by Karen White
Jack’s computer screen was dark, and he was lying faceup on the rug in front of his desk, JJ sitting on top of his chest. They both wore cowboy hats, Jack’s stuck under his head on the floor, and Jack was bouncing his son up and down in a good imitation of the movement of a horse. All my insides melted as I watched them, wondering what I’d done to be so lucky. Not once during my own difficult childhood had I imagined this life. But now that it was mine, I clung to it with both hands like a squirrel in a hurricane might cling to a palmetto trunk.
My gaze slid to the corner of the room where Sarah sat in a shaft of sunlight, waving her hands and babbling as if in conversation. Which she was, I realized, although I couldn’t see anyone. But I could smell the faint scent of roses, the telltale indicator that Louisa Vanderhorst, former resident of the house and planter of the Louisa roses in our garden, was nearby. Although she was a gentle maternal spirit, and one who only periodically visited, I felt a small shock of alarm. Because Louisa stopped by only when she felt we needed her protection.
I turned back to a now hatless Jack, who’d sat up and placed JJ in his lap. “Where’s Jayne?” I asked, bending down to kiss Jack on the lips, then loudly blow a raspberry on JJ’s cheek before swooping up Sarah into my arms. She smiled at me, her blue eyes bright and sparkling as she kissed my nose, then turned to wave her pudgy fingers at the empty corner.
“I sent her home.” Jack didn’t meet my eyes as he stood, intently focusing on lifting JJ onto his shoulders.
“You sent her home? But I thought you said you needed as many writing hours as you could get to turn your book in by the deadline.”
“Did I?” he asked, starting to trot around the room, JJ’s giggles bursting from his tiny chest like bubbles.
I almost allowed myself to let it go. Not to let harsh realities intrude on this sweet family moment. To pretend that I didn’t know that my husband had heard bad news and had chosen not to share it with me. But if there was ever a moment when I needed to be the new Melanie I was intent on becoming, this had to be it.
“Jack,” I began, ready to tell him about my conversation with Anthony, my run-in with Marc, and Rebecca’s dreams—and maybe even the unwanted visitors I’d seen in the house.
“Mellie,” Jack said at the same time, preempting me. Despite my good intentions, I was completely happy to let him go first. I smiled encouragingly at him, trying not to be obvious that I was holding my breath.
“My editor was let go. Patrick took a huge chance on me and was my main advocate at the publishing house, so it’s a little devastating. They’ve assigned me to one of the newer editors—a young woman not much older than Nola, I think. Her name is Desmarae.” He grinned, but it was a poorly executed replica of his usual smile. “Not that being so young is necessarily a bad thing, but she admitted when we spoke on the phone that she’d not only never read any of my books, but she also had no idea who I was when they assigned her to me.”
My heart burned at the indignation. “Then I guess she’s been living under a rock.” Forcing a bright smile, I said, “You still have your awesome agent, who believes in you almost as much as I do.”
He didn’t even try to force a smile this time. “Desmarae did say she loved my author photo on the back of my last book.”
I remembered that picture. It was what had convinced me to go out with him. I tried not to think of another woman looking at the picture and having the same thoughts I did. I cleared my throat. “So you still have a contract and a book deadline.”
“Affirmative,” he said, jostling JJ on his shoulders and making our son squeal with delight.
“Then why would you let Jayne go home early? So you could wallow in self-doubt?”
He stared back at me for a long moment. “Yeah, probably.” He slid JJ from his shoulders and handed him to me.
“I’m going to feed and bathe the children and get them ready for bed while you write. Do not leave this room until you have finished at least three more pages. I’ll have a little surprise waiting for you when you’re done.” I gave him our special look to show him just what kind of a surprise I had in mind, hoping, as I said it, that it wasn’t Nola’s turn to host her study group at our house that night.
Not that it would matter, I thought as Jack’s face became serious and he returned to his desk chair.
“I can always try. It will probably all be crap because my brain’s not in it right now, but writing is rewriting, as my ex-editor used to say.” He jiggled the wireless mouse on his desk, and his computer screen came to life. He read the lines on the screen, his brows squeezed together in concentration.
With a child in each arm, I began to back out of the room, apparently already forgotten.
“What were you about to say—before, when I interrupted you?” Jack kept his fingers poised over his keyboard but turned around to face me.
“Nothing important.” I smiled, and he began typing. I could still hear the clacking of his fingers on the keyboard as I began to nudge the door behind us with my foot.
Without slowing down the pace, he said, “And I haven’t forgotten what you said about a surprise if I write three more pages. I’m going to hold you to it.”
I smiled at the back of his head, feeling an odd mixture of relief and guilt grab me in a choke hold. I started to take a step toward him, to tell him everything, to be the Melanie I’d promised myself I was capable of. But each click on his keyboard was like a tap on the nails in the coffin of my resolve, convincing me that the best choice at that moment was to let him work.
I stood in the doorway for a long moment, battling with my conscience, but then JJ began to squirm and Sarah rubbed her eyes. Looking at Jack’s head bowed over his keyboard, I said, “I love you.”
He continued typing without looking up, already lost in his own world. I put the children down, then gently closed the study door.
* * *
• • •
General Lee walked docilely on his leash beside me while Porgy and Bess, on a separate double leash, both seemed determined to head in opposite directions. If they weren’t so innocent-looking, I would have suspected them of trying to kill me. Behind us, Jayne pushed the double running stroller with JJ and Sarah buckled inside and bundled up against the sudden drop in temperature, unperturbed by the bumps and jars of the uneven sidewalk as we headed down Tradd Street toward East Bay and my meeting with Anthony Longo.
“Remind me again why you need an entourage for this meeting?” Jayne asked.
I kept my gaze focused ahead of us. “For moral support.”
“And it has nothing to do with the reflection of that guy in the doughnut shop window.”
I jerked my head around to stare at her and immediately tripped over one of the dogs. When I’d righted myself, I said, “You saw him?”
“Of course, Melanie. I see dead people, too, remember?”
“Right,” I said, a surprising jab of jealousy invading my psyche. Although I’d always hated my “gift,” it had always belonged to me and me alone. It had separated me from the proverbial crowd. And now, suddenly and unexpectedly, I was supposed to share it. It was as if I’d been downgraded to less than special. Which wasn’t how I really felt at all. Really.
“I mean,” Jayne continued, “it would seem that whoever or whatever that was in the window is somehow connected to Anthony, right? Except I’ve seen the same spirit at the cistern in your backyard.” Our eyes met as we both stopped.
I shivered, and I wasn’t sure it was due to the cold wind. “Anthony said that bricks from a mausoleum at the Vanderhorst plantation cemetery were used in the cistern.”
“It could be a coincidence,” she said.
Our eyes met again. “Except there’s no such thing as coincidence,” we said in unison, echoing Jack’s favorite saying. And he’d yet to be proved wrong.
A wild barking came from a pretty Victorian b
ehind a Philip Simmons gate, making General Lee pull at his leash, nearly separating my shoulder from its socket. I had no choice but to follow him to the gate, where a small white terrier mix with teddy bear ears and a sweet face was jumping up to greet General Lee.
“This is Cindy Lou Who,” Jayne explained, bending down to offer a scratch behind a small furry ear through the fence railing. She straightened to allow General Lee to take her place in ecstatically greeting his canine friend. “I always walk the children past this house, and Cindy Lou Who always rushes over to the gate to say hello. I think she has a thing for General Lee.”
“I think the feeling’s mutual,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve seen her before. Should I tell her that he’s already fathered puppies from another relationship?”
“Her family just moved here from California. I’ve met the mom—Robin. Very nice lady. I let her know that General Lee wasn’t fixed yet but that you’d take care of it very soon so the two of them could play on the same side of the fence.”
I pulled on General Lee’s leash, feeling terrible at the looks of anguish he and Cindy Lou Who gave each other as they were separated. “I know—you’re right. I’ll get it taken care of. That would be a terrible way to welcome new neighbors to the street.”
We continued walking down Tradd, each block a nod to a different architectural period, the houses ranging from brick-fronted Colonials to Greek Revivals and double-piazza single houses. Growing up in Charleston, I’d never noticed the veritable treasure trove of historic houses that made up the landscape of my childhood. I’d been too preoccupied with ignoring the spirits who beckoned me from each doorway and window, in every alley, and behind every tree. It had taken years to learn how to block them out so I could traverse the brick streets of my hometown. But now, with Jayne and me together, our light shone too brightly, a lighthouse beacon to the restless dead in a sea of perpetual night.
Since my sister and I had found each other, there were several things I’d learned about her. Like me, she loved all things with sugar, small children and dogs, and the sound of St. Michael’s bells. Her favorite color was blue, always worn when she felt she needed confidence; she was very shy around men, especially good-looking ones, disliked onions, and preferred wearing flats to heels. We both could see dead people, but whereas I could pretend not to see them, Jayne, eight years younger than I, and not as jaded, sometimes found it difficult to ignore them. Growing up, she’d found ways to mentally block them, but now that we were together, she was finding it more difficult.
I watched as Jayne stopped in front of a Neoclassical Revival (according to Sophie) where two young boys, about eight and ten, sat on the porch steps. The children looked real except for the sickly yellow pallor of their skin and the fact that the steps they were sitting on no longer existed.
“Come on, Jayne. There’s nothing we can do without a full intervention, and that’s just not going to happen.”
“But they’re children.”
“I know,” I said firmly, my resolve as much for her as it was for me. “But if you start paying attention to every spirit you see, more will follow, and they’ll never leave you alone. In your waking or sleeping hours. So let them be.”
She began backing away from them, turning away only after they vanished, a plaintive wailing disappearing with them. We were silent as we walked past the house whose new owners had sold the Philip Simmons gate for scrap metal, prompting Sophie to cross the street to the other side whenever she walked past it. I’d thought I’d seen her spit on the ground in front of the modern gate a few times.
When we reached East Bay, we turned right toward Battery Park and the gazebo. The day had turned blustery, whipping the Cooper River into white-frothed tips like a mad chef with too much meringue. I spotted a pirate ship with a hole blasted in its side slowly sinking beneath the waves, and when I glanced at Jayne, I knew she’d seen it, too.
We needed to come up with a way to block the proverbial target with the arrow pointing at us for all restless spirits to follow. Maybe I could buy her another ABBA CD so she’d learn all the lyrics and we could shout them together in a mutual effort to discourage hangers-on. I’d already gifted her with several CDs, but Jayne had a way of accidentally stepping on them or misplacing them. I made a mental note to ask Nola for help in downloading a playlist for Jayne to listen to on her phone so there would be nothing to step on and break. Or lose. It was the least I could do.
Jayne spotted Anthony leaning on the railing of the gazebo at the same time I did. “He’s wearing clothes,” she said. “I mean, he’s here, and he has on a warm jacket.”
I rolled my eyes. “Remember you’re here for moral support, so please don’t say anything unless you have to, and only after you’ve rehearsed it several times in your head. All right?”
She nodded as Anthony smiled, then walked down the steps to greet us. “Good morning, ladies. I was only expecting Melanie, but I have to admit that seeing Jayne, too, has made my day.”
I wanted to roll my eyes again, but there was real warmth in his eyes as he looked at my sister. Jayne’s cheeks reddened, not entirely due to the wind, and she quickly bent over the stroller to make sure the children were still bundled like little fat sausages.
Anthony shoved his bare hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you so soon.”
“Yes, well, I surprised myself. But your brother paid me a little visit to not only make an offer on my house, but also to threaten me if I didn’t comply. I remembered what you’d said about him having influence everywhere, and I realized that I needed to be proactive.”
“Good move,” he said, distracted by a metal whisk hitting him in the shin.
“Sorry,” Jayne said, quickly picked it up, wiped it off with a cleansing cloth she’d conveniently attached to the stroller’s handle, and gave it back to JJ. “Whisk,” she said, as if that explained everything.
Anthony leaned forward and made a face at the children, and they both giggled. “Is his name ‘Whisk’?” he asked JJ.
“Whisk,” JJ repeated, throwing it at Anthony, who quickly intercepted the kitchen utensil before it beaned him.
He handed it back to JJ, then stepped out of throwing range. “When I was a little boy, I had a special attachment to a yellow bath sponge.” His face sobered. “Until Marc cut it into shreds and soaked the pieces in black paint.”
“That explains a lot,” Jayne said slowly, and I wondered how long she’d had to practice in her head before speaking out loud.
“So, what do we do now?” I said, directing my attention toward Anthony.
“I need you to come out to the Vanderhorst plantation. To help me gain access to the mausoleum. If there’s a treasure buried there, we need to find it before Marc does.”
“But doesn’t the property belong to you, and Marc’s digging would be trespassing?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Marc doesn’t always ask first. He just does. To be honest, I’m a little afraid to tell him no, regardless of how clear it is he’s in the wrong. But there are certain . . . elements that are barring both of us entry to the mausoleum. Which is why I need your help. I was hoping we could set up an appointment to meet there as soon as possible.”
I shivered inside my heavy sweater. “Why couldn’t you just tell me this on the phone?”
“Because I can’t be completely sure Marc hasn’t found some way to intercept my calls and texts.”
Remembering my encounter with Marc in my office, I couldn’t say Anthony’s concerns were without merit. I started to tell him more details about Marc’s visit when I noticed what looked like black smoke forming behind him inside the gazebo. “Is there a fire . . . ?” I began. Jayne grabbed my arm, stopping me as she noticed the billowing dark cloud.
I didn’t smell anything burning, and despite the strong wind, the black shape didn’t waver, its edges appea
ring to pulsate with radiant heat. Aware that we were staring at something behind him, Anthony turned around just as the plume of dark smoke began to take on an almost human form, a dense shadow with distinct arms and legs and a head, its sex undeterminable.
Anthony took a step up the stairs toward it, his hands clenched in fists as if ready to do battle. “Don’t!” I shouted, but I was too late. His head jerked backward, and then an unseen punch to his midriff had him buckled over. He turned to escape down the stairs, but something was holding him back. His feet slipped on the top step of the gazebo, his arms flailing as he tried to stay upright. I moved toward him with my arms raised to push him back as Jayne shoved the stroller out of harm’s way.
I thought I imagined a low laugh that sounded like distant thunder right before the weight of Anthony’s body hit me, crumpling us both to the ground. My head hit the packed earth and for a moment I saw stars behind my eyelids, the air deserting my lungs. When I’d found my breath, I opened my eyes to find Anthony’s face only inches above mine, his look of surprise mirroring my own, the dogs barking hysterically.
“So,” drawled a familiar voice above us. “Did my invitation to the party get lost in the mail?”
I blinked and saw Jack peering down at us with a bemused expression, the tattered remains of the smoky cloud dissolving in the air above him, leaving behind only the foul stench of rotting flesh.
CHAPTER 5
I quietly closed the door of the nursery after helping Jayne put the children down for their naps, pausing with my ear to the door just in case JJ was faking being asleep. Amelia said that at the same age, Jack would wait until the door was closed before wreaking havoc in his bedroom, which had once included removing all of the stuffing from his mattress and shoving little balls of it into the heating vents in the floor.