The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  “It was an accident, for crying out loud.”

  “Yes, but who’s going to believe that, seeing as how my great-grandmother then conveniently inherited everything that should have gone to the dead woman?”

  “I could help with the PR. Explain how, even though your great-grandmother wasn’t really a Prioleau, your family eventually married back into the Prioleau family to make you rightful owners of the house on Legare Street.”

  I was shaking my head the entire time she spoke.

  Ignoring me, she pressed on. “We could even go on book tour with Jack—think of the crowds the three of us would attract! And Jack’s already done all of the research, so it would be so easy for him to just—”

  “No!” I hadn’t meant to shout, but at least it shut her up. For the moment. “Absolutely not. Especially since it would mean dragging out that little ‘speaking with the dead’ element of the whole story, since it really couldn’t be told without it. I like my career too much to see it end because people think I’m crazy. Besides, the story’s just too . . . sordid for public consumption. You know how people in this town are—we’d never live it down. And not that I have any immediate plans, but what if I have kids? How will that cloud hanging over them affect them?”

  “Well, that’s not very likely, is it?” Her expression was very matter-of-fact, as if she really hadn’t meant for that dagger to go straight through my heart.

  “No, probably not. But even your children would bear the stigma.”

  That, at least, seemed to reach her. She shut her mouth and sat back in her chair. “I hadn’t looked at it that way. But you might be right.” She began to chew on her lower lip, her eyes staring off into space at something that wasn’t there. “What if I have a daughter and she’s not allowed to make her debut at the St. Cecilia ball because of it?”

  I clenched my hands tightly together, resisting the urge to throttle Rebecca. I could imagine the headlines then, proclaiming things like, “Blood Will Tell,” or, “Descendant of Murderess Commits Murder.” Forcing my voice to remain soft, I said, “Jack’s a smart and resourceful guy. He’s working through this thing, and sooner or later he’ll find a new project to get excited about and move on. But not before he’s ready.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I just don’t think I have that kind of patience.”

  I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to remind her that it wasn’t all about her. That Jack’s career and sense of self-worth were a heck of a lot more important than his ability to make her happy all the time. I wasn’t an expert on relationships by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d figured out long ago about how the effort percentages in a relationship fluctuated according to need, and zero versus one hundred all the time didn’t cut it. But there was just no way I was going to give her relationship advice. Not that she’d listen, anyway.

  Instead, I asked, “Have you mentioned your idea to Jack?”

  She nodded. “He wouldn’t hear of it. Said it would be taking advantage of a friendship, and then basically everything else you just said.” She studied me closely for a moment. “Are you sure you won’t—”

  “Positive. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got some work to do before my first appointment.” I stood and came around the desk, just in case she needed physical encouragement to leave my office.

  She picked up her purse, then slid it onto her shoulder as she stood. “By the way, did you know that we’re related to the former Kate Middleton, current bride of Prince William? On our grandmother’s side. My mother did all the research and found that out. She was very disappointed when we didn’t get an invitation to the royal wedding.”

  I raised my eyebrows, having no idea how I was supposed to respond to that. Luckily, she didn’t notice and continued talking. “Also, speaking of invitations, I was wondering if you’d sent one to Marc. He mentioned he hadn’t received his yet, so I was just hoping it had maybe gotten lost in the mail.”

  I hadn’t sent him an invitation. I’d actually addressed one to him, then put it aside. For one thing, I knew he was having his own party at his beach house for Carolina Day, and I’d never expect him to forgo that to come to my birthday party. For another, I just wasn’t sure I wanted him there. With me. In that dress. Once the clock struck midnight and I turned forty, there could be no telling where my desperation might lead.

  “Did he say something to you?” I asked, trying to buy some time.

  “Yes, actually, he did. He seemed hurt.”

  “I’ll ask my mother,” I said, feigning concern. “Ask her to make sure he’s on the list and that his invitation has gone out.” I took a step forward to encourage her to do the same thing and move toward the door.

  We were halfway there when she stopped again. “I had another dream about your mother and a baby last night.”

  I stifled an impatient sigh.

  “Only you were there this time, and you were barefoot and wearing the most ridiculous outfit.”

  She had my attention now. “Was it white and gauzy—and worn over a leotard?”

  Her eyes widened. “Exactly! Do you actually own something like that?”

  “Not yet. It’s my maid of honor dress for Sophie’s wedding.” Our eyes met. “Oh, my gosh—do you think Sophie might be pregnant?”

  “It’s possible. It would make sense that your mother would fuss over Sophie’s baby, since she’s almost a second daughter to her. Why don’t you ask Sophie? And let me know so I can stop dreaming about babies. There are other things I’d much rather be dreaming about.”

  She took another step before stopping again. “And I’d suggest praying for rain on Sophie’s wedding day so you can wear a raincoat over that outfit. It’s your only hope.”

  “Thanks, Rebecca, for the advice and for stopping by today. It’s always good to see you.”

  She kissed both my cheeks again. “And if you change your mind about Jack’s book, let me know.”

  “Of course,” I said, watching her leave.

  I turned back to my office and caught sight of the fishbowl and tried to feel calm and rejuvenated. When that failed, I returned to my desk drawer and took out my slightly smushed doughnut and ate it as I wondered about the vagaries of fate that had made Rebecca Edgerton my cousin.

  A delivery van from a local music shop was idling at the curb in front of my mother’s house when I pulled into the driveway. I ran up to the door, where a man holding a guitar case waited, impatiently ringing the doorbell.

  “I can get that,” I said as I reached the front door.

  “I’m looking for Jack Trenholm.”

  “He’s not here, but that’s his daughter’s guitar that he’d taken in to be repaired. I can sign for it.”

  “Are you his wife?” he asked.

  “No, but I live here with his daughter.”

  “So this is your house?”

  “No, actually, it’s my mother’s. . . .”

  “Never mind.” He put the guitar down and thrust a clipboard at me. “Just sign at the bottom.”

  I did as he instructed, then watched him leave before opening the door and bringing the guitar inside. I heard the music the moment I touched the guitar case, the same haunting melody I’d heard before, strummed on guitar. I turned my head, trying to decipher where the music was coming from, but each time I did, the music changed direction, too, as if it were being played in my ear as a private concert.

  I dropped my purse and briefcase in the empty foyer. “Hello?” I called out, just in case. I knew everybody had gone out—my parents and Nola—to the Trenholms’ for dinner, and they must have taken General Lee, too, because he was nowhere to be found. Unless he was in the kitchen hiding, and ignoring me for leaving him alone.

  Slowly, I climbed the stairs with the guitar and went to Nola’s room, thinking I’d surprise her by placing it on her bed so she’d see it when she first walked in. Pushing open the bedroom door, I felt Bonnie before I saw her, the way normal people feel somebody look
ing at them when they step into a crowded room. I watched the breath stream from my mouth in a small puff.

  “Bonnie?”

  The corner of the room where Nola’s backpack and teddy bear were stacked shimmered with a bright white light. The pile of sheet music that Nola had anchored to the nightstand with three large books on top shimmied and swayed, the edges of the paper flapping like angry birds.

  “Bonnie?” I said again. “I know you’re there.” I waited for a moment and, when she didn’t disappear, I took a deep breath. “I can help you. I want to help you. I know you’re reluctant to speak to me directly, but we’re on the same team here. And I really want to help you, for you and for Nola.”

  The soft sigh filled the room like the hum of an ocean’s wave. Nola.

  I placed the guitar on the bed, being careful not to look directly into the corner of the room from where I felt her watching me. “She’s doing well, and she and Jack are getting along much better now. You wanted that, I know. That’s why you sent her here.”

  I’m so cold.

  I nodded in acknowledgment. “You were a good mother, Bonnie. You can look at Nola and see that. And she’s going to be fine. But it’s time for you to move on. I could help you if you let me.”

  I don’t want to be cold anymore.

  “Then tell me, Bonnie. What do you want? What do you need to know?”

  The word, when it came, seemed to fall from the ceiling like rain, soaking me in all of its meaning. Forgiveness.

  My eyes stung at the enormity of the word. “She might not realize it yet, but I know Nola’s forgiven you for leaving her. But she feels you left because she wasn’t enough reason to stick around. She doesn’t understand why you left her.”

  She’s better off without me. I didn’t want her to suffer any more because of me.

  “Nola loves you. You know that, right? She’s just very angry and confused right now. But that never changed.”

  Tell Jack . . . Her voice began to fade as her light flickered.

  “Tell Jack what?”

  I’m not very strong. I can’t . . . tell you . . . everything.

  “Tell Jack what?” I repeated, feeling her slipping away.

  Tell Jack... I’m sorry. Tell him . . . Nola . . .

  I looked at the corner of the room and saw Bonnie, her face and hair clear, the rest of her already vanishing. “What about Nola?”

  Just . . . Nola. He knows. He knows how . . . to find my daughter’s eyes.

  She shrank into a tiny spot of light. I shook my head, not understanding any of it, and still with a thousand questions. “The other day at the cemetery. Why were you trying to protect me?”

  The pinpoint of light disappeared, taking with it the icy cold but leaving behind the soft sound of a guitar being strummed, and the unmistakable sound of a woman laughing.

  CHAPTER 22

  I awakened to the sound of Nola’s screams. I bounded out of bed, General Lee close on my heels, nearly colliding with my mother in the hallway outside Nola’s bedroom. Without pausing to knock, I pushed the door open, relieved to find no resistance.

  General Lee whimpered, waiting in the hall as my mother and I entered the room. The blinds were still closed, but in the dim early-morning light I could make out the shapes of her furniture and Bonnie’s guitar leaning against a chair. Nola lay curled on her bed in a fetal position, the bedclothes tossed on the floor. Her hair was stuck to her head with sweat, her breathing rapid, her eyes closed as her head thrashed from side to side.

  “Nola?” My mother flipped on the overhead light, then sat on the bed next to Nola. She then held the sleeping girl’s head still while she put her other hand on Nola’s forehead. Turning to me, she said, “She’s burning up. Go get a glass of water from the bathroom.”

  When I returned my foot accidentally nudged Bonnie’s guitar from its precarious position against the chair, making it wobble. For the last few nights, I’d heard Nola strumming on it, very quietly, as if she didn’t want anybody to hear. I’d recognized the first few measures of the song that seemed to constantly be playing in the back of my mind, but she always stopped early, as if she didn’t remember what came next. I’d also recognized what sounded a lot like “Dancing Queen,” but decided to keep that to myself.

  I placed the water on the nightstand as my mother gently rubbed Nola’s back, using a soothing voice to awaken her. “Open your eyes, Nola. It’s just a bad dream. Open your eyes and they’ll go away.”

  Nola’s eyes shot open, the pupils so dilated that it was hard to see them in the ocean of dark blue. “Stop her,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They want me to stop her.”

  I handed my mother the water glass and watched as she held it to Nola’s lips. “Drink this. It will help wake you up and then we can talk.”

  Nola sat up and blinked as if trying to focus, then took two big gulps of water. My mother moved the glass away as Nola raised her hands to her face and smoothed back the damp hair that stuck to her skin. “What happened?” she asked, her gaze darting back and forth between my mother and me as if she were just now registering our presence.

  “You had another bad dream,” my mother said. “You screamed and Mellie and I came to see what was wrong.”

  I took a step forward and something hard and rigid cracked under my foot. Lifting my foot, I saw the dollhouse figure of William Manigault prone on the floor, his head bent at the now familiar, yet unnatural angle. “Dang it,” I said. “I stepped on one of the dolls and broke it. Don’t worry; I’ll fix it—I’ve become quite the pro with glue. But you shouldn’t leave them on the floor.”

  Nola’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t.”

  I met my mother’s eyes for a brief moment. “Where did you leave it?”

  “Downstairs. In the dollhouse. And I know that for sure because yesterday, when Alston was here, we were redecorating all the rooms again and had all the figures set up doing their own thing. William was on the piano in the living room.”

  My mother tucked a strand of hair behind Nola’s ear. “Can you remember what the dream was about?

  Nola shook her head. “No. I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Here, hold my hand. It’ll make it easier.”

  Tentatively, Nola slid her hand into my mother’s, grabbing it tightly as they both closed their eyes.

  “Tell us what you see,” my mother said, her voice strained as she struggled to hold her hand steady.

  “It was . . . William. William and his father. They don’t like each other very much. William was playing the piano, but it made his father angry. I don’t know why. It sounded . . . It was beautiful. It doesn’t make sense. . . .”

  Nola opened her eyes, but my mother squeezed her hand. “Keep going,” my mother commanded gently.

  Nola closed her eyes again and I watched as her eyes moved back and forth under her eyelids. “Then they were at the house—not the dollhouse, but the real one, on Montagu Street. They weren’t dolls, either, but real people. And Miss Julia was there looking like she does now—really old. They were waiting outside the door to that creepy Santa room as if they weren’t allowed to go in, or maybe they just didn’t like it. But they wanted her to hear them, so they were shouting really, really loudly and they were saying, ‘Stop it. Stop it now.’ She was either ignoring them or really couldn’t see them or hear them, because she acted like they weren’t there. And then . . .”

  She began to shake and my mother placed her arm around Nola’s shoulders. “Shh. You don’t have to say anything more.”

  Nola swallowed, her eyes still closed. “I have to. It’s important, I think. And it’s the part that scared me the most.”

  My gaze met my mother’s again and I could tell that she already knew what Nola was going to say. Not wanting to be left out, I prompted, “What happened next, Nola?”

  “They weren’t talking to Miss Julia.” Her eyes popped open, her gaze panicked. “They were talking to me. In the dream, I was lying here in my bed and they
were standing next to me, yelling at me. Telling me to stop her.” Nola began to cry. “I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I was too scared to tell them. I think that must have been when I screamed, because I don’t remember anything else after that.”

  I was no longer looking at Nola. My gaze had traveled to the bedside table, where her cell phone and an open copy of Seventeen magazine lay, the facing page dog-eared in the corner. But what caught my attention was the dollhouse figure of Harold Manigault, who stood on the corner of the table, facing Nola’s bed.

  “Let me guess. You left Mr. Manigault in the dollhouse, too?”

  Nola nodded. “In the library at his desk.”

  I thought for only a moment before I picked up her iPhone from the table. “Can I borrow this for a second?”

  “Sure. What for?”

  I said it out loud before I could talk myself out of it. “I’m going to call your father. I think he and I need to pay another visit to Miss Julia. Since they’re now involving you, this has suddenly become very personal.”

  Jack drove like a bat out of hell from Legare Street to Montagu Street, making me wish that I’d taken my own car and met him there. But I hadn’t wanted to get there early to face alone any of the house’s residents—dead or alive; nor did I want to arrive after Jack. I knew he’d never get violent with a woman, but since this whole matter involved his daughter, I had no idea what to expect. At the very least, I didn’t want to have to pay to replace a dozen smashed ceramic Santa Clauses.

  Our conversation in the car was stilted and awkward, as I tried to pretend that everything was the same between us as it always had been, and Jack didn’t even try. I kept giving him surreptitious glances from the corner of my eye as we careened around corners, trying vainly to remember the time before he was a part of my life.

  He wore what I secretly referred to as his “casual writer” uniform of loafers without socks, khaki pants, and a light blue button-down oxford-cloth shirt rolled up at the sleeves. It was before noon, but he was clean shaven and had his shirt tucked in and wore a belt. I couldn’t help but wonder whom he was trying to impress, knowing with all certainty that it wasn’t me.