jack—didn’t you have this clock fixed?”

  He turned to it with a frown. “It wasn’t broken. I just wound it and set the time and it seemed fine. Has it stopped again?”

  “Yes. At the same time as the clock at the Pinckney house and in the kitchen. I’m thinking that can’t be a coincidence.”

  He sent me a knowing look, then took another sip of his Coke, and I knew he was wishing it were Scotch.

  “Really, Jack, it’s just a dance. And we know Cooper is a very nice young man. Besides, they’re just going as friends. His sister will be there, as well as their friend Lindsey, with a couple of Cooper’s friends. Yes, there’s the age difference, but nobody’s on a date here—it’s just a group thing.”

  “He’s nineteen years old, Mellie. I remember what being a nineteen-year-old boy is like. Very little brain matter and a lot of hormones.” He drained his glass and walked over to the bar to pour another one.

  “Cooper is not you, Jack. I’m not saying he doesn’t have a roaring libido, but he’s a Citadel cadet. Surely they teach them how to restrain certain urges. Besides, you know how Nola feels about alcohol. She’s already told Cooper that if she sees anything that might resemble underage drinking, she’s calling you. Same goes for any of what you refer to as ‘hanky-panky.’ That should put the fear of God in them. They’re even renting a limo so they will all be together the entire time, and leave together, so no backseat shenanigans—to use your word, not mine.”

  “Should I wait on the front porch cleaning my rifle just to send the right message?”

  I started to laugh but then realized he might actually be serious. “No, please don’t. I don’t know what the other parents might think.”

  “Daddy?” Nola appeared in the doorway looking beautiful and stunning and completely like her father’s daughter. I’d helped her select her dress, a pretty purple satin swing dress that was very retro but not too mini, so it wouldn’t make Jack’s blood pressure hit alarmingly high levels. I’d helped her with her hair—a small bouffant ponytail worn over the full length of her thick, dark hair that was flipped out at the ends.

  Jack smiled, his worry erased from his face as he looked at his older daughter. Of all the things I loved about Jack, I thought it was his love for his children that I treasured the most, and that made my heart squeeze. Even when he was acting like a caveman.

  He embraced her carefully, not wanting to mess up her hair or makeup, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “You look lovely,” he said. His smile slowly morphed into a thoughtful frown. “Did you put that Mace I gave you in your pocketbook?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, Dad. And nobody calls it a pocketbook anymore, either. Unless you’re old.”

  The doorbell rang. Jack put down his drink and smoothed his tie. “I’ll get it. And if I don’t like the looks of any of those boys, I’m sending them home with a warning.”

  “Daddy!” Nola called out with alarm.

  “He’s only kidding,” I said to reassure her, although I wasn’t quite certain that was true.

  The three young men with their uniforms and short-cropped hair looked exceptionally handsome. They were tall, and fit, and had perfect manners. The more I liked them, the more I saw Jack’s brow lower.

  We already knew Alston and her parents, Cecily and Cal Ravenel, and Cooper, and introductions were made for Lindsey’s father, Michael Farrell. I knew Veronica, of course, and had met her again at my mother’s house but hadn’t spoken to her since Thomas gave me her sister’s necklace. I introduced them to Jack, who was friendly and polite, but it was clear his attention was on his daughter and Cooper.

  Mrs. Houlihan had stayed to help with the little party, and was busy passing around the trays of food and napkins while Jack tended the bar, making a point of giving the boys glasses of ice water even if they asked for a Coke or lemonade, as if caffeine and sugar might affect their judgment.

  Nola had forbidden me from taking photos, but this would have been unnecessary anyway, judging by the number of cell phone photos and selfies that were being snapped. I’d ask Nola to curate hers and forward them on to me. When I’d realized that she didn’t have any baby or early childhood photos, it had become my mission to document every moment of her life since she’d come to live with us, as if that could make up for all her early years. I was hoping to give her a scrapbook album as part of her high school graduation gift. It was my little secret, which was hard to keep when Jack and Nola both teased me for my excessive photo taking at every family and school event.

  I found myself standing alone with Michael, Lindsey’s father. He didn’t strike me as being overly shy, but I saw that he kept to himself, smiling and nodding while in a group, then slowly extricating himself with an excuse for food or drink. He never rejoined the people he’d been speaking with, preferring instead to stand by himself, wearing what I would almost call a look of smug satisfaction. He seemed to have an excessive fascination with the furniture and artwork in the room. He’d paused by the grandfather clock when I joined him.

  “These old clocks never work, do they?” he said dismissively.

  “Actually, this clock has been keeping perfect time for almost two centuries. It’s only recently that we’ve begun to have issues with it.” I wanted to tell him that it also had an ingenious hidden compartment where Confederate diamonds had once been hidden, but I had the perverse need to deprive him of the knowledge.

  He looked doubtful, as if I were lying to him. “I can hear it ticking, and the pendulum is moving, but the hands are stuck. Seems like a permanent disability to me.”

  “It’s not,” I said, smiling, wondering why this man seemed to rub me the wrong way.

  As if sensing this, he smiled back. “Look, I’m sorry. Antiques are my wife’s thing. I was raised in a small town by a hairdresser and a mechanic. We didn’t live in a trailer home, but our house wasn’t much bigger or sturdier. And we couldn’t drive it anywhere.” He laughed a little and I joined in to be polite.

  “Anyway, let’s just say the only antique we had was a sofa my mother got at a garage sale that looked awful and smelled even worse. So when I married into Veronica’s family . . .” He shrugged as if that explained everything.

  And in a way, it did. They lived in a big, beautiful Victorian mansion on Queen Street, and I imagined it had been in Veronica’s family for a while. “So you don’t like antiques?”

  “Hate them. Who wants stuff that other people have touched and used before? I swear the house is more like a shrine to dead family members than a house for those of us still living.”

  Despite my earlier impression, I was starting to li
ke this man. “Some people say that these old houses and the things that remain inside are our touchstones to the past. A way of keeping history alive.”

  He snorted. “More like living in the past so we have an excuse not to move forward. We’ve only lived there a year—we moved her parents to an assisted-living facility last Christmas and Veronica inherited it—and I’m just amazed at what people are willing to adjust to so they can live in a historic house. I mean, we freeze to death in the winter because to add a whole new HVAC system to the house would ruin its historical integrity. And to get it done ‘the right way’”—he said these last three words using air quotes—“according to Veronica, which would mean getting an architect involved as well as somebody who knows something about historic preservation, would cost a fortune. I say just do it the cheapest way so that we’re not wearing our winter coats inside three months out of the year, and to hell with the Board of Architectural Review.”

  In the not-so-distant past, I probably would have high-fived Michael. But I’d suddenly had a vision of what my house might look like now without Sophie’s careful attention to its historical integrity, and it made me a little sad. Not as sad as when I imagined how healthy my bank account would look if I didn’t listen to her, but sad nonetheless.

  “True,” I said. “But they do serve a purpose, even if they are annoying. The BAR makes sure that our historic district is preserved and not stripped of all its character. Then we’d just be another Atlanta.”

  “Is that so bad?” he asked, using his index finger to flick a tassel that hung from the casement key on the clock.

  I would not tell Sophie that I’d actually uttered words from my own mouth that I’d heard her say time and time again to me. These were usually accepted by me with great derision followed by remarks of how if we became another Atlanta we wouldn’t have to deal with the throngs of tourists. Or cruise ships. “I’m not sure,” I hedged. “I think one could make an argument for both sides.”