by Karen White
I parked my car on Queen Street, then studied my face in the rearview mirror. I was meeting Marc for dinner at Husk, and I wanted to make sure I conveyed the right message: not too sexy, not too interested. Just dinner between old friends, if you could even call us that. He’d left a message with Charlene earlier, saying that he had reservations at seven and that he had something important to tell me. I’d tried to call him back to find out more, but his secretary had said he was in meetings all day and couldn’t be reached. I’d left a message with her, saying I’d be there, then proceeded to spend two hours in my closet trying to find the right outfit that would make me appear as neutral as Switzerland.
I locked the car door, then tried to wipe a finger smudge off the back window left by a client’s child. I made a mental note to get my car detailed later to not only remove all finger and nose smudges, but also the french fries embedded in my carpets and sticky drips from leaking juice boxes off the leather upholstery. It was part of doing business, and since the clients had purchased a nice single home on Rutledge, it took the edge off of the sugar-coated seats and smudgy doors.
I recognized Marc walking toward me on the sidewalk, both of us habitually early for any appointment. We hugged and gave double cheek kisses and then I waited as he held me at arm’s length.
“Always beautiful, Melanie, but tonight especially.”
I blushed, wondering whether the Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress leaned too far on the sexy side and whether I should have worn a camisole underneath so the V-neck wouldn’t have seemed so, well, “V”-shaped. “Thank you, Marc. And you look handsome and suave, as usual.”
We stood smiling at each other for a moment in mutual admiration until Marc looked behind me to frown at my car. “I wish you’d have allowed me to come pick you up.”
“I know, but I had a late appointment and didn’t know whether I’d have time to go home first,” I lied. I’m not sure why I wanted to have my own transportation other than the certainty that being desperate and lonely wasn’t a good combination when having dinner with a man I wasn’t sure I even liked.
Marc offered his arm and I took it as he led me toward the restaurant. The building was a restored double house with a sweet-smelling fountain filled with flowers dominating the small garden. As we walked up the steps to the front porch, I spotted a woman in period costume from the 1860s holding a baby. She was staring at me like she needed to ask me something. Turning to Marc, I said, “I love the costumed actors.”
He gave me a confused glance, causing me to look back at the woman, who was now walking toward me, close enough that I could see the courtyard fountain through her. Out of habit, I quickly turned away and walked through the front door, humming ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” and causing Marc to send me another look.
The maître d’ greeted Marc by name and escorted us to a cozy table for two by a window overlooking Queen Street. Despite the antique exterior of the home, the interior was done in a soothing contemporary style, with cool blue walls and floor-to-ceiling curtains done in a fabric of bright splotches of color that resembled flowers. The restaurant was crowded, the low hubbub of voices a soothing backdrop to the sounds of silverware on black skillet plates and the clinking of wineglasses.
I paused in front of our table, where a bottle of champagne sat chilling in an ice bucket, two flutes sitting next to it. A pang of panic hit me as my eyes darted around for a ring box. As far-flung as that conclusion seemed to be, I couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d have brought me here for a celebratory dinner. Besides, I’d never been proposed to before, so I had no frame of reference.
“Mellie? Matt? Is that you?”
We both whipped around to a neighboring table for two by the side window, where Jack was in the process of standing. Rebecca looked pretty in a bland Barbie-doll way, in a pink sundress with a bow on one of the straps, and looking less than thrilled to see us. I remembered what Sophie had said about my own expression when I saw Jack with Rebecca and forced my face to remain neutral.
Jack approached with his hand held out to Marc. “What a thrill to see you both here; isn’t it, Rebecca?”
Rebecca nodded, her enthusiasm tepid. She stood, too, and I wasn’t sure whether it was to embrace me—which she did, including a kiss on each cheek, or to show off her adorable pink linen peep-toe platform pumps. “Hello, cousin,” she said, following my gaze. “Aren’t they great? They’re from the Ann Roth summer collection. I got them at Bob Ellis.”
“My mother mentioned I needed to stop by the store—I guess I’ll have to.”
She sent me an odd look, as if just remembering something.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing, really. Just when you mentioned your mother it reminded me of a dream I had the other night.”
I raised both eyebrows. Rebecca’s psychic inheritance had been the gift of prophetic dreams. But, as with communicating with ghosts, her visions usually lacked clarity but were more like puzzle pieces given upside down and out of order. “About my mother?”
“Yes.” She gave a little laugh. “She was holding a baby. Of course, the baby could be symbolic—like the start of something new for her. Or even about her relationship with you, her only child. Obviously, your mother is past menopause, so it’s doubtful the dream has a literal interpretation, although there are certain scientific breakthroughs that would allow . . .”
I held up my hand. “That’s enough, thank you. I’ll let her know. Maybe she’ll have an idea what it’s about.”
We turned back to the men, who were waiting with restrained impatience. I noticed that both Jack and Rebecca were surreptitiously eyeing the champagne and flutes. Marc noticed and stepped back to give them a better view. “Yes, Melanie and I are about to celebrate some very exciting news.”
When he offered nothing more, Rebecca and Jack turned to me. I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m in the dark, too, I’m afraid.”
Marc continued. “And I’d invite you both to share in the celebration, but we only have room for two, and it’s a full house tonight.”
Jack had already turned and begun to drag his table next to ours, ignoring the glowers of the maître d’, the other diners, and Marc. “Problem solved,” he said, straightening the silverware before retrieving their chairs.
Our waiter appeared, his smile trying to hide his annoyance at having to weave through the crowded aisle to reach us. “Two more champagne flutes?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Marc said, his tone and his expression holding a hint of restraint and something else, something that reminded me of a smoldering fire that was about to have a revitalizing puff of air bring it to life.
“And a bottle of sparkling apple cider for me, please,” Jack said to the waiter.
Marc held out a chair for Rebecca to sit, then took the chair next to hers, leaving Jack and me on the opposite side, with me facing Marc. We proceeded to engage in innocuous small talk that said nothing while the glances shooting among the four of us spoke volumes. Rebecca’s attention was divided almost equally between Marc and Jack, while I preferred to concentrate more on the excellent menu. I was starving and I saw no reason to embroil myself in the undercurrent of whatever was flowing between Jack and Marc. And Rebecca and Jack. And Marc and Rebecca. It was exhausting, and I really, really needed to eat before I drank a glass of champagne.
We ordered a first course of salads and locally harvested oysters while the sommelier appeared with two more glasses and Jack’s sparkling cider.
“So, what are we celebrating tonight?” Jack asked, his jovial question edged with something hard and sharp. I watched as his gaze slid to my empty left ring finger before his eyes met mine with a look of . . . relief?
“Yes,” Rebecca said, turning to Marc. “I’ve been dying to know since I saw the champagne bottle.” Long lashes swept over her crystal-blue eyes, and I wanted to tell her she looked more like a talking baby doll than the sexy woman I was sure she was trying to be. I almost expecte
d her to say, “Change me,” next.
We sat with our glasses in our hands, each of us with an unreadable expression. Raising his glass, Marc said, “To my book. It’s been scheduled for a December first release, and the publisher is going to be pushing it big-time in all the stores for a huge Christmas sellout. My print run is already through the roof, and the preorders are beyond even my expectations. They’re not promising anything, but my publisher’s saying he’s expecting it to be top ten on all the major lists. And . . .” He paused for emphasis. “Sony Pictures has just purchased the film rights, and they’re already talking to Ben Affleck about playing the lead.”
Rebecca, Marc, and I took long sips, while I noticed Jack just pretended to hold the glass to his lips. Rebecca put her glass down and clapped her hands. “Tell us more! I’m sure I’ll be able to get you some front-page coverage in the paper, since you’re local. And I’m still doing some freelance work for Charleston magazine, too, so maybe we can set up an interview and see what happens.”
“Yes,” Jack said slowly. “Tell us more. We’re all dying to hear.” His eyebrows knitted. “I thought you were self-publishing your book for a few friends and family.”
Marc sent him a withering look. “Actually, it’s being published by Bigglesmann House in New York. It’s one of the largest publishers.”
I turned to Jack, surprised. “That’s your publisher, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said before slugging back his flute of cider. I watched as he eyed the champagne bottle only an arm’s length away. “It is.”
“What a coincidence,” Marc said, his smile showing that he’d been waiting a long time to drop that bomb on Jack. “I’ve found them to be so receptive and enthusiastic so far. They’re even talking about more books already, and this one hasn’t even hit the shelves.”
“How exciting,” said Jack. “I didn’t know there was such a market for picture books.”
“Actually,” Marc said very slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “it’s adult nonfiction. But my publisher has asked me not to discuss anything more, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave it at that.”
Without waiting for the wine steward, Jack refilled his cider and threw it back like a shot of whiskey. “What a disappointment,” he said. “I was so looking forward to hearing every detail for the rest of my dinner.”
Both Rebecca and I turned to stare at Jack. That was low, even for Jack. And I didn’t think to remind him that it had been he who’d moved the tables so he could join us.
Marc seemed unfazed. “When’s your next book out, Jack? Maybe you and I can do a double event or something if it’s released around the same time as mine.”
As the waiter approached, Jack looked at the man like a drowning person looks at a sandbar. “Great. I’m starved. Is everybody ready to order?” He gave a cursory glance around the table. “All right then. Let’s have another bottle of the best bubbly you have and another of the sparkling cider for me. And please put this on Mr. Longo’s tab, since he’s a big-deal author now.”
Marc’s eyes widened slightly before he cleared his throat. “I was about to suggest that myself. It’s my celebration, after all.” He lifted his glass again and saluted Jack before sipping, his eyes like those of a cat that had eaten the cream, and the whole bowl, too.
I was mentally exhausted by the time I returned to my mother’s house. The front lights had been left burning, giving me a warm sense of belonging, as if the lights signified that somebody had thought of me. It would be one of the things I’d miss when I returned alone to my house on Tradd Street.
After quietly sliding the dead bolt on the front door and setting the alarm, I turned toward the stairs.
“Melanie?”
I started at the sound of my father’s voice from the front parlor. I walked toward it, the room illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the stained-glass window, painting patches of color along the floors and walls. I felt rather than saw the hulking shadow of the dollhouse on the far side of the room where the light couldn’t reach it. “Daddy? Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“I didn’t want your mother to know that I was still here. She’d want to keep me company and feed me. Not that I don’t love that, but I just really needed to talk with you.”
I tried not to focus on what he meant by “still here” and moved on to the next subject. “What about?” I asked as I slid onto the sofa next to him.
“There’s something not right about that dollhouse.”
I resisted the impulse to snort and instead waited for him to continue. Until he’d witnessed the ghost of my Hessian soldier, my father had been dismissive at best about my and my mother’s psychic abilities. Even though he was no longer dismissive or derisive, he still wasn’t comfortable with acknowledging that there was something out there that we could see and he couldn’t. When he didn’t say anything else, I said, “What do you mean?”
He paused before answering. “While I was sitting here waiting for you, I could swear I heard it . . . breathe. I actually thought somebody might be in the room, so I switched on a lamp to go look and this is what I found.” Leaning over, he turned on the lamp by the sofa, illuminating the coffee table in front of us. The figures of the boy and the dog lay faceup, their cold eyes staring at the ceiling, the boy’s head at an odd angle and the dog’s skull cracked in half.
“Where were the other figures?” I asked quietly.
His eyes regarded me steadily. “Crowded in front of the turret window.”
I swallowed, the sound loud enough that I’m sure my father heard. He reached over and turned off the light. “Do you know what that’s about?” he asked.
“No. Not yet, anyway. Jack and I are trying to find out what’s going on.”
He was silent again for a moment. “I don’t like this business with the burned stair runner and the scratched walls—and not just because I’m the go-to guy for getting it all fixed. It’s just . . . well, be careful, all right?” His voice was gruff. “I don’t like thinking of the two of you fighting something I can’t. It’s just . . . not right.”
I reached for his hand. “Daddy, Mother and I can handle this. We actually make a pretty good team.”
“And what were you thinking, putting that thing in Nola’s room? She’s young and helpless and can’t be expected to defend herself. . . .”
“She’s hardly helpless,” I said, my warm and fuzzy feelings toward him beginning to cool slightly. “You know we’ll take care of her.”
“I know,” he said, patting my arm with his other hand. “It’s only that with her not having a mother and then Jack . . .” He stopped.
I recalled how he said he was waiting for me when he heard a sound from the dollhouse. “You weren’t waiting for me to talk about the dollhouse, were you?”
He shook his head. “No. I wanted to talk to you about something more . . . personal.”
“Oh.” His words took me by surprise. Our relationship had made leaps and bounds in the last two years, but not to the level where we shared confidences late at night. I just hoped it wasn’t about my mother. Or that I was going to have a little brother or sister. “About what?”
“Jack.”
“Oh,” I said again, surprised. “What about Jack?”
“He called me about an hour ago—he was still at the restaurant with you. Said he wanted to take a drink.”
I went very still. Jack had been my father’s sponsor in AA, and I wasn’t prepared for this role reversal. I remembered Jack excusing himself from the table to make a phone call, but I’d never expected this. “What did you tell him?”
“That I would come get him, but he didn’t want that. He just wanted to talk, so we did. He seemed better after that, and promised that if he felt the urge again he’d call no matter what time it was. But I think . . .” He stopped.
“You think what?” I prompted.
“That you should talk to him. I don’t know whatever this thing between you is, but the
two of you drag it behind you like a ball and chain. There’re other things going on in his career, but I think he can handle it if the two of you could just . . .” Again he stopped.
I was afraid he would say, “sleep together,” so I quickly said, “I’ll talk to him. I’ve been meaning to for a while now; I just haven’t had a chance. But I will.”
My father sat up. “Will you do it soon?”
I nodded. “Sure. I promise.”
“Great.” His voice sounded relieved. Patting my knee, he said, “It’s late. Why don’t you go on ahead and get some sleep. I think I’ll stay here for a little while and keep an eye on that . . . dollhouse. I’ll go glue those dolls back together, too, before Nola finds them broken.”
“You don’t have to, Daddy. I can do that.”
“I know. Just let an old man feel useful.”
I snorted. “You’re hardly old, and you’ve re-created a beautiful garden at my house. I think that qualifies as being useful.”
He was silent for a moment, and I knew we were both thinking of all the lost years of my childhood. Finally, he said, “What do you want for your birthday?”
Jack. It was the first word that came to mind, but I didn’t say it aloud. Instead, I said, “I have everything I need.”
I felt his eyes on me in the dark. “Well, I hope you get everything you want.”
Leaning over, I kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Daddy.”
“Good night, Melanie.”
I left him on the sofa and made my way toward the stairs, wishing I knew what I was going to say to Jack and feeling more than one set of eyes on my back as I went up the steps.
CHAPTER 17
I hopped on one foot and then the other as I slipped on my flats, hurrying out of my bedroom door to collect Nola and my mother before heading to Julia Manigault’s house for the first music lesson, currently being referred to as a piano/voice lesson until either Julia or Nola decided which to focus on. I paused outside Nola’s opened door with my arm raised, prepared to knock on the doorframe, as the sound of quiet conversation came from inside. I stuck my head around the corner to get her attention so I could point at my watch to let her know that we were perilously close to being on time instead of early.
