by Karen White
“Who were you trying to protect?” I asked, my voice shaky, but determined to find answers.
His fingers stopped, and I thought I could hear him breathe, or maybe it was the house breathing, a silent, palpable beat of unknown origin.
“Who were you trying to protect?” I asked again, feeling him leave me before the words had completely escaped from my mouth.
The lights flickered on brightly above me, accompanied by the sound of the swinging doors, and I spun around to find my mother standing inside the kitchen doorway, thankfully wearing a short robe that covered most of her skin.
“He was here, wasn’t he?”
I knew better than to pretend I didn’t know whom she was talking about. “Yes. He woke me up and brought me down here.” I pointed to the wall behind me. “He said that what I seek is in here. And he quoted the last line on Grandmother’s gravestone: Within the waves, hide all our guilt.”
She frowned, then stepped closer. “You’re—flushed. And your eyes are really bright.” Her eyes widened. “Did he touch you?”
I nodded, and felt myself blushing, remembering how good it had felt. “Yes. He did it before, a few days ago. He didn’t hurt me.”
She shook her head, then sat down at the table. “No. He wouldn’t.”
I sat down opposite. “What do you mean?”
A small smile lifted her lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
I chewed on my lip, realizing with surprised relief that my mother was the only person I could discuss this with. “Sophie found a journal in Grandmother’s desk. But I don’t think it was hers. Sophie thinks it’s at least one hundred years old, possibly older.”
My mother raised an eyebrow as she waited for me to continue.
“I haven’t had a chance to read through it yet, but when I was flipping through the pages, I came to an entry about a Hessian soldier. And how the journal writer felt he was there to protect her.” I held my mother’s gaze for a moment. “It looks like he’s been here for a long time, protecting people.”
She shook her head. “Not just people. Women.” She frowned again. “But the fact that he can touch you now . . .” She bit her lower lip, as if to prevent herself from going on.
“Tell me.” My voice was harsher than I’d meant it to be, but I’d lived for so long with unanswered questions that I didn’t think I could live with one more.
“It means you’re stronger. That you’re a brighter beacon now than you’ve ever been.” Her fingers drummed restlessly on the table. “It will be easier for those lost souls seeking the light to find you now. You’ll need to be prepared.”
“But what has that got to do with his touching me?” I glanced down at my exposed forearms, seeing the goose bumps prickling the skin.
My mother leaned forward. “That they can feed off your strength to make themselves stronger. And not just for those that mean us no harm.”
I shivered, remembering what had happened when I’d been in the kitchen by myself. “When you were in New York, there was—an incident. The girl from the boat, she was in here. She scratched me. But the soldier came and made her go away.”
Her hand cupped my cheek, her thumb gently rubbing my skin as her brow furrowed with worry. I didn’t flinch or pull away. “Why now, though? What’s changed?”
She dropped her hand, then slid the sugar bowl toward her and began to spin it in circles, her gaze focused on it. “You’re older, your abilities stronger whether or not you want them to be and regardless of whether you’ve been actively using them.”
I knew she wasn’t done, so I remained silent, waiting.
“And because I’m here. The two of us together are like a bonfire in the darkness. Things won’t stay quiet for long.”
“That’s what we want, though, right? Because then we can make them go away.”
She swallowed, then nodded, swirling the sugar bowl in tight circles. “That’s the way it usually works.”
I put my hand on hers to still it. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She looked at me, and I saw such sadness in her eyes that I didn’t pull my hand back right away. “Why do you think I’m not telling you everything?”
I sat back in my chair, placing my hands in my lap, my eyes locked on hers. “Because I remember, from the time before you left. The way you looked at me. The way you answered my questions with questions or answered me by changing the subject. It made me feel as if it was Christmas-time, and you’d hidden presents all over the house so I couldn’t find them. Only, it wasn’t Christmas, was it?”
She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I’ve told you what I know, Mellie. I don’t know who the girl is, but I suspect she’s been here for a very long time, before I was born, even. And I know your German soldier. He was here when I was a child, but I don’t know who he is, either. Only that he seems to be here to protect. That’s all I know.” She smiled a secretive smile. “And he never touched me.”
We stared at each other for a long time until my mother looked away, her gaze falling on the stack of photographs I’d left on the table. She began thumbing through them, pausing over each one. She stopped at the one of my grandmother and the window.
“You can see what a beacon you were back when you were a child.” She tapped a photo with a long red-painted fingernail, pointing to a cluster of white spots my father had thought meant a defective camera. “It could be the combined presence of your grandmother, too, but they’re all gathered around you.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “It’s a gift, Mellie. A gift you can use to help others, if you choose. But it shouldn’t be a burden, or something you’re ashamed of.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Maybe for somebody like you. You’re an opera singer, an artistic person. People expect you to be eccentric. But I’m a Realtor. Clients generally don’t want to buy houses from somebody who sees and talks with dead people. I agreed to help you get rid of this spirit, but as soon as we’re done, I’m back to pretending I don’t see them or hear them.”
My mother smiled softly, her face reminding me so much of my childhood that it hurt to look at her. I concentrated on the sugar bowl as she spoke. “I’m glad we’re doing this together, Mellie. I won’t lie and tell you I haven’t been looking forward to it, hoping that maybe somehow it will bring us together. That maybe you’ll learn that this gift we share is our bond.”
I jerked to a stand, but my anger was muted, like a fist wrapped in soft velvet. “A long time ago I would have welcomed a bond between us. But I’ve spent most of my life trying to separate myself from you, and I’m too old and too tired to go back to another place and time.” I shook my head. “I don’t know why you left, or even if those reasons should mean anything to me now. But I’m proud of who I’ve become, without your help and despite what you did to me. So no, Mother. The main reason I don’t want to accept this ‘thing’ you call a gift is because it is the one thing we do have in common. And believe me, there is nothing I’ve ever wanted to have in common with you.”
I turned around before she could recognize what I’d said for the lie it was, but not before I’d seen the slight upturn of her lips as if she knew it anyway.
I sucked in my breath as Sophie stood behind me, stuck a knee in the lower part of my back, and pulled on the corset strings. I thought I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen as spots danced across my field of vision.
“Why on earth do I need to wear this thing? It’s bad enough you’ve got me looking like Scarlett O’Hara on the way to Twelve Oaks, but how authentic do I really need to be?”
Sophie collapsed on the bed, panting with exertion. “It’s not for authenticity. It’s to give you cleavage and to make the male tourists who march through here tonight give an extra donation to the historical society.”
I caught sight of myself in the cheval mirror—another rescue from the Tradd Street house—and nearly didn’t recognize myself. She was right. Pushing up all of my insides above the waistline had actually given the false impres
sion of real breasts, if only my lungs hadn’t been squashed against my rib cage allowing only small puffs of air to be inhaled at one time.
I pirouetted, admiring the navy blue silk gown with white lace encircling the off-the-shoulder décolletage and decorating the wrists. There was something to be said about the enhanced hourglass figure of 1860s fashions, but one day spent in a Charleston July without air-conditioning would send me running for a pair of shorts and padded bikini top.
“I think your mother’s sapphires add a nice touch.”
My hands went up to the heirloom necklace. My mother had brought the necklace and earrings to me in a black jeweled box as a sort of peace offering as I was getting dressed. I was about to refuse when she reminded me that they’d been my grandmother’s, and that she would have wanted me to wear them, too.
Sophie continued. “I’m not sure if that locket goes with them, though. It sort of looks out of place.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s just that . . .” I paused, trying to put into words the odd sensation I had that the locket belonged with the sapphires, and how hesitant I became whenever I tried to take it off. “I think it works. Besides, you’re the last person in the world I want to take fashion advice from.”
Sophie just blinked at me as if she didn’t understand what I was talking about.
I turned around and met her gaze. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?”
“Because photographers from Charleston magazine, the Post & Courier, and Southern Living will be on the tour tonight, so that your face, name, and business information will be splashed all over the place, giving you more exposure than you ever dreamed of. You’re also doing it because it will bring in money for the historical society, which furthers the cause dearest to our hearts: historic restoration in our favorite city.”
I approached the bed and turned around to sit, stopping midway as I learned that it wasn’t as simple as it should have been. I tried flipping the hoop forward, then backward, and ended up lifting it up to my waist and exposing myself before I managed a half-sitting, half-standing position.
Sophie’s face was expressionless. “Perhaps you shouldn’t do that in public.”
“Why am I the only one in costume? Even Rebecca gets to wear normal clothes.”
“That’s because Rebecca doesn’t have a claim to two fabulous houses in the historic district and you do. I think it irks her, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Little comments here and there. Like how you don’t know how lucky you are, how some people would kill to be in your position, and how you’re completely unappreciative of what’s been handed to you on a silver platter. Makes me think the green-eyed monster of jealousy is sitting on her shoulder and sticking a tongue out at you.”
I grimaced. “I’ve definitely got to assign that girl to some heavy-duty paint stripping and introduce her to some of my bills, show her my fingernails, even. That might bring her down to my reality.”
Sophie turned to me, her hands on her narrow hips. “Are you really so oblivious, Melanie? Have I not taught you anything regarding the real reasons behind historical preservation?”
I stared back at her. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
She frowned. “I hope you understand how all the work you’ve done has been for the entire global community. If we tear down everything old to make room for newer, more impersonal structures, we’ve lost a part of our past, a thing of beauty and meaning. Gone forever.”
I slid off the bed and began rearranging my skirts. “Just like my plaster-free hair, manicures, and investment portfolio.” I turned toward the mirror before she could see the smile that would tell her I knew exactly what she was talking about. I was just afraid to say it in front of Sophie because then I was likely to end up restoring yet another house.
There was a brief knock on the door and then Mrs. Houlihan stuck her head around the corner. She winked at me when she saw me in the dress. “You look gorgeous, Miss Melanie. Fit for a barbecue at Twelve Oaks.”
I rolled my eyes, then tried to hitch up my bodice a little further to cover up a bit more of the vast expanse of exposed skin. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Just wanted to let you know that I’ve placed the punch and glasses on a tray in the front parlor. And Mr. Jack is here and I was wondering where you’d like me to put him.”
I opened my mouth to give a few suggestions but Sophie interrupted me. “Tell him we’ll be right down. The tour is scheduled to start in ten minutes.”
“And don’t you worry about General Lee. I’ve got him a nice soup bone to keep him happy.” Mrs. Houlihan winked at me again, then disappeared behind the door. We listened as her heavy tread disappeared down the hallway. Sophie moved toward the door. “I’m going to go check on your mother. She’s in charge of herding so that you don’t have to worry about the stray tourist who heads in the wrong direction.”
“What about Rebecca? I thought she was supposed to be here, too.”
Sophie smirked. “I pulled some strings and had her reassigned to the Old City Jail over on the corner of Magazine and Franklin. She gets to direct people to the toilet facilities. Although she did threaten to stop by later on.”
“How did you pull that off ? I thought she was in charge of the whole thing tonight.”
Sophie clasped her hands behind her back, attempting to look innocent. “Oh, when she asked for my help in getting volunteer tour guides from the college, the axis of power shifted in my direction.”
I put my hand up and high-fived her. “One last question: What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
She wrinkled her nose as she pretended to consider the question for a moment. “Do your best to hold it. If that fails, ask Mrs. Houlihan for a pot.”
“Gee, thanks. You know, I liked you better when you weren’t pining for a guy. You were a lot nicer then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Soph. You and Chad. You’re like Raggedy Ann and Andy, practically stitched together with the same thread. You’ve used the stupidest excuse in the book—what was it, incompatible astrology signs?—to keep him away from you because of some misplaced sense of feminism and independence. But you’re practically attached at the hip and living together, for crying out loud. Would you just admit that you’re both crazy about each other so we can all move on and you can start being nice again?”
She stared at me for a long moment, her face completely expressionless. One could never tell how Sophie felt because her emotions were so even-keeled. But I could see her exposed toes in her Birkenstocks, and watched as she curled them tightly.
“How about we reach a compromise? I’ll start taking your relationship advice when you start taking my fashion advice. Because from where I’m standing, neither one of is really qualified on either subject. And if you really want to analyze a weird relationship, yours and Jack’s would be better suited to put under a microscope. You’re both so hot for each other the temperature rises about twenty degrees whenever you’re in the same room together. But you’re both either too stubborn, ignorant, or mentally challenged to figure out what to do about it.” She drew a deep breath. “So when you’ve worked out whatever it is that’s between you and Jack, then come talk to me about Chad.”
I looked at her, dumbfounded. The last time I’d seen her so agitated was when I told her I was knocking out a wall to extend the master suite in the Tradd Street house. “Ouch,” was all I managed to say, but I wasn’t even sure if she was right or wrong about Jack and me.
She turned to leave the room. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
After a few deep breaths, I shook my dress in place, then managed to squeeze myself through the doorway and make it to the top of the stairs without tripping or knocking anything over. It was a very good thing that most of the house was empty, with only fabric and paint swatches displayed on easels in the main rooms of the house for the anticipated visitors.
The
house smelled of narcissus and citrus, courtesy of my father’s decorating prowess. Lined up on the stairs were potted narcissus, swaddled in burlap and tied with red twine, their sweet aroma floating in the hall like a cloud. The nine fireplace mantels—minus the one in the kitchen that was currently being stored in the attic—were covered in pine swags my father had gathered himself and artfully arranged with pinecones and various citrus fruits of all colors and sizes. In all of my years growing up with him, it had never occurred to me to think that inside my rough-hewn military officer father lay an inner Martha Stewart.
A loud wolf whistle brought my attention to the bottom of the stairs. I spotted Jack, in full Confederate uniform complete with plumed hat and gleaming saber, leaning on the newel post and doing a pretty good impersonation of his estimable ancestor George Trenholm, Southern blockade runner and model for the literary character of Rhett Butler. Having grown up in a military family where I saw uniforms every day, I’d never thought much about the supposed attraction of men in uniform. But the sight of Jack Trenholm in Confederate gray was certainly more than enough to make me change my mind.
“Nice dress,” he said. His gaze traveled over the gown, then rested on the sapphires around my neck before settling on my face.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Just something I found in my closet.”
His grin broadened as he spread out his arms. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Doing my best to pretend to ignore him, I clutched the banister and carefully made my way to the bottom step. I eyed the three yellow stripes on his sleeve. “Only a sergeant, Jack? I thought you’d at least be a general.”
He swept his hat from his head, took my hand, and then kissed the back of it, sending a small hot flash up my arm. “Didn’t want to appear too farb.”
“Farb?”
“It’s a term we use in reenacting: far be it from reality. It’s a derogatory term aimed at anybody whose costuming is less than authentic or ridiculously inappropriate.”
