The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  CHAPTER 11

  I stood with my mother in the back garden of my Tradd Street home, trying to ignore the thumping sound of the hydraulic lift in its attempts to assist in lifting the house from its foundation to repair it, the architectural equivalent of putting an accident victim on life support. Once, I would have questioned whether all of the lifesaving heroics I’d pulled in the recent past had been worth it. But every time my mind wandered in that direction I couldn’t help but remember what my benefactor, Mr. Vanderhorst, had once written about owning a historical house: It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hands. His words always softened my heart a bit, at least until I got the next bill.

  “Miz Middleton?” I turned to see the contractor, Rich Kobylt, approach while unwrapping what looked like a coleslaw sandwich. Rich and I had been working on my house for nearly two years, and I’d seen him eating coleslaw in one form or another at least one hundred times. I’d always wanted to ask him why not peanut butter or ham or really anything else, but I was afraid a conversation with him would steer toward the paranormal and the things I knew he saw in my house.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked, my standard greeting where Rich was concerned.

  “No, ma’am. Just wanted to let you know that we’re stopping for lunch now, so you ladies will have a bit of quiet to talk.”

  “Thank you. We appreciate it.”

  He tipped his Phillies baseball hat in our direction and turned to go back to his crew. My mother and I instinctively turned away, having already experienced more than once the unexpected sight of Rich’s hindquarters displayed above his sagging pants. Rich and I didn’t know each other outside of our client-contractor relationship, but I thought maybe a Christmas present of a belt would be a nice gesture on my part. I’d probably be able to get a lot of people to chip in.

  My mother continued our conversation. “I thought we could set up the tent for the food here.” She indicated the flat expanse of lawn by the old oak tree where a board swing still hung. “I’ve already contacted Callie White, because she’s such a fabulous caterer and I wanted to make sure we had the date booked with her. And I thought over here”—her hands swept in a round motion, indicating the space in front of the ancient rose garden—“we could have a dance floor. We’ll have a string quartet for dinner, of course—the tables will be set up inside the house and piazza—but I thought a live band and dancing after dinner would be perfect.”

  I nodded absently, trying to find even the tiniest bit of excitement. “Where are you going to put the billboard with my measurements and mentioning my good teeth?”

  Moving forward to pluck a few dead leaves off of a red Louisa rose, she said, “I wouldn’t do anything as tacky as a billboard, dear. I was just going to buy a full-page add in Charleston magazine.”

  I frowned. “Thanks for your tact.”

  “So what’s bothering you, Mellie? Besides this party, that is.”

  I looked at her closely, wondering yet again why she was so good at reading my mind, and knowing, too, that it made no sense to lie, because she’d know that, too. “I sent another ghost into the light yesterday.”

  She raised her elegant brows but didn’t say anything.

  “Her name was Mary Gibson, and it’s her wedding dress that Sophie will be wearing. That’s all Mary wanted—for somebody to wear the dress that she never had a chance to.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe somebody would wait that long for something so . . . inconsequential. I always thought that spirits who were stuck here were here for something monumental. But a wedding dress?”

  My mother bent again to pull a stray weed, straightening slowly as she studied it while twisting the stem between her fingers. “What is inconsequential to one person could mean the world to another. Even among the living you’ll find people holding on to things much longer than you think they should. Grudges, grievances, old hurts. Things that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I love you’ or ‘I forgive you’ are really all that’s needed for healing and moving on.”

  She crumpled the weed in her hand and faced me. “When people die without having said those things, their spirits can be left earthbound, still waiting for the chance to say them. In my experience, it’s those little words that hold spirits back much more often than unfinished business or from a sudden death where the spirit doesn’t know they’re dead. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

  My mother’s eyes met mine and I felt the flash of old anger, the anger I’d held on to for more than thirty-three years. Regardless of her justification for leaving me when I was only six years old, I had still been abandoned by my mother and had lived my life defined by it. So what was she trying to tell me now? That I should forget about it?

  As if she could read my mind, she said, “Forgetting is not the same as forgiving.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you in the past, Mellie. None of it was meant to hurt you, and I truly believed that I was acting in your best interests. I can’t even say that I would have done any of it differently. Because when you get right down to it, is your life so bad now?”

  I wanted to tell her that the jury was still out on my life, the admission of which I was sure would send me on a downward spiral of self-pity. Yes, there was a lot of good in my life. But there still seemed to be something unnameable—and unreachable—missing. However, I was not having this conversation with her. Too many conflicting emotions battled in my head. I’d never been asked, at least before I’d met Jack, to examine my conscience or my actions, and I wasn’t about to start now in the garden of the house I still wasn’t sure I wanted and within earshot of an entire construction crew.

  I stared at the Louisa roses, their garish red petals like a smear on the abundance of shiny green leaves, so deceptive in their beauty, as they hid their thorns beneath the blooms. Like a mother’s love, I thought, remembering again the encounter I’d had with the ghost of Mary Gibson.

  Instead of answering, I said, “There was something else, too, that Mary said. She had a message from Bonnie for me to give to Nola.”

  “And?” my mother asked softly.

  My voice sounded accusing. “Bonnie wanted Nola to know that she loves her and didn’t mean to hurt her.” I paused, letting the words sink in. “And to look for ‘my daughter’s eyes.’ I have no idea what that means, or how to tell Nola, or even why Bonnie won’t speak directly to me. I did ask Mary about that last part, and all she said was ‘Jack.’”

  My mother nodded slowly, her green eyes registering that she hadn’t forgotten her question. “You need to find a way to tell Nola. I agree that she’s not ready—yet. But soon. That could be all Bonnie needs to move on.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “Then there’s something else, and you’ll need to find out what it is so she and Nola can both find peace.”

  I shook my head. “I have a full-time job, remember? I don’t have a lot of time to go chasing ghosts. Can’t you try to speak with her?”

  A small smile lifted my mother’s lips. “It’s you she keeps appearing to, which means she feels a connection. Maybe it’s Nola, since you’re spending so much time with her. Or Jack.”

  Ignoring the last part, I asked, “But why won’t she talk to me? This could be a lot easier than she’s making it.”

  “She killed herself. If she feels shame, she might have difficulty approaching you directly. Or she could be jealous, and sees you as a rival for Jack’s affections.”

  Heat flamed my cheeks. “There are no affections there beyond the platonic. Surely she knows that from wherever she is?”

  “Mellie.” My mother’s tone of voice made me think of what she might have sounded like if she’d been around to scold me when I was a child. The rest of what she was going to say was lost to the sound of an earsplitting scream from inside the house. It was the last day anybody would be allowed inside the house during the foundation work, and I’d left Nola with a book in the kitchen, where she’d promised to stay in the ot
herwise empty house. My mother and I both turned and ran down the garden path to the kitchen door.

  I flung it open and paused in the threshold, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light, my relief at finding Nola alone quickly replaced by the unease that she’d seen something I wasn’t prepared to explain to her.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, walking toward her where she was pressing herself against the refrigerator as if trying to make herself blend in with the stainless steel.

  She shuddered, then pointed to a spot behind me. Bracing myself, I turned, expecting to see Bonnie or one of the harmless spirits that still walked the rooms of the house on Tradd Street, seemingly content to exist in their shadow world. Instead, my gaze immediately settled on her source of terror: A large palmetto bug—known to the rest of the world as a flying cockroach—rested on the lip of the granite counter by the farmhouse sink, its reddish brown shell reflecting the overhead light, its long antennae twitching. I would have preferred a ghost, or a snake, a mouse, or even a charging bull. As much as I loved the city of my birth, the ubiquitous insect was almost enough for me to relinquish all claims to the Holy City.

  My mother stood frozen in the doorway, and I thought for a moment what a picture we must make: three able-bodied and intelligent women petrified at the sight of a six-legged bug. A three-inch six-legged bug with wings, but still.

  “What is that?” Nola shrieked.

  Standing with my back to Nola so I could keep my eye on the unwanted visitor, I said, “It’s the South Carolina state bird.” I kept my tone light so she wouldn’t know that I was petrified of the little beasts.

  “It flies?”

  As if it understood what Nola was saying, it fluttered its wings in warning.

  Nola screamed again and ran for the door into the hallway, starting a chain reaction as my mother and I followed.

  Nola almost crashed into Jack, who was running from the front door to the kitchen. He grasped Nola by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  The panic on his face reminded me of the look he had right before he dived from the kayak after Nola fell into the water. It made my heart squish a little in my chest before I remembered what had caused the crisis.

  “It’s a palmetto bug in the kitchen.” I was a strongly independent woman who’d never relied on a man for anything, yet I would be a fool to bypass this opportunity. “Can you go get rid of it?”

  His hands dropped as his gaze took in all three of us. “A bug? You’re screaming and running through the house because of a bug.”

  “A big, flying bug,” my mother added.

  “And it’s about five inches long,” Nola added.

  “Five inches?” Jack repeated.

  Nola nodded.

  “All right. I’m prepared to do battle. Where is it?”

  “On the sink,” I said, pushing him forward. “Just don’t squish him—see if you can get him outside first and then kill him.”

  “Do you have to kill him?” Nola asked, chewing on her lower lip.

  I gave her the look I usually saved for clients whose lowball offer for a house bordered on insulting. “It’s a cockroach,” I said.

  “A palmetto bug,” Jack and my mother said in unison, as if the more genteel name made it less of an insect.

  Nola continued to look at her father, her eyes hopeful.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll scoop it up in a cup and set it free outside, okay?”

  Nola nodded, and her lips twitched into what might have been a smile.

  “Don’t use one of the good cups,” I said to his departing back. “And throw the cup in the garbage when you’re finished.”

  “Yes, Mellie,” he said as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  “That’s one thing men are good for,” I said to Nola, feeling it was my duty to instruct her in the ways of the world.

  “I heard that,” Jack shouted from the other side of the kitchen door.

  When he returned a few minutes later, he looked like a knight returning from the Crusades. “Taken care of. He’s off amid the blades of grass, ready to populate the world with baby palmetto bugs.” He smiled at me. “Ready to go?”

  “Where are you going?” my mother asked.

  “We’re going back to the house we saw earlier this week—the one that we think the dollhouse was modeled after. Jack and Sophie did some digging and found out that the woman who lives there, Julia Manigault, is the last remaining member of her family—the same family who’s owned the house since the late eighteen hundreds. From what Sophie found, it looks like Julia is in her nineties now, and the dollhouse might have been hers.”

  “Seriously, who cares?” Nola asked. “I don’t give a rat’s a—” My mother sent her a sharp look. Nola continued. “. . . rat’s paw who it belonged to. Why should we care?”

  My eyes met Jack’s for a brief moment over Nola’s head, long enough to acknowledge our shared secret and for me to feel a little flush of heat flood my body.

  Nola continued. “I mean, really. Do I have to go and talk with some old lady? She’s probably too senile to remember a stupid dollhouse anyway.”

  Jack turned to her. “I guess not, but if you don’t I could make you spend the weekend with Rebecca and me at her parents’ home in Sum-merville instead. Your choice.”

  Nola rolled her eyes. “I think I’d rather move in with the old lady,” she mumbled as she stared at the floor like she’d never seen it before. She glared back at her father. “But why are you going?”

  Jack shrugged. “Because I’m always on the lookout for the next book idea. And besides, Mellie asked me.”

  I hadn’t, but I didn’t bother to mention it. Jack and I had been investigating past lives in old houses long enough that it didn’t occur to me that he needed to be asked or that he wouldn’t naturally assume he should accompany me.

  “Julia Manigault,” my mother repeated. She looked up, her eyes widening. “Do you know whether she ever taught at Ashley Hall?”

  “Yes, she did,” I said. “I didn’t think to ask whether you knew her. Alston said she taught music at Ashley Hall until she retired, then taught piano lessons from her home—that’s how Alston knew the house.”

  My mother smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “She was my first vocal teacher. I went to her to take piano lessons, but when she heard me sing we focused on voice. I only stayed with her that first year, before my parents found a more specialized teacher, but I’ve always credited her with being the person who inspired me to pursue my singing. I had no idea she was still alive. She was pretty old when I knew her.” She gave a little laugh. “Although she was probably younger than I am now.”

  “Come with us, then. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you. I called and spoke to her housekeeper and set up an appointment—I doubt bringing one more would be a problem.”

  “I’d love to, but I have another appointment that I can’t change at the last minute.” She gave me a sideways glance. “It’s to see Mr. Mc-Ghee regarding his late wife.” She glanced up at Jack and me so we would understand what sort of appointment she was referring to. “Please give her my best and tell her I will come by to see her soon.”

  Nola headed to the door. “Can we go now? The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

  My mother touched my arm. “May I have a word with you, Mellie?”

  I had the sinking feeling she was hoping to continue our previous conversation. I looked to Jack for help, but he either missed or ignored my silent plea.

  “Can we take your car?” he asked. “I don’t want Nola in the backseat of the Porsche—it’s too cramped, and to be honest I don’t know how safe it is.”

  I handed him my car key, then stared at his back for a moment as he headed to my car, remembering the times I’d been forced into his backseat to allow Rebecca in the front. “I’ll drive. Go wait by the car and I’ll be right there.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, then said good-bye to my mother before sauntering toward my car with Nola.
>
  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said—how Bonnie said Jack’s name when you wanted to know why she won’t speak to you directly.”

  I relaxed a bit. “Did you come up with something?”

  “Maybe Bonnie wasn’t answering your question at all. Maybe she was trying to tell you something else entirely.”

  “Like what?”

  She looked over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t within earshot of Jack or Nola. “I spoke to your grandmother last night.”

  I looked at her, surprised. My grandmother always communicated with me first. It had always been that way, even when she’d been alive. “I wonder why she didn’t speak with me.”

  “She already has, but apparently you weren’t listening.”

  I remembered the phone call the night I’d found Jack’s wallet on my dresser, something about listening to my heart. “I don’t understand.”

  “Jack’s in trouble, Mellie. I don’t know how or why, but maybe that’s what Bonnie was trying to tell you.”

  “But why me? Why not Rebecca?”

  My mother looked at me, her eyes hard. “Let it go, Mellie. Whatever it is you’re holding on to that’s preventing you from seeing what everybody else sees so clearly, let it go.”

  I thought of Jack, and the way he’d always made me feel as if I were standing at the edge of a cliff, and how unprepared I was for the free fall if I should take a step forward. And I had no idea what it was that made me cling so hard to solid ground.

  “They’re waiting for me. I’ve got to go.”

  I looked away quickly from the disappointment in her eyes, and walked to the car wondering how I was supposed to save Jack when I had no idea how to save myself.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was a short drive to Montagu Street, and I found parking in front of the house. As we stood on the opposite side of the street from the house, I took it as a good sign that a bird sang from the overgrown crape myrtle that obscured most of the front garden and walk. I didn’t dare look up at the turret window.