The Strangers on Montagu Street (19 page)
Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
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 extinguished.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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 otherwise empty house. My mother and I both turned and ran down the garden path to the kitchen door.
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