The House on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  “Did he give his name?”

  She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. “Yes. A Colonel James Middleton. He didn’t leave a number, although I did ask. He said you would know it.”

  My eyes met Sophie’s widened ones. Yes, things really could get worse. Much worse.

  Mrs. Houlihan tilted her head. “Middleton. Are you related to the colonel?”

  I forced my throat to work. “Yes. He’s my father. It would appear that Mr. Vanderhorst had a sense of humor.”

  “Oh, that he did. But he also had a strong belief in family. That’s probably why he made your father trustee. He was always saying how blood was thicker than water.”

  She was saying more but I couldn’t listen. I needed to get away from the house—and the swooping pigeon—as soon as possible. I put the dog down at the base of the stairs and let it pull me where it wanted to go until I found myself out on the sidewalk next to the gate looking into the garden.

  The woman was there again, pushing the boy on the swing. They both looked over at me, and the boy lifted his hand to wave. I was relieved to note that the other, more sinister presence I had detected the previous day was absent, and hoped that he had only been a figment of my overactive imagination. General Lee barked an excited greeting as if he recognized somebody, and I looked down at him in surprise. “You see them, too?”

  I turned my gaze back to the scene, but the woman, the boy, and the swing were gone now, and the crickets had resumed their chorus. I stared at the overgrown garden for a long minute, somehow seeing bright-colored flowers and vibrant greens where I knew only brown dirt and straggly weeds now grew. It was as if I were seeing what the house had once been. And what it could be again.

  Tugging on the dog’s leash, I headed down the street, afraid to look back. I didn’t want to see the house in all its columned glory, its alabaster paint shining in the Charleston sun, the shadows of the columns like arms reaching out to grab hold of me and hang on.

  I started to jog, heedless of my heels or the heat, racing General Lee around the corner until I could no longer see the house on Tradd Street.

  CHAPTER 4

  I arrived at my office at seven o’clock on Monday morning, hoping I’d find the office empty, since I still needed more time to think. I had come no closer to a decision than I had the day I’d sat in the office of Drayton, Drayton and Drayton, and my little world had started spinning in the wrong direction. I was still stumbling, looking for sure footing and feeling instead as if I were walking up the down escalator.

  Sophie was proving to be no help at all. She hadn’t said anything as I’d said goodbye to her on Tradd Street except for one last parting shot as she’d jumped into her Volkswagen Beetle. “ ‘God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you,’ ” she’d quoted from Nevin Vanderhorst’s letter before slamming her door and speeding away, the bright yellow flowers in the dashboard vase swaying with indignation.

  I put down my bag of doughnuts and my latte from Ruth’s Bakery, sat down at my desk, and turned on my computer. I had just started opening the bag when Nancy Flaherty walked in, holding a golf putter in one hand and a small stack of pink message slips in the other.

  I looked up in surprise. “Why are you here so early?”

  “Well, Mr. Henderson let me leave early Saturday because I had a golf tournament at the club, so I told him I’d make up the time by coming in early this morning.” She smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted to give you these messages. Three of them are from Jack Trenholm.” She smiled even broader now.

  “Who?”

  “Jack Trenholm—the writer. He writes those cold-case true history’s mysteries books. They’re always on the bestseller lists. And he’s an absolute hottie, if he’s anything like the picture on the back of his books.”

  I had no idea whom she was talking about. The only reading I ever had time for was my daily Post and Courier and new real estate listings. A little niggling memory intruded into my thoughts. I leaned forward. “When I was little, my mother’s best friend was a Mrs. Trenholm, but I imagine that’s a common enough name. And I don’t remember her having a son. Even so, why would he be calling me?”

  “Well, he’s probably a few years younger than you, so maybe he was under your radar when you were little. Or he’s not connected to your mother’s friend at all.” Nancy leaned her putter against my desk and began flipping through the messages. “Let’s see. He called three times yesterday—on Sunday. Seems like he’s very interested in speaking with you. I wasn’t here. Otherwise I would have grilled the man and would have known not only why he was calling but what kind of underwear he preferred, too.”

  I reached out for the messages. “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call him this morning.”

  “Maybe he saw your picture in one of your ads and wants to ask you for a date.”

  “Right. And maybe golf will one day replace baseball as the national pastime.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, ye of little faith. You’re only thirty-nine, and you’ve got a knockout figure”—she eyed the bag of doughnuts on my desk—“although God only knows how. If you would just maybe make yourself a little more approachable, you’d have the guys falling all over you.”

  I began riffling through the remaining pink slips. “I’ll keep that in mind, Nancy. Now, please don’t let me interrupt your work.” I smiled blandly at her.

  She ignored the hint. “You’re great handling men on a business level, but you’re a hopeless case when it comes to dealing with them socially. It’s probably the way you were raised, but for some reason you seem to revert to an awkward teenage girl whenever you’re around eligible men.”

  Annoyed now, I glared at her. “Really? And when did you have time to go to psychology school in between golf games?”

  As if I hadn’t said anything, she continued. “I think you just need to put yourself out there, get a little practice. You might find that you’ll actually enjoy a little social life outside of work.”

  I picked up the phone and started dialing a number, hoping she’d get the hint. I raised my eyebrow at her when she didn’t move.

  Leaning over my desk and pointing to the pile of messages, she said, “There’s also a message in there from that couple from North Charleston. I took that one Saturday afternoon. Seems as if they’ve reevaluated their finances and are ready to look at those homes on Daniel Island that you discussed with them.”

  “I can read my own messages, but thank you. I’ll make sure I call them back.”

  “No problem,” she said, walking away from my desk and twirling her putter. “Just don’t forget to call Jack Trenholm.”

  I didn’t dignify her comment with a response and hung up the phone before turning to my computerized calendar to check out what appointments I had that day. I had three home previews to make in the morning, but my afternoon was blocked to show several houses to a single professor, Chad Arasi, moving from San Francisco to teach art history at the College of Charleston. From our lengthy phone conversations, in which he’d finished just about every sentence with the word “cool,” I’d decided to narrow our search to the new trendy condos and refurbished warehouses on East Bay Street. My evening hours, as usual, were completely blank. Maybe I’d have time to rearrange my sock drawer.

  I was just picking up the phone to call Chad to confirm our first appointment when Nancy appeared at my desk again and slapped down a thick hardback book. “I Googled him and found out he’s single and lives in the French Quarter.”

  “Who . . . ?” I started to ask but she’d already left. I hung up my phone and picked up the book and read the title: Remember the Alamo: What Really Happened to Davey Crockett. Under the title in even bigger print was the name Jack Trenholm. I was pretty sure that I didn’t know him, but his last name was certainly familiar. Trenholm. Trenholm. I said the name a couple of times just to see what it would recall, but my mind remained blank. I flipped over the book to read the back-cover copy a
nd came eye to eye with a full, glossy black-and-white of the author.

  As a single, career-oriented woman approaching forty, I wish I could say that I’m impervious to a pretty face, and try to stick with my straightforward business attitude. But Mr. Trenholm, well, let’s just say that I was suddenly in sixth grade again, swooning because they’d assigned Ned Campbell a locker next to mine.

  He had one of those gorgeous all-American faces that said, I can throw a football, bake a cake, bring you roses, and make the bed shake, and it was just starting to dawn on me that I actually had his phone number and that he had called me first.

  I held the book in my hand and stared at the picture for a full minute, remembering what Nancy had said about making myself approachable and thinking about my social life, or lack thereof. Putting the book down, I scattered the pink message slips across my desk until I found his and yanked up the phone before I could talk myself out of it. Before I could dial, Nancy buzzed me on my intercom. “I told you so.”

  Without answering her, I hung up, pulled out my cell phone, and walked to Mr. Henderson’s office, where I could close the door and speak in private.

  I took a deep breath and pretended to myself that I was making a business call. Quickly, I dialed the number on the message slip and waited until it had rung nine times before the answering machine picked up. Assuming that a writer must also be an early riser and therefore thinking he might have been in the shower when I called, I hung up without leaving a message and let it ring nine times again, figuring he had plenty of time to get out of the shower by now. This time my efforts were rewarded with a voice on the other end.

  “Who the hell is this? And do you have any idea what time it is?”

  I froze in horror. My mouth, for the first time in my life, was unable to come up with a single lowering or sarcastic comment. At that point, I should have done what any other self-respecting woman would do and hang up. But Nancy Flaherty was right: I had suddenly reverted to a tongue-tied twelve-year-old girl calling a boy for the first time. For reasons unknown even to me, I chose to disguise my voice so that it sounded something between a Mexican maid and a Russian diplomat. “I’m zorry. Wrong numberrr.”

  “Wait a minute. Henderson Realty. I know that name. . . .”

  Shit. Caller ID. “One moment, pleaze, sir, while I connect you to Meez Middleton.”

  I held my hand over the receiver for a few moments before putting it next to my face again and pressing a number button to create a beep. “Hello, this is Melanie Middleton. May I speak with Jack Trenholm, please?”

  “Speaking.” I heard the distinct sound of a toilet being flushed followed by running water.

  “I’m with Henderson Realty, and I’m returning your phone call.”

  The water stopped. “Yes, thanks for getting back to me.” He had something in his mouth that was preventing him from speaking clearly.

  “I hope I didn’t call you too early. You left three messages yesterday, and I thought it might be urgent.”

  He didn’t answer right away as I heard the sound of teeth brushing and then the sound of expectorating and running water again. “Not to worry. I had to get up to answer the phone, anyway.”

  I felt my face flush. Irritated, I said, “Look, rather than taking the phone into the shower with you, why don’t you just call me back when you have a moment?”

  My finger was already on the hang-up button when he spoke. “Because then you’ll miss the pleasure of picturing me naked.”

  I was completely mortified because that was exactly what I was doing. “Excuse me? Of all the arrogant—”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just grouchy. I had a late night and didn’t expect to be up so early this morning. Can we start this conversation over again?”

  I took a deep breath, remembering what Nancy had said. I was going to make an effort, even if it killed me. “All right. This is Melanie Middleton and I’m returning your call.”

  “Thanks for calling me back, Mellie. I would like to schedule a meeting with you to talk about real estate in the area.”

  In my surprise, I forgot to mention that nobody called me Mellie. “Are you looking to move?”

  “I might be. Let’s just say I’m investigating the possibilities right now.”

  “Okay.” I found myself sitting on my boss’s desk and doodling hearts on his blotter. I quickly stood up. “Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  “Oh, there’s too much to talk about over the phone. Why don’t we meet—how about dinner tonight?”

  You are a professional, Melanie, I reminded myself as I forced my voice to remain calm. “Tonight? Hang on. Let me check my calendar.” I pressed the mute button on my phone and stared at the second hand on my watch, waiting an entire fifty-nine seconds until I took him off mute. “Sorry for the wait. I just needed to juggle a few things to clear my schedule. What time works best for you?”

  “How about seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up if you’ll give me your address.” He must have sensed my hesitation because he added, “Not to worry—I’m not a psychopath. My parents own Trenholm’s Antiques on King if you want to speak with my mother. She’ll give me a good reference.”

  I knew the store well, although I could only afford to window-shop its gorgeous English and French antiques. Besides, he was a famous author. He’d have a lot more to worry about me stalking him than the other way around.

  I gave him my address and was about to hang up when he spoke again.

  “Oh, and, Mellie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Work on your accent. That was terrible.”

  Without another word, I hung up, then stood in the empty office until I was sure the color of my face had returned to normal.

  I stood in front of my closet mirror, admiring the little black dress that had set me back nearly an entire commission check. But when I turned around and watched the slinky silk fold around my body, I knew that it had been a fair exchange.

  The day had been a fairly good one. My art history professor, Chad, had been the ideal client and loved everything I’d showed him and was deciding between two converted warehouse spaces near Rainbow Row at this very moment. When I’d first met him that morning, he’d been wearing sandals, cutoff jean shorts, a Bermuda shirt, and a ponytail. He’d kissed me on both cheeks in greeting, and when he apologized for being a few minutes late because his yoga class had run over, I knew right then that I had to introduce him to Sophie. Finding her soul mate was the least I could do to thank her for taking General Lee until I could figure out what to do with him. I was already in the throes of planning their wedding reception when my doorbell rang.

  Clasping my grandmother Middleton’s pearls around my neck, I walked to the door, admiring the way my dress swished around my legs. Giving my upswept and elegant hairdo one last pat, I opened the door.

  My first impression was that the photo on his book’s dust jacket didn’t do him justice. He was very tall, about four inches taller than my own five foot eight, and his very bright blue eyes were looking at me with what I assumed was the same wide-eyed expression I was using on him.

  He wore a starched white button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, and loafers without socks. I also noticed that he was younger than me, followed in quick succession by the thought that he was dressed for a dinner at Cracker Barrel, and I was dressed for a dinner at Anson’s.

  Before he could say anything, I said, “Wait a minute. I forgot my purse,” and slammed the door in his face. What now? Feeling slightly deflated by the fact that I had obviously envisioned a much more elegant evening than he had, my first instinct was to open the door and berate him for misleading me. Instead, remembering my mission, I stood in front of the closed door and quickly raked my fingers through my hair, loosening all bobby pins and letting them fly through the air. When I was sure they were all gone, I flipped my head upside down to fluff my hair into a more casual style, grabbed my purse, which was sitting on the hall table,
and opened the door. If this is what it took to make myself more approachable, then maybe I could do it.

  I smiled calmly and stuck out my hand. “Sorry about that. I’m Melanie Middleton.”

  His smile mimicked the one on his dust jacket, and I wondered if he’d practiced it to get it so perfect. If I wasn’t such a strong-minded individual, I might even have fallen for it.

  His handshake was strong and firm and lasted a little too long. “It’s nice to meet you, Mellie. Great dress, by the way.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said, my lowered opinion of him climbing up a few notches. I smiled brightly as he allowed me to lead us out of the building and to the street, where his car was parked. “And by the way, nobody calls me Mellie.”

  He stopped in front of a shiny black Porsche and opened the passenger door. “But you look like a Mellie.”

  I slid onto the leather seat and looked up at him in confusion. “But you called me Mellie before you’d seen me—when we spoke on the phone.” I wasn’t fishing for a compliment—not really—but I wanted to know if he’d called me because he’d seen my picture in one of my ads. Not that the vanity card was in my deck of vices, but it had been an embarrassingly long time since a guy had called me with anything romantic in mind, and I needed a little ego stroking.

  He shrugged as he closed the door, then walked over to his side and slid in behind the wheel. “What can I say? I’m a thorough researcher—it’s my job. I wanted to find out more about you. All I had to do was go to the library and search in their archives. Since you’re from such a well-known family, I knew you had to be all over the papers. My favorite was the second-place award in the baton-twirling competition in second grade. There was a picture with you and your mom, and I know she referred to you as ‘Mellie’ in the article.”