The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  Across the room hung what I referred to in my mind with a capital letter as the Dress. I’d procrastinated too long in finding a replacement, so I was stuck with no other choice but to wear it. I hadn’t tried it on with a turtleneck underneath it, but as I stared at the plunging neckline I wondered whether I should have.

  My mother sat next to me in an identical chintz-covered chaise, except her head was relaxed against the back of the chair as if she were enjoying herself. By contrast, my manicurist had to keep unfurling my fingers from digging into the armrests, and straightening my curling toes.

  “Relax, Mellie,” my mother said for the third time, her eyes closed, as if she could sense my tenseness. “This is supposed to be fun, remember?”

  “Yeah. So is bungee jumping, but you don’t see me doing that, do you?”

  Ignoring my response, she said, “Your contractor, Rich Kobylt, stopped by earlier.”

  I groaned. “What now?”

  “Oh, come now, Mellie. It’s not always bad news.”

  “From him, actually, it usually is.”

  “Well, not this time. He said his workers and all their equipment will be removed by eleven o’clock this morning and won’t return until Monday. That should give the caterers plenty of time to set up and clean up without getting in the way of the construction workers. Rich even wrapped a black tarp around the uncovered foundation to make it easier on the eyes, and Nola and Alston have volunteered to decorate the tarp for the party.”

  I sat up suddenly, earning a tight squeeze on the wrist by the manicurist. I sent her a look of apology before turning back to my mother. “Please tell me you gave them some parameters on what it should look like.”

  She actually looked affronted. “I did no such thing. They’re very creative girls, and I’m sure whatever they come up with will be fine—and certainly better than staring into the dusty hole beneath your house. Now, stop worrying and relax.”

  The manicurist pried my index finger off the armrest to slap on another coat of polish while I made a conscious effort to rest my head on the seat back.

  “Anyway,” my mother continued, “Rich said that it’s safe to use the kitchen entrance to gain access to the downstairs bathroom for guests. We will also have two discreetly hidden high-end Porta-Johns for the gentlemen at the back of the garden. I won’t bother to mention what Chad and Sophie suggested we do instead for a more environmentally friendly solution.”

  My head jerked up again.

  “Don’t worry; I told them no. Besides, your father would never consider that for his garden. Nor do I think it’s legal.”

  Feeling my jaw beginning to ache, I forcibly relaxed it and rested my head again on the back of the chair.

  “Rich did mention something about the pipes he uncovered, but he said he’d wait to talk to you about that later.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to block out the image of large amounts of cash flying out the windows of my Tradd Street house, and a tarp-covered foundation as the backdrop to my fortieth birthday party. I’d suggested we have the party in my mother’s garden instead, but both she and my father had dissuaded me, saying that it would mean more to me to have the party at my own house: the house that I’d brought back to life in more ways than one. Just because it was empty of furnishings and the foundation was torn up wasn’t enough reason to move venues, according to them. Besides, my father insisted, it would be a testament to his skills as gardener to transform the workspace into an art form. I hadn’t been allowed into the garden to see what he’d done, but from the puffed look of pride he gave me every time I asked, I imagined it was something good.

  There was a tap on the door, followed by Sophie sticking her head around the corner. “Is it safe?”

  I grinned. “Come on in. But if you stay too long, my mother will have you crimped and painted and stuffed into some hooker dress before you know it.”

  My mother frowned at me while I tried to surreptitiously study Sophie’s figure for any sign of a bulging abdomen. Rebecca’s dreams about a baby had me curious, but not curious enough to ask Sophie outright and embarrass her. And me. I figured if she were expecting, she’d tell me. I could only hope that if it were true, I’d be one of the first to know. I was still smarting at the indignity of finding out about her engagement with everybody else. Being BFFs—as Nola called us—should mean priority notification.

  Sophie caught me looking and held her arms out. “You like it? It’s a tablecloth I found at a garage sale, but since I’m so handy with a needle and thread, I thought it would make a cute summer dress. I found this piece of rope in my trunk and voilà! I had a belt.”

  I kept the smile on my face as I took in the red-and-white-checked pattern of the fabric, the stitching done with multicolored thread—presumably leftovers from previous jobs that she didn’t want to waste—and the deep scissored vee for the neck and armholes. I couldn’t imagine even ants at a picnic finding it appealing. Unfortunately, it also fit like a belted tablecloth, making it virtually impossible to ascertain whether she was actually female, much less pregnant.

  Luckily, I was spared a response when Nola appeared behind her. I glanced at the small Meissen clock on my mother’s dressing table. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Miss Julia’s right now?” She’d been going about three times a week, at her own suggestion. Jack had been too surprised and happy to question her motives. I remained suspicious.

  “Dee Davenport called and canceled, and also wanted me to tell you that Miss Julia won’t be at the party tonight.”

  Sophie held up the newspaper. “And I think I know why.”

  The manicurist glared at me as I tried to reach for the paper. Sending her yet another apologetic smile, I said, “You’re going to have to read it to me.”

  Sophie opened the paper and then folded it over to the section she needed. Clearing her throat, she read:

  Human remains of two individuals, thought to be a male and female, have been found by a Cobb Homebuilders construction crew during the clearing at Belle Meade plantation in Georgetown County. There is no indication how long the bodies have been there, but preliminary reports indicate they are not recent burials. No headstones were immediately apparent.

  The remains were discovered behind the ruins of the main house that burned in 1938 from a lightning strike. All construction has been halted until it is confirmed that there are no further bodies buried in the vicinity and the remains are identified and reinterred elsewhere.

  Sophie crumpled the paper as she lowered it. “That’s the property you said Julia Manigault is selling to Cobb, right? I actually picketed the place before the judge ruled in the developer’s favor, and didn’t even realize it was hers. But I’m guessing the news isn’t sitting well with her right now.”

  Nola sat on top of my mother’s bedspread, almost jumping up and down with excitement. “I bet one of those environmental groups moved some bodies just to stop the construction. I mean, everybody’s seen Poltergeist, right? Who wants to live in a house that used to be a cemetery? You get all those spooky people coming out of your closet and then green slimy stuff dripping down your walls.” She turned to me, her eyes wide. “Why don’t you go out there and talk to those dead people and find out who they are?”

  Both the manicurist and pedicurist stopped in midbrushstroke and turned in unison to look from Nola to me and then back again.

  I forced a laugh. “Right. Like that wouldn’t scare me to death. Besides, I think those kind of special effects are only in the movies.” I shot her a warning look. “Anyway, my mother’s got me booked for the rest of the day for various procedures.” Glancing over at my mother, I asked, “What’s next on the agenda?”

  “Well, I wanted you to try on your dress one last time to see whether any small alterations need to be made. I actually thought we could sew a little more... bulk in the bodice area to fill it out a bit more.”

  “I’d be happy to do it for you,” Sophie volunteered.

  “No, but thank you,” my
mother and I said in unison.

  While my mother pretended to cough, I said, “I appreciate it, but I think we’ve got it covered. All I want you to do is get yourself dressed, and then you and Chad come to the party and have fun.”

  Her face sobered. “But I am dressed for the party.”

  If crickets had been present, we would have heard them chirping.

  “Kidding!” she said, earning a howling laugh from Nola and a relieved sigh from both beauticians and my mother. “Sorry—couldn’t resist. I did get a party dress. Not as hot as yours, but Chad likes it.”

  That did nothing to reassure me, but it had to be better than a tablecloth. “Great,” I said, smiling. “I’ll see you later, then. Thanks for bringing the newspaper or I might never have known.”

  “I know. That’s why I brought it.” She placed the rumpled copy on top of the bed. “Come on, Nola. I’ll drop you off on Tradd Street so you can finish your mural.” Turning back to me, she said, “Wait till you see it. It’s awesome.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but I smiled anyway. “Can’t wait!”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see the manicurist pushing me back against the seat. “Try to relax, Miss Middleton. It’s more enjoyable that way.”

  Pressing my head into the cushion, I said, “This is as relaxed as I get.”

  I heard her sigh as she forcibly straightened my pinkie again, then gave it another swipe with the polish brush.

  Despite the fact that the distance between our two houses was only a few blocks and we could have been driven by my father, my mother insisted that we have a chauffeured limousine to take the three of us and Nola to my house on Tradd Street. Only Nola’s presence prevented this from being a trial run for my wedding day. Or, as was most likely the case, a substitution.

  I could almost smell the scent of flowers through the closed windows of the limo as we pulled up to the curb in front of my house. Unable to wait for the driver to open my door, I rolled down my window, breathing in the perfume of hundreds of summer blooms. There were clusters of them everywhere—on the front gates, atop the garden wall, wrapped around the piazza railings, and dropping from window boxes. An arbor had been constructed inside the garden gates, entwined with transplanted purple clematis, for each guest to walk through. From what I could see beyond the gates, the brick paths and hedges, and even the fountain, showed no signs that a construction crew had been anywhere near the house. Only my bank account knew the truth.

  My father sat next to me in the limo, and I reached for his hand and squeezed, knowing he was personally responsible for the transformation. Gardening had become his passion when alcohol had ceased to be, and I’d found the joy it gave him contagious. “Thank you, Daddy,” I said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “I can’t believe you did all of this! It’s just . . . stunning.”

  He patted my hand. “I can’t take all the credit, you know. Louisa Vanderhorst planned the rose garden and the fountain, and Loutrel Briggs designed the rest. All I’ve done is clean up a neglected garden and tweak some of the older designs.”

  “And raid all the florists in Charleston,” my mother added. “He wouldn’t dream of actually hiring a florist for the party. Insisted on doing all of it himself.” She beamed at him, her face radiating a different kind of passion, and for a moment I was torn between admiring the deepening of their relationship and being nauseated by it. They were my parents, after all.

  The chauffeur opened the door and helped me, and my dress, out of the limo. Nola scrambled out next and I looked at her, grudgingly admiring her outfit. She wore a simple Lilly Pulitzer shantung sheath in a pale lilac that set off her complexion and eyes beautifully. Amelia had purchased it for her, but Nola completed the look with the purple Converse sneakers Jack had given her. A gauzy purple scarf was wrapped around her neck, with a big saucy bow tied off center. As my mother had pointed out before, Nola’s style might not be mine, but it suited her, making it a perfect complement to her unique personality.

  As the chauffeur helped my mother out of the car, Nola whispered to me, “Who’s Loutrel Briggs?”

  I quickly tried to come up with a way to explain who the late, great landscape architect was into words Nola would understand. “He’s a dead guy from New York who designed many of the most beautiful gardens here in Charleston in the nineteen twenties. It’s a big deal if your house has a Loutrel Briggs garden.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “What kind of name is Loutrel?”

  Looking down at her, I said, “What kind of name is Nola?”

  She snorted, earning a concerned expression from my mother as she and my father moved to stand with us as the limo drove away. Nola spotted Alston, who’d arrived early with Sophie and Chad, and ran to join her.

  I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders, yanking up the knot that held it together over my chest. “I feel like I’m naked,” I said.

  “You look fabulous, Mellie,” my mother said, tugging at the knot to loosen it. “It’s too warm for this, and you’ll want your guests to admire your dress when you greet them. I’ll hang on to it in case it gets too cool for you after the sun sets, but I’ve instructed the band to play until midnight, so hopefully the dancing will keep you warm.”

  Raising my eyes to the sky in resignation, I allowed my mother to remove my shawl.

  My father gave a low whistle. “Did you pick that out for her, Ginny?”

  “I sure did. And I’m sure you agree that she looks gorgeous in it.”

  “Well, of course. But I wish I’d come prepared with a bat to prevent a stampede.”

  I glanced at him doubtfully. “The only stampede will be a stampede of one as I hightail it back to Mother’s house to get a sweatshirt to cover myself.”

  I let out a shriek as I felt my mother’s knuckle dig into my back between my shoulder blades. “What was that for?” I said, turning to her with a scowl.

  “Just reminding you to keep your shoulders back and stop slouching like you’re embarrassed about what God gave you. You’re tall, slender, and beautiful. Now stop sulking and go work that dress. Jack could be here any minute.”

  She sent me a knowing glance, then walked into the garden toward one of the tents that had been set up for food, and began giving last-minute instructions to the catering staff. I looked at my father, who just shrugged before following my mother. He called over his shoulder, “We’ll join you back here in about twenty minutes to help greet your guests. In the meantime, go have some punch and try to relax.”

  It wasn’t until he’d said the word “relax” that I realized my jaw was hurting from clenching it. I spotted the tent where a bar had been set up along with a large silver punch bowl and cups. Although I’d never been much of a drinker, I did love sweets, and the pink, frothy punch bubbling inside the punch bowl made my mouth water. I ladled a large serving into a cup and drank it down in two gulps before pouring myself another. I just needed something to settle my nerves before I could face people while wearing the Dress. I was about to walk away before I decided on a third cup, telling myself it had nothing to do with the possibility that Jack might be there.

  I heard a low wolf whistle and turned abruptly, nearly spilling the pink punch down the front of my dress. I watched as Sophie and Chad approached. At least, I assumed it was Sophie, since the woman with Chad had Sophie’s wild and curly dark hair and was wearing Birkenstocks.

  “Dudette!” Chad said, giving me a quick hug. “You’re like one of those Amazon women but with clothes on.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

  “Sophie! I love your dress!” I couldn’t believe that those words were actually being strung together and coming out of my mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said, making a little twirl to show off her navy blue satin Empire-style dress, complete with bow front and center. “It’s Lanvin, 1961. I figured after getting a secondhand wedding gown that used clothing was really the most eco way to go.”

  I stared at her,
speechless for a moment, trying to understand how Sophie could make couture eco-friendly.

  Sophie continued. “Nola took me to an at-home trunk show for Library: Archives of Fashion—a company run by a local woman who travels all over the place finding old stuff. Do you really like it?”

  I nodded, then stopped as I reached her shoes. “I probably would have suggested something different for your feet, but it’s definitely a start. You look great,” I said, hugging her. “And thanks for coming early to help my mother. She won’t let me do anything, so please direct all questions to her. I’m just here to be eye candy.” I didn’t bother to blush, figuring it was the punch that made me say it.

  My mother turned from where it appeared she was rearranging cocktail napkins and called for Sophie and Chad. “Duty calls,” Sophie said. “Go ahead and try those soy grits with vegan biscuits at the food tent. To die for.”

  I watched them walk away, then poured myself another glass of punch, determined to sip it slowly as I wandered around the garden, smelling the tea olives and admiring the lavender-colored creeping heliotrope that my father used as a summer fill-in for his parterres, and watching the last-minute preparations with a sense of remove. A small dais had been set up for a band in front of a hastily constructed dance floor that had been set above the brick patio to keep women’s heels from getting stuck in between the pavers.

  Remembering the mural, I turned toward the back of the house to get a view of Nola and Alston’s artwork on the black tarp before everybody else did, not really sure what to expect. I started to laugh, probably from relief. Instead of the LA gang graffiti I’d imagined, the girls had managed to paint what looked like a wall of brick where the original bricks had once been but had been temporarily moved during the foundation work. They’d even painted clusters of Louisa rosebushes to make it more realistic. As the evening got darker and people had more to drink, it might even look like the real thing.