The Girl On Legare Street

by Karen White

  CHAPTER 11

  I’d just closed the last of my suitcases when I heard Jack call from downstairs. “Mellie? Are you here? I hope so because the front door is wide open.”

  Crap. I’d left the door open so I could shuttle my personal belongings from the house to the car in preparation for my move to the house on Legare Street. “Crap,” I said out loud as I yanked the suitcase from the bed and let it fall to the floor. General Lee pawed eagerly at the closed bedroom door at the sound of Jack’s voice. I scooped him up and whispered in his ear, “Jack is not our friend, remember? He eats little dogs for breakfast.”

  His ears perked up and his eyes widened, but he turned toward the door again in anticipation of Jack’s arrival.

  “Mellie!” Jack called again.

  I opened the door a crack, listening as Jack’s footsteps faded toward the kitchen in the back of the house. Using the opportunity, I grabbed the suitcase with my free hand and headed toward the stairs. I was on the bottom tread when I heard Jack walking back from the kitchen. I ducked into the dining room, then looked furtively around me for a place to hide. All of the window treatments and furniture had been removed in anticipation of the floor stripping that was scheduled to start as soon as I moved out, leaving nothing to hide behind.

  I eyed the butler’s pantry, the door partially obscured in the room’s wall paneling. Dropping the suitcase, I pried open the door and slipped inside just as I heard Jack’s voice in the dining room. Belatedly, I recalled the suitcase I’d left behind.

  Jack rapped on the door. “Mellie? Are you in there?”

  I was hoping that if I didn’t answer he’d go away. Any thoughtful, kind, and considerate gentleman would.

  Without asking again, Jack opened the door and peered inside at the darkness—and me standing inside holding the dog.

  “There you are,” I said to General Lee as I pushed past Jack into the living room. “I have no idea how he got in there.”

  Jack’s lips twitched, but some element of self-preservation held him back from laughing outright. “You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

  “Avoiding you? Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes alit with an alarming sparkle. “I have no idea. It’s just that ever since we took our road trip to Mimosa Hall you haven’t answered any of my phone calls and you haven’t been home when I’ve stopped by.”

  I focused on scratching General Lee behind the ears. “I’ve been busy. I had to put all of the furniture in storage, get all of the kitchen stuff on Mrs. Houlihan’s list together so she can operate in my mother’s kitchen, and then get myself packed up to go to Legare Street. It’s been time consuming.”

  Jack rubbed his jaw, the sparkle in his eyes not diminishing. “Well, that’s a relief. I was thinking it had to do with me putting you to bed when you were half conscious.”

  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Why? Did I say anything? Anything that might make you think less of me?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Actually, I was thinking you were avoiding me because you were embarrassed that I know what you sleep in at night. It was pretty horrifying, you know. All that flannel.”

  The relief made my toes tingle. Maybe the snatches of conversation that kept floating in my brain really had been a dream. I put General Lee on the floor. “It’s not like you haven’t seen worse,” I said, referring to sharing a bathroom with me after he’d moved in the first time so I wouldn’t be alone in the old house. There’d been more than one occasion when I’d neglected to remove my drying lingerie from the shower.

  “That’s debatable.” Jack bent down to pet the dog, then eyed the suitcase. “Can I help you load your car?”

  “All done,” I said, glancing at my watch. “And with five minutes to spare. Your mother’s meeting me over at the Legare Street house to talk about furniture, so I’ve got to run.”

  “I know. She told me. That’s how I figured I’d find you here.”

  Without asking, he picked up my suitcase and motioned for me to walk in front of him, General Lee tagging along behind us. “So what did you need to talk with me about that you couldn’t leave on voice mail?”

  I walked into the foyer and opened the front door for him.

  “Mrs. McGowan is back home and she gave me a call. Thought you might be interested in our conversation.”

  I felt a little shiver of apprehension tease my spine, remembering the voice that had whispered my name, recalling my fear even through the haze of brandy. “What did she say?”

  “She said that she makes the best blueberry cobbler and invited me to come try some next time I’m in her neck of the woods.”

  I rolled my eyes. No woman, even one who’d never laid eyes on Jack, was immune to his charms. It was nauseating, really. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Yep. That the name of the New England family that owned the house before the McGowans was the Crandall family from Darien, Connecticut.”

  I waited for him to say something more. “And?”

  “That’s all. Does the name ring a bell with you?”

  “Not at all.” We reached my car and I moved to the driver’s side to push the trunk release, then waited while Jack added my suitcase to the rest of the bags inside. He frowned at them before shutting the trunk.

  “She did say that she’d go through the old letters again and see if she can find out anything else. She does remember some kind of family tragedy from sometime in the latter half of the 1800s. Couldn’t remember exactly what. But she’s going to go back and look, see what she can find out, then let me know. Maybe I’ll go down for a visit and some blueberry cobbler.”

  “You do that,” I said as I slid into the driver’s seat. I caught a movement near the old oak tree and I startled, remembering the woman and the child who had once haunted that section of the garden. But the person pointing a camera at me and crouched behind the Confederate roses was definitely not a ghost.

  Jack followed my gaze and saw the photographer, too. “You go on ahead. I’ll take care of this guy. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. The media attention since the raising of the Rose had died down considerably during the ensuing weeks, but every once in a while an overeager photographer or journalist could be found waiting to catch me off guard. It was really no more than a nuisance, but I bristled at the attention. I read each headline with dread, waiting for the words “psychic Realtor” or “spook-seeing agent” attached to any of the articles or photographs. Luckily, everything had been focused on the sailboat and the human remains found on board, and my career was intact. For now.

  “And could you please put General Lee in the kitchen?”

  Jack picked up the dog, then saluted me before heading toward the garden.

  I put the car into gear, then drove the short blocks over to Legare. I spotted Amelia’s Mercedes in front of the house and saw that she’d opened the gates to the narrow driveway at the side of the house—a premium in this South of Broad neighborhood.

  After parking the car, I walked to the front of the house and found Jack’s mother sitting on a square plastic block that might have been an intentional seat, surveying the wreckage of the garden.

  She looked up at me and smiled distractedly. “Hello, dear.” She indicated the wasteland around her. “There really aren’t words to describe this, are there?”

  “No, there really aren’t. At least not ones I’d use in polite company. Not to worry, though. I’ve asked my father to turn his magic on this garden, just like he did for me on Tradd Street. He’s almost done with repairing the damage the police made when they dug up the fountain. I have every faith that he’ll make this one even more spectacular.”

  Amelia raised both eyebrows. “And your mother is okay with your father being so close?”

  “She didn’t have a choice. If she wants me to help her, my father is part of the package.”

  She smiled as she st
ood, brushing off the back of her skirt. “I suppose that’s fair, then.”

  I led the way to the wide front steps, inordinately relieved that I wasn’t alone. Not that the diminutive Mrs. Trenholm could offer any kind of substantial barrier between me and whatever it was that waited in this house. Still, I found comfort in another living, breathing presence.

  I pulled out my key chain—every key neatly labeled with a different-colored dot of fingernail polish—and pulled out the Scarlet Woman key. I paused before sticking it into the lock. “I have to warn you, Amelia, it’s a little horrifying.”

  “After seeing the garden, I think I’m prepared,” she said, straightening her shoulders.

  I pushed open the door and we walked slowly into the foyer. We stood still in the quiet house as I listened for voices and Amelia took in the circus-like colors and the dearth of furnishings.

  She spoke first. “I feel like I’ve been immersed in a Salvador Dalí painting. And that’s not really a good thing. I shudder to think what it looked like with their furniture. Your mother hinted at how bad it was, but even my imagination wasn’t this good. . . .” Her voice trailed away as she took in the zebra-striped shag rug.

  Closing the door behind us, I said, “Thankfully, the previous owners took all of their furniture with them. They did leave behind everything in the attic, which appears to be old Prioleau family artifacts, but not a lot of furniture. I’m fairly sure my mother didn’t take it with her when she sold the house, so I’m left wondering what happened to it all.”

  Amelia didn’t answer at first. Instead, she walked ahead of me into the drawing room with the large stained-glass window and looked at it for a long moment as if searching for the right words. She turned around with a soft expression on her face. Gently, she said, “The house was sold completely furnished. Your mother felt it best.”

  I waited for her to elaborate, to explain how my mother could have thought that selling the family home wasn’t enough—that she’d needed to include all the furnishings, too, to complete her betrayal. But Amelia remained silent, her eyes kind.

  “Of course she did,” I said, my voice harsher than I’d meant it to be, the hurt as fresh as it had been the first day I’d become motherless. “Come on,” I said, my voice lighter. “Let’s walk through and we’ll go over what kind of furniture we’re going to need.”

  I made to move away, but Amelia held me back with a gentle touch on my arm. “The owners auctioned off the furniture not long after they purchased the house. I know because I was here and acquired several high-end antiques, which I subsequently sold to various collectors.”

  I stared at her for a moment, working to keep the hope out of my voice. “Do you have records showing who the buyers were?”

  “I have records of every piece of furniture we’ve ever sold since we opened the store. I’ll be more than happy to pull out the information. Then you and your mother can discuss if it’s something you want, and I’ll be happy to contact the current owners. Nothing’s guaranteed, of course, but if I explain that we’re attempting to return the furniture to its original home, they might be persuaded to sell.”

  I’d stopped listening after she said “you and your mother.” Refurbishing this house wasn’t about my mother and what she wanted. I’d begun to think of it as my chance to get back a little of what had been taken from me. She’d already hired Amelia to procure furniture; she didn’t have to know where it came from. Smiling, I said, “I’ll be happy to take care of it. I’m sure my mother would want as many original pieces as possible.”

  “I understand,” she said, and I knew she did and she wasn’t going to refute my words. “The good news is that one of the pieces I’d sold after the auction was recently reacquired. It’s at the store now.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a lady’s writing desk. It’s made of mahogany, and has beautiful carvings on the Queen Anne legs.”

  My mouth went a little dry. “I think I know it. My grandmother had a desk like that in her sitting room.” My mind went back over the years to a memory of me sitting at my grandmother’s feet, brushing my fingers against the wood carvings of fish and seaweed carved into the wood of the legs.

  Swallowing back the memory, I turned to Amelia. “How did it happen that it came back to you?”

  Amelia began to walk around the perimeter of the room, frowning at the wallpapered walls covered with daisies and the garage sale chandelier. She used a manicured nail to flick at the high-lacquered violet paint on a window frame before turning to face me. “The buyers kept it for only about six months before they contacted me to find out if I’d like to buy it back.” She crossed her arms elegantly across her chest. “They said it had ‘strange vibes.’ That the temperature of the room where they’d placed it always seemed to be about ten degrees colder than the rest of the house.”

  I stilled, unable to form a response.

  She continued. “It’s been in the shop ever since. It’s a beautiful piece and gets a lot of interest, but potential buyers tend to shy away from it at the last moment. I’ll give you a nice price so I can make room for something else that will sell.”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice sticky, “I’m definitely interested.”

  “Wonderful.” She walked toward me and took both of my hands in hers. “I know none of this is easy for you. But it will be okay in the end. I promise you. I’ve known your mother for a very long time, and even if I don’t understand her motives, I know she makes all of her decisions from a good heart.” She squeezed my hands as I tried to pull them away. “She loves you, Melanie. You should never doubt that.”

  She let go of my hands and I pulled away. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point, Amelia.” I held out my arm, indicating for her to move in front of me. “Let’s go look at the rest of the house to give you an idea of all that’s needed.”

  She patted my arm as she walked by, but I looked away, seeing again a little girl who’d awakened one morning to find her mother gone.

  I closed the door behind Amelia an hour later, wondering again how such a kind and intelligent woman could have given birth to Jack Trenholm. I’d only met his father briefly, so I was left to assume that the answer might lie in that end of the gene pool.

  Preoccupied with my conversation with Amelia and thoughts of my mother, I didn’t remember to be afraid as I began to walk toward the kitchen to call Jack and find out where he was. He’d promised to help me move in, after all, and I was dreading dragging all the stuff from my car into the house after having done it all by myself in reverse just a few hours before.

  As I reached for my purse, I heard my name. Melanie. I straightened slowly, realizing I could see my breath in the suddenly chilly kitchen. I turned around, clutching my cell phone to my chest.

  Go away, Melanie. This is my house.

  I trembled, more afraid than even I wanted to admit. I am stronger than you, I said to myself, repeating my mother’s mantra. I wanted to ask who it was, but I knew that to engage it in conversation would give it strength I wasn’t sure I wanted to witness. I am stronger than you, I repeated, beginning to back out of the room.

  Your mother does not want you, either. That is why she went away. Something cold and sharp brushed against my cheek and I cried out, feeling something sticky drip down my skin. I touched my fingers to my face, then brought my hand in front of me to see what it was. My hand was shaking so badly it took me a moment to see the blood staining my fingertips.

  I recalled the wet footprints in the kitchen and belatedly realized that whatever or whoever it was, was no longer bound to the back staircase or the back rooms. It was venturing farther than it had in the past as if something was giving it strength. Something or someone.

  I tried to move but I was held in place, as if my feet were encased in cement blocks. I looked around desperately, trying to determine from what direction the next attack would come. That’s when I heard another voice, a familiar one that sent palpable relief surging thr
ough me. The presence left me immediately, but the temperature in the room remained cold, my breath coming out in fast little puffs.

  My knees betrayed me by buckling, and I sank down onto the kitchen floor before I embarrassed myself by falling.

  Melanie.

  From the corner of my eye, I spotted my protector leaning against the stove, one booted ankle crossed over the other.

  “Thank you,” I said out loud, more glad to see him than I could express.

  You are hurt.

  “Yes. Something scratched me. Who was it?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead I heard him walk toward me, his heels striking the kitchen floor tiles. I didn’t look up as he stopped next to me.

  You are very brave, my beautiful Melanie. A very attractive combination.

  I was aware of his German accent, and of how solid he felt next to me. I was also aware that he’d avoided answering my question.

  Close your eyes, Melanie.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  I will not hurt you. I am your friend. Close your eyes and I will make you better.

  After hesitating again for a moment, I closed my eyes. I felt him lean down next to me and use gentle fingers to move the hair away from my injured cheek, followed by the distinct sensation of lips brushing mine. Warmth pressed through to me, sending electric sparks directly into my bloodstream. My eyes flickered open in surprise and he vanished. Bringing my fingers to my cheek, I realized that my cheek had healed.

  “Mellie?”

  It was Jack. I twisted around and saw him standing in the kitchen doorway. “The front door was unlocked, so I let myself in. What are you doing on the floor?”

  “I, um, I—I was waiting for you. No chairs,” I said, indicating the obvious. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell Jack the truth. It wasn’t that I didn’t think Jack wouldn’t believe me. I think it had more to do with the random thought of wanting to keep my protector all to myself.