by Karen White
“I suppose,” I said, feeling an odd sense of panic at the thought of the house not being mine. Then again, it hadn’t been mine for a very long time, and I’d grown used to saying that it didn’t matter anymore. “Can I . . . ?” I began.
Yvonne tapped the manila folder. “The copy’s already in here. I also made copies of any pictures I found of anybody on your family tree while I was researching, in case you wanted to put faces with any of the names.”
“That will be more than helpful, thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a showing in half an hour, so I have to leave now.” I stood and began stacking the books, then picked up the folder with my copies. “Thank you, Yvonne. I’ll call you later to set up our dinner.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” She stood, too, then smoothed down her skirt. “And tell Jack that I said hello.”
“I’m, well, I’m not sure when I’ll be speaking with him again.”
She regarded me silently, her eyes nonjudging. “I think he’s fooled you into believing he’s—what was it he said you called him?—‘a conceited, shallow-hearted womanizer’?”
My cheeks flamed. “He told you I said that?”
“And more. But that’s just a mask he wears to protect himself, and I think you know that. He was hurt deeply when Emily left. Even now that he knows the truth, it still hurts. He’s a man who doesn’t give his heart easily, but when he does, he gives it completely. And he’s definitely not emotionally unavailable or a ‘toad-faced idiot.’”
I touched my face, feeling the heat. “I didn’t really say that, did I?”
“Something to that effect, I believe. But not to worry, dear. That’s not why he’s upset with you.” She moved around the table to where I stood. “He’s upset because you’re right about his attraction to Rebecca.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He said that?”
She raised a corner of her mouth in a half smile. “Of course not. He’s a male, so he probably hasn’t even figured that out himself. But that’s not the only reason, either.”
I waited for her to continue, getting nervous at the sparkle in her eyes. “What’s the other reason?”
“He’s upset because I think he might be more than a little bit in love with you, and he feels guilty because of Emily.”
“Because of Emily? But she’s dead.”
“Yes. But think about it from Jack’s perspective. She left him when he was planning to spend the rest of his life with her. For a man such as Jack to make that kind of commitment, he would have really been in love. But there was no good-bye for him, no closure. Even though he knows she’s gone, somewhere in his mind he feels that they’re still engaged to be married, and that having feelings for you is almost like cheating.”
I knew my cheeks couldn’t get any redder, so I didn’t bother to look away. Instead, I asked, “How do you know all of this?”
“I’m eighty-nine years old, dear, but I’m not dead.”
“Well, then. I’ll have to remember that. And I don’t think you’re right, Yvonne. I’d know.”
She looked at me dubiously as I slid my chair back under the table. I paused, a niggling thought dancing beyond my field of vision, like a stray thread from a tapestry. I faced Yvonne.
“You’ve been so helpful that I almost hate to ask you for one more thing, but I just had another thought.”
“It’ll cost you another meal, and it won’t be cheap.” She smiled sweetly.
“Deal.” I leaned forward. “The house that you sent Jack and me to, Mimosa Hall in Ulmer, the original family name was Crandall. Jack told me that they’d lost everything in the Depression and sold it to the current owner’s family. Could you find out what you can about the original family? Family tree, letters, that sort of thing? Mrs. McGowan, the current owner, has a bunch of letters and documents in her attic and Jack is planning another trip down there to go through them, but I’d really like to know more now. There was something about that portrait. . . .” I shuddered, remembering the cold breath on my neck—and the voice in my ear. “Anyway,” I continued, “Mrs. McGowan told Jack that some sort of tragedy occurred in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and I’m curious to learn what that was.”
“Crandall?” She took the pen she wore on a chain around her neck and scribbled something down on a notepad she’d left on the table. “Will do. I’ll let you know what I find when I call you back about the window.”
“Thanks.” On impulse, I leaned over and hugged her, then kissed her on the cheek. “You really are amazing.”
Her eyes sparkled as she leaned a little closer to me. “Do you want to know something I’m even better at than research?”
I glanced around at the few people who were at other tables in the reading room, some of them looking up from the books and staring at us. I leaned closer. “What?”
“Matchmaking. I’ve never been wrong. And I’ll tell you right now that Rebecca what’s-her-name is not the gal for our Jack.”
I stepped back, not really wanting to hear her opinion as to who just might be the “right gal.” “Thank you,Yvonne, but Jack’s love life is really none of my business.”
She let out a loud and uncharacteristic laugh, then quieted quickly when more people raised their heads.
Eager to leave, I said, “Thanks again, I’ll talk with you soon.”
She said good-bye, and I left as quickly as I could, before she could say anything else that closely mirrored my own thoughts.
CHAPTER 19
The plumber, the decorator (recommended by Amelia Trenholm), and a demolition crew were scheduled to be at the house at nine, so I figured I had a couple of hours to try and speak to Jack. I told myselfso that my need to see Jack had everything to do with finding more answers to all the questions that kept piling up and nothing at all to do with the fact that I might actually be missing him. Or that the memory of the last time I’d seen him and the things we’d said—not to mention the almost kiss—was haunting me more than any ghost ever had.
He still hadn’t returned any of my phone calls, so I figured the best way would be to just show up on his doorstep. It would be more painful for me if he refused to see me, but I had to at least try.
Gripping my briefcase, which held the folder of photocopied materials Yvonne had given me and the journal, I pressed the buzzer to the downstairs door of Jack’s converted warehouse loft, and waited for a moment, listening as a lone car rattled by on Queen Street.
I hardly recognized the scratchy voice on the intercom. “Go away, Mellie.”
“How did you know it was me?” I looked around for a camera but didn’t see one.
“Because nobody else I know would be stupid enough to ring my bell before ten o’clock in the morning.”
That stung, but I was determined not to let it show. “It’s important and you haven’t returned any of my phone calls.”
He sighed heavily into the intercom and I frowned at it, trying to translate.
“Couldn’t this have waited until lunchtime? I had a late night.”
I frowned at the little white buttons in front of me. “I’ve got contractors coming to the house at nine, and I’m having lunch with Marc Longo at noon, and then I have office hours starting at three o’clock. This was the only time I could fit you into my schedule.”
I thought I heard him chuckle but I wasn’t sure. “So, can I come up?”
Following a brief pause, he said, “All right. But be forewarned. I just got out of bed and I sleep naked.”
I tried to quell the rush of heat that took over me like an alien force, making me feel like a sheltered teenager on her first date. “Could you please throw something on?” But the words were spoken to empty air. I heard a buzz, then a click, and I pushed the door open, which allowed me access to the foyer. I rode up in the elevator to the top floor, using the time to try and compose myself and stop thinking of Jack naked.
The door was open when I reached his condo. I stuck my head in and called his name twic
e before entering and closing the door behind me. “Jack,” I called again as I walked into the large space. It was still the exquisitely furnished renovated warehouse space I remembered, with exceptional but unpretentious artwork on the walls and tasteful objets d’art on low tables and shelves.
But the place was a mess, with old newspapers, pizza boxes, and mail stacked haphazardly throughout the space, making my fingers itch to start straightening things. The scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, and when I went to the bar in the kitchen to drop my coat and keys, I noticed several overflowing ashtrays. Unable to stop myself, I scooped them off the granite bar and emptied them in the trash bin under the sink.
“If I handed you a vacuum cleaner, would you take a spin around the place?”
I jumped at the sound of Jack’s voice and started to shout at him when my tongue suddenly found itself wedged in my throat. Jack appeared as if he’d been struggling through the desert for a week, with a dark beard sprouting on his cheeks and chin. As impervious to his charms as I tried to be, I couldn’t help but admit that Jack Trenholm was a gorgeous man. But now he was completely devastating. My eyes slowly moved down from the new facial hair to his shirtless and very bare chest, down the flat stomach, and then to the blue jeans with the top button conveniently left unlatched. My gaze finally dropped to the floor, where I noted he was barefoot.
I ripped my eyes back to his face, where I was greeted by his familiar smirk, making me drop my gaze to eye level, which brought me in close proximity to his shirtless chest. I unwedged my tongue and blurted out the first thing that came to me. “Your feet are naked.” I let the words sink in for a moment before I realized what I’d actually said. “Bare, I mean.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
I swallowed thickly, keeping my eyes firmly focused above the collarbone. “It’s pretty cold outside. You should probably be wearing a shirt.”
He reached down to what appeared to be one of several dirty laundry mounds scattered throughout the living room, and plucked a white T-shirt from the top. His sidelong glance took in my flushed cheeks and damp forehead and he raised his eyebrows at me, but he didn’t make a characteristic snide comment like I expected him to.
“I wouldn’t want to catch cold. That’s for sure,” he said as he slid the T-shirt over his head while I stole a last glance at his bare chest and washboard abs. “Sorry about the mess. The cleaning lady doesn’t come until tomorrow. And I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
Ignoring him, I walked into the large living space, noticing the fire in the gas fireplace for the first time, and seeing another overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t. I actually find it a disgusting habit.”
I waved my hand in front of my face. “So do I. So who’s been smoking in here?” I was pretty sure Rebecca didn’t smoke, but I held my breath anyway, waiting for his answer.
“Me,” he said, picking up a full pack and staring at it for a moment before flinging it across the room. It hit the mantel of the brick fireplace, knocking over a framed photograph.
Instinctively, I walked to the fireplace and picked up the frame to return it to its spot on the mantel, relieved to find it was a picture of his parents and not of Emily. I actually thought it was sweet that he’d have his parents’ photograph in his condo, and wondered what they’d think if they knew he was smoking.
I faced him. “So why are you doing it?” I asked, indicating the ashtray.
“Because I can’t drink a beer.”
“Oh,” I said, because I understood, and because I couldn’t think of anything better to say. I remembered my father going through packs of gum, leaving their foil wrappings all over the house during his many efforts to stop drinking—as if the act of putting something in his mouth besides alcohol could fool his brain into thinking he was numbed enough to face his life.
We regarded each other as I felt the warmth of the fire at my back. I had the errant thought that it would be so much nicer if it were a real fireplace, which was odd, really, because I used to always advise clients to convert their wood-burning fireplaces to gas to circumvent the hassle of dealing with hauling wood and disposing of ashes. It had never occurred to me that the crackle of a warm fireplace lost a lot of its warmth without the smell of burning wood.
“What’s going on here, Jack?” I asked as the first fissure of worry surreptitiously crept into the spot where I kept my heart.
“What makes you think something’s going on?”
My eyes scanned the piles of laundry, dirty dishes, and ashtrays. Knowing that sarcasm was his native tongue, I said, “Gee, I don’t know.” Putting my hands on my hips, I asked him again. “Really, Jack, what’s going on here?”
Regarding me steadily, he said, “Oh, nothing much. It’s just that after having been firmly put in my place by a woman—a Realtor, no less—my editor’s not returning phone calls from either me or my agent. No news is always bad news in the publishing world and I think my book deal is going to fall through. Again.”
The Jack I knew wouldn’t succumb so easily to imagined bad news. I also knew from experience that what he needed was the truth. “I’m sorry. That must be rough. But you need to go to a meeting, Jack.”
He sat down on the black leather sofa and patted the seat next to him. “I know. I’ve already called your dad and we’re going together tonight.”
“Good,” I said, not moving.
He again patted the seat next to him. “Come on and sit. I promise I won’t bite.”
Swallowing back any protests, I did as he asked but tried to sit as far away from him as possible. My strategy backfired as his weight caused me to slide from my side of the cushion to his.
“Why are you here, Mellie? To insult me some more? I think I caught the gist of how you really feel about me the last time I saw you.”
“Look, I’m really sorry about that. I was just taken off guard by a couple of ghosts, that’s all. I was scared. Of the ghosts,” I added quickly.
He raised a cocky eyebrow, which just made me straighten my shoulders. “But you said you would help me with this investigation.” I went ahead and swallowed my pride. “And there’s really nobody else who’s any good at this except for you.”
His eyebrow didn’t lower, but he managed to look as surprised as I was that I would admit to that.
I continued. “I figured we could still be like coworkers, working on a project together. Our personal lives don’t have to be involved at all.” I paused when it appeared that I hadn’t been convincing enough. “And if you think this whole investigation is worth writing a book about, I’m sure I could talk my parents into agreeing.”
This time he did lower his eyebrow. “Let me hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say, ‘I need your help, Jack, because I can’t do this on my own.’ ”
“But . . .”
He interrupted me. “Say it, or there’s no deal.”
Knowing I didn’t have a choice, I repeated, “I need your help, Jack, because I can’t do this on my own.”
With one swipe of his arm, he slid everything from the coffee table—ashtray, pizza box, and unopened mail—onto the floor before sitting back, his hands on his knees. “Fine then. Show me what you’ve got.”
Without waiting for him to change his mind, I slid my briefcase from my shoulder and set it on the coffee table before methodically removing the journal and the folder Yvonne had given me. “This is the journal Sophie found in my grandmother’s desk. The one we got from your mother’s store. I’ve read through most of it, although I can’t say it’s really shed any light on anything because the writer—obviously a girl—only uses initials and never any names. But the journal is definitely from the same era as the portrait of the two girls, and the writer refers to a girl named R. I’ve stopped assuming it was my great-grandmother Rose because R seems to be a little hellion, even to the extent of being suspected in the disappearanc
e of the writer’s beloved cat.”
“And how, exactly, would that mean that R can’t be your great-grandmother?”
I tried to keep my indignation under control. “Because I’m—we’re—my family isn’t like that.”
“Right. You’re known instead as great animal lovers.” I knew he was referring to the fact that I’d been trying to off-load General Lee ever since I’d inherited the little fluff ball less than a year before. Not that I was actively trying anymore, but every once in a while I’d make a big show out of offering him to somebody I knew would never say yes.
“It’s not just that.” I turned to the page I’d read about the ghost that R couldn’t see. “Look right here. The journal writer can see the soldier’s ghost, but R can’t. My mother remembers her mother telling her that my great-grandmother Rose had a strong sixth sense. It’s sort of like a genetic trait like eyes that tilt up at the corners or brown hair.”
He took the journal from my hands and began to leaf through it, pausing for periods to read complete entries. “Here’s an interesting one.” He sat up straight and cleared his throat.
C has called twice this week, and I am not sure what to make of it. He says he is here to see R, but then always finds an excuse to include me on carriage rides or to a play or even just to sit in the parlor. People have always assumed that R and I are closely related since our features are so similar. Perhaps C is merely trying to learn our differences so as not to make an embarrassing mistake in the future. On his last visit he went so far as to mention that when R and I are sitting down we could almost be mistaken for twins.
I suppose because R is older, it is expected that she should be courted first, but I fear C is raising expectations in her. It is not her heartbreak that I fear; it is the repercussions others have to live with if she is disappointed. She has made it very clear to me that she has her cap set on him and while I refrained from saying that she threatened me if things do not work out between them, I fear that she will find some way to make me suffer for it.
