The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  “Unless it’s lined with gold bars, I don’t think a dress will help much.”

  Sophie shot me a hard look before turning back to Gigi. “All right, I’ll look at it. But it’s the last one today—really.”

  I stood and faced the consultant. “Let me see it before you bring it out. I’ll know whether it’s something Sophie will like or not.”

  Sophie looked at me gratefully as I followed Gigi out of the room and through a door into what appeared to be an office with a computer sitting on a large desk and surrounded by tulle, satin flowers, beads, veils, netting, and just about every other form of bridal paraphernalia. Gigi motioned me forward and then closed the door behind me. Hanging on a hook behind the door was a garment bag made out of an old sheet, the formerly red roses now faded into a graying pink. As soon as I saw it I smelled the heavy scent of gardenias, almost as if somebody had just wafted a bouquet underneath my nose.

  “Do you smell that?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Gardenias. I smell them really strongly right now.”

  Gigi raised her eyebrows. “The only thing I’m smelling right now is mothballs. This dress must have been buried in them inside a trunk in that attic. I’ve been trying to air it out, but I’m going to have to have it professionally fumigated, I think.”

  I took a deep sniff, smelling only the flowers, and for a brief moment I almost felt as if I were walking on a garden path filled with them.

  “Are you sure . . . ?” I began when the phone rang.

  “Can you excuse me for a moment? I need to get that, but I promise I’ll be right back with you. If you like, you can go ahead and bring the dress to the dressing room across the hall to get a better look at it in the right light.”

  I nodded my thanks as she moved to the phone. The smell of flowers was now nearly gagging me as I reached up and took the hanger from the hook. Holding the gown as far away from my nose as I could possibly get it, I carried it to the dressing room, where Sophie’s clothes lay in an inside-out heap, her ancient fringed leather purse on top guarding the pile.

  Carefully, I placed the hanger on a hook over the large wall-to-wall mirror, then bent to raise the sheet that covered what I could see was off-white satin beneath. With my fingers gripping the hem I began lifting, then froze, my eyes focused on the mirror in front of me where the distinct apparition of a young woman appeared standing behind me.

  I looked away, hoping she’d disappear before I looked back, but when I raised my eyes back to the mirror she was still there. I stared at her for a long moment, willing her to vanish, but her image instead grew stronger, more solid, almost as if she were drawing strength from my attention. Her hair was dark and short, curling softly around her face. Two curls folded over each cheek, in the style of the roaring twenties, her rosebud lips darkened heavily with lipstick. Around her neck she wore ropes of pearls, her slinky dress falling to midcalf, showing off shapely legs and white leather shoes with ankle straps. She was solid and real, and if her feet weren’t hovering about six inches from the ground, I would have sworn she was a living and breathing person.

  You can see me? she asked, her words carrying surprise.

  I glanced away and started to sing to myself as I continued to raise the sheet, uncovering more and more of the dress. From years of practice, I’d learned that by my ignoring the ghosts, with a few notable exceptions, they usually gave up and went away.

  You can see me, she said, an icy hand brushing my shoulder.

  My voice rose as I sang the words to ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me,” trying to block out the voice of the woman who shouldn’t be there. The sheet reached the top of the gown. I tucked it behind the dress to examine it better and found myself holding my breath. As Gigi had said, it was simply cut, but elegant in its loose satin folds with a delicate lace overlayer. The sweetheart neckline draped demurely without being too revealing, the train in back short but pleated, as if made for the perfect wedding photo. It had been created for a petite figure like Sophie’s, each embellishment perfectly placed and not too overwhelming. The satin, the color of candlelight, would be the perfect complement to Sophie’s complexion.

  Why are you pretending that you can’t see me?

  I focused again on the dress, the woman’s words making me remember something my mother had said: something about how our gifts were for helping others instead of a source of embarrassment. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day when I’d agree with her, but as I looked back at the spectral woman, I couldn’t help but wonder about her story, or why she was still here.

  I faced her in the mirror. Slowly, and very quietly, I said, “Yes, I can see you.”

  A heavy sigh filled the room, accompanied by a fresh scent of more gardenias. She smiled. That’s my dress.

  I guess I’d known that from the moment she’d first appeared. “It’s very beautiful.”

  I know. She frowned, her delicate brow wrinkling. I never got to wear it.

  Sadness flooded me, filling my chest and making my arms feel heavy. “What happened?”

  I got sick. It was just a cold at first, but then . . . Her ghost eyes met mine. I died.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, forcing my heavy hands to flex. I looked at her carefully. “Why are you still here?”

  My dress deserves to be worn. It’s too beautiful to rot inside of a trunk, not when it was made to symbolize true love.

  I looked from the dress and then back to her reflection. “I think this dress would be perfect for my friend. She loves antique things, which will make this dress especially dear to her. And she’ll look beautiful in it, I know.”

  She smiled again, and the sadness lifted like a boat on a wave, leaving only the lightness of relief. Finally, she said.

  “What is your name?”

  Mary Gibson. I lived with my parents and younger brother on Queen Street. It was my mother who packed away my dress.

  I turned around to face her and saw that she’d already begun to fade. “Is that all?” I asked, wondering at the same time if there was some instruction manual my mother needed to give me to tell me how this was supposed to be done.

  Mary smiled, but shook her head. Bonnie . . . She stopped, her head tilted to the side as if she were listening to somebody I couldn’t see.

  “You know Bonnie?” I watched as her image began to blur, as if somebody had begun to erase her edges.

  Her voice had become so faint I had to strain to hear it. Tell Nola that Bonnie loves her and didn’t mean to hurt her. She says you need to find my daughter’s eyes.

  “What?” I reached out, trying to keep Mary with me just a little longer. “Why won’t she talk to me?” I shouted to a thin strip of fading light.

  Jack was all she said, and then she was gone.

  “Mary! What about Jack?”

  “Mellie? Who are you talking to?”

  I swung around toward the open door and found Nola watching me the way people watch circus entertainers. I thought for a moment of just telling her the truth, but there was no easy way to tell her that her dead mother was communicating through another dead person to tell her that she loved her and hadn’t wanted to hurt her. And that for reasons unknown to me she wouldn’t talk to me directly because of Jack. Nola would probably look at me with an even stranger expression than she already was.

  “Nobody. Just working out scenarios to convince Sophie that I think we found her dress.” I stepped away so Nola could see better, glad for the distraction.

  Her eyes widened. “That’s freakin’ perfect! It even looks like it would fit.”

  “Oh, I know it will. She’s practically the same size as the woman it was made for.”

  Nola regarded me again with those piercing blue eyes. “How would you know that?”

  “Um, just a guess. I mean, obviously if the dress fits Sophie, she would have to be the same size as the original owner, right?”

  “Right,” Nola said slowly. Giving me an odd look, she continued. “Let’s go show
this to Dr. Wallen. She’s started talking about making her own dress from old sheets. I’m all for recycling, but even I think that’s a bad idea.”

  I followed Nola out of the fitting room, giving one last glance behind me, realizing as I did so that the smell of gardenias had disappeared, too. “Rest in peace, Mary,” I said quietly, then went to show Sophie the dress of her dreams.

  Sophie and I sat in the front of my four-door sedan with Nola in the backseat. I’d insisted on driving, not because I thought Sophie’s car was more like a tiny tin can—I did—but because I lost about a year off of my life every time I got in the car with her. She was easily distracted by historic architecture, which was as prevalent in Charleston as palmetto bugs, and had driven up onto a sidewalk more than once. I figured that I didn’t need her prematurely pushing me onto the other side of forty.

  Sophie was on her way to meet Chad at the home of a spiritual healer to have their chakras and auras read, and I was navigating my way in that direction when I caught sight of Nola in the backseat. The radio was very low, but her lips were moving silently as she sang along to the music.

  Remembering her singing in the shower, I said, “You have a beautiful voice, Nola.”

  She clamped her lips shut. “How would you know?”

  I almost told her that it was because I’d heard her in the shower, but I knew that would probably be the last time I would hear it. Instead, I said, “Just now. You were singing to the radio.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Right.”

  Sophie sent me a warning glance. As a college professor she had a lot more experience with teens and young adults, but it wasn’t my nature not to press a point.

  “Your voice is really outstanding. Did you have any formal training?”

  Nola stared out her side window, her jaw working.

  “My mother is a well-known opera singer; did you know that?”

  She spared me a glance in the rearview mirror, and I recognized a flash of interest. Satisfied, I said, “I’d like for you to sing for her. If you’re as good as I think you are, she might suggest lessons or something.”

  Her eyes hardened. “I. Don’t. Like. Singing. It’s stupid, and pointless, and nothing I want to be wasting my time with, okay? So drop it.”

  I had opened my mouth to tell her I thought she needed to work on her manners and that she was just plain wrong when Sophie poked me in the side, making me shut up to catch my breath. Glancing back in the rearview mirror to see if Nola had noticed, I saw a halo of light next to her on the seat. It stretched and moved like a cat inside a bag, restless and determined to escape. It began to take the form of a woman with long blond hair parted in the middle, and pale eyes staring at me in accusation.

  “Watch it!” Sophie screamed.

  I jerked my gaze back to the road in front of me and narrowly missed a woman on a bicycle, and a parked car.

  “Sorry,” I said, stealing a glance in the backseat and fortunately finding only Nola. “I got distracted.”

  Sophie snorted. “Maybe I should drive next time.”

  I opened my mouth to give her my opinion on that thought when Nola’s cell rang.

  “Hey, Alston. What’s up?” There was a brief pause. “Really? Whatever. Hang on while I give her the phone.” Leaning forward, she tapped the cell phone on my shoulder. “Mellie? Alston needs to talk to you.”

  I raised my eyebrows but took the phone. “Hi, Alston. This is Melanie.”

  “Hi, Ms. Middleton. I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you’d want to know that I think I figured out which house Nola’s dollhouse is a copy of. You seemed real interested yesterday when I said it reminded me of something.”

  I glanced over at Sophie, who was watching me closely. “Yes, I’d love to know.”

  “Well, when I was little I used to take piano lessons at a house on Montagu Street. It’s one of those old spooky Victorians behind Colonial Lake. Miss Manigault was my teacher, and she was as old as the dinosaurs back then, so she must be really ancient now. Anyway, she used to be the music teacher at Ashley Hall—which is how my mother knew her—and taught private lessons in her house after she retired. But I’m pretty sure it’s her house. I think some of it’s been changed, which is why I didn’t recognize it right away, but the turret with that fancy woodwork on it is definitely her house.”

  “Do you remember the house number?” I wanted to be more excited, but couldn’t. Despite my success at the bridal store, I wasn’t all that enthusiastic about purposefully encountering more ghosts. Especially ones that threw boy and dog dolls out of windows and broke their necks.

  “No, ma’am. But I think if you drive down the street looking at turrets, you can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, Alston.”

  We said good-bye; then I handed the phone back to Nola.

  “What was that about?” she asked, looking more annoyed than interested.

  I focused on keeping my tone neutral. “Your grandmother, father, and I have been trying to trace the house your dollhouse was most likely copied from. We were pretty sure it was from Charleston, but none of our leads turned up anything. Until yesterday, when Alston was in your room looking at your dollhouse and thought it looked familiar but couldn’t figure out why. It finally came to her that it strongly resembles the house where she used to take piano lessons.”

  “So? Why would she be calling you about it?”

  Sophie and I exchanged a glance. I’d already explained to her everything that had happened so far in the dollhouse, and she was in complete agreement that it was too soon to tell Nola about its ghosts or my ability to see them.

  Trying to meet Nola’s eyes in the rearview mirror, I said, “Because I’m curious. Don’t you want to know anything about who owned your dollhouse and about the house it was fashioned after?”

  “Whatever,” she said, then returned to her perusal of the world outside her window.

  Turning my attention back to the road, I nearly sideswiped a horse-drawn carriage carrying tourists. Sophie glared at me. “I’d like to live to wear that wedding dress, if you don’t mind. Do that again and I will bodily remove you from the driver’s seat, okay?”

  I scowled at her. “Do you need me to drop you with Chad first or do you want to find the house?”

  She looked at me over the top of her round sunglasses without comment.

  “Fine. Then let me drive while you two look. Nola, you get the left-hand side; Sophie, you get the right.”

  I headed down Rutledge Avenue so we could start near the top of Montagu and work our way down. Many of the older homes in the Harleston Village area of Charleston had been subdivided into apartments, but there were a few intact grand dames of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries remaining. I hoped that Nola’s house had been left whole. Not that I would admit this to anybody, but subdividing a historic single-family home had begun to feel like sacrilege to me, an odd sentiment, considering I’d once thought that large portions of the historic district would be better served by demolition balls. Of course, after receiving bills for the never-ending reconstruction of my Tradd Street house, I sometimes couldn’t find too much fault with my previous thinking.

  I drove slowly, pulling into driveways or against the curb when cars drove up behind me. A couple of times Nola informed us that she was bored, but Sophie and I ignored her, intent on our mission. We passed midcentury modest brick homes and Charleston singles, a few older Victorians and Greek Revivals, the houses a silent documentary of an older neighborhood.

  “Stop!” Nola shouted from the backseat, and I stopped immediately, warranting an angry fist wave from a guy on a bike who had been behind me.

  Without saying another word, Nola got out of the car and stood in front of a large house with peeling gray paint, a rusted iron gate hanging from a single remaining hinge, and weeds as high as my knees. But it was more than neglect the house wore; it sat on the side of the street like an empty shell, as if the life inside it had been suddenly and irrevocably ex
tinguished.

  I pulled the car over to the side of the road and Sophie and I got out to stand next to Nola.

  “Wow,” said Sophie. “Now, this is a specimen—I must bring my class to come see it.” She pointed to the right corner of the house, where a tall circular tower was capped with a pointed roof and weather vane. “The turret with the stained-glass windows and all that fretwork is typical Queen Anne. But you can see from the centered pediment with its deep dentil moldings and even the fact that those columns are Doric that somewhere along the way somebody tried to disguise it and make it into a Greek Revival. Kind of hard to hide a turret, though.”

  I looked up at the house’s facade, seeing the different architectural styles stuck onto the same house, and it made me think of a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes: Despite the outside changes, she was still a little girl.

  “It’s my dollhouse, isn’t it?” Nola asked. “At least, it used to be.”

  Sophie nodded. “Yep. I’m pretty sure it is.”

  “So what do we do now? Go and ring the doorbell?” Nola asked.

  “Let me do some research first,” Sophie said. “Find out whether the people living here are connected to the original family. From the looks of it either nobody lives here or whoever does doesn’t want visitors.”

  Nola turned to look at both of us. “Why do we care? It’s just a dumb dollhouse.”

  Sophie, adept at lecturing, started on her spiel of the importance of knowledge when it comes to architecture and its relevance to history. I was only half listening, as I was paying more attention to the skin rising on the back of my neck. I looked back at the house, my attention returning to the turret and up to the window facing the street, and froze. Staring at me from the previously empty glass was the face of an older man with pale hair, his expression radiating hate, his eyes empty black holes.

  I blinked hard, hoping it was my imagination seeing something in the curvy waves of old glass. When I opened my eyes, the image was gone but not the thought that whoever it was I’d seen in the window wanted us to go away and never come back.