by Karen White
My father and I moved to either side of Jack, looking down at the fragile page in his hand. “Is that . . . ?” I began.
“Two architectural renderings of the mausoleum at Gallen Hall, I think,” Jack replied, a wide grin on his face.
My dad started to say something, but his words were lost in the screech of skidding tires and crunching metal from the street outside, followed by the sharp barking of a dog and the incessant scream of a car horn penetrating the house and making my blood run cold.
Jack threw down the folder and grabbed my hand before running from the room, my father close behind. And from somewhere came the heady scent of roses, as sweet and redolent as a summer day, following us outside into the frigid late-November afternoon.
CHAPTER 13
Jack let go of my hand as he raced around the smoking wreck of the two vehicles to the Jeep’s driver’s-side door, calling Nola’s name, while my dad rushed to the passenger side, looking for Jayne. My feet remained where they were, unwilling to listen to my direction, the mixed scent of roses and burnt rubber making me cough.
I watched as both doors opened easily despite the crinkled sides of the Jeep, which more closely resembled an accordion than vehicle panels, then stared as Nola and Jayne stepped out of the car looking stunned but unharmed. I exhaled loudly, my relief loosening my bones. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, only to notice upon opening them the filmy apparition of a woman wearing clothing from the nineteen twenties standing by the tree swing beneath the ancient oak in our front garden. She was gone so quickly that I thought I might have imagined her. Only the lingering scent of roses told me that I hadn’t.
I turned toward the other car, recognizing Marc Longo’s silver Jaguar, or what was left of it after Nola had apparently T-boned the back half of it in the middle of Tradd Street. Considering the street was one-way, it was difficult to imagine how it had happened, but I had witnessed Nola behind the wheel; anything was possible.
The distant wail of a siren reverberated in the chilly air as I ran toward the Jaguar, steeling myself for what I might see. On the driver’s side Marc was hitting the inside of the door in a futile attempt to open it, a deflated airbag hanging limply from the steering wheel. He glared at me through the still-intact window as blood seeped from a deep gash on his forehead. I grabbed hold of the handle and yanked, but nothing happened. I shrugged to show Marc I hadn’t had any luck. Panic bloomed in his eyes and he began beating on the window with his palms, yelling something that I was sure I didn’t want to hear.
On the other side of the car, Jack had opened the passenger door and he and my father were pulling out a man who had blood dripping from his nose and an ugly scrape across his cheek and was dressed as if he’d been on his way to a pulsing dance club. He had the unwrinkled skin and small build of an adolescent, although when he waved his hands to knock away Jack’s hold on him, the corded veins on his hands gave away his age. The shaved sides of his head and floppy wave of bleached-blond hair hanging over his forehead were more suited to a teen or twentysomething than to someone in his mid to late thirties or early forties, as this man probably was. His close-fitting white shirt revealed not only his lack of an undershirt, but also the presence of an impressive six-pack. The shirt was tucked into tight pencil jeans and I couldn’t help but notice that he wore cowboy boots. My gaze moved to his face and was met with an ugly scowl that matched Marc’s, and for a moment I wanted to ask Jack to put him back in the car and close the door.
He stepped away from Jack and my dad, shouting at whoever would listen. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this is how they drive down here in the South.” Checking that his shirt was tucked in, he glanced around until he spotted Nola and Jayne huddled together on the sidewalk, Jayne’s arm held protectively around Nola’s shoulders.
As he moved toward them, I glanced behind him as Jack gave a halfhearted tug on Marc’s door, unfazed by Marc’s pounding on the window or the muffled shouting. Marc was neatly pinned behind the steering wheel, making it impossible for him to crawl out the other side.
“Sorry, Matt!” Jack shouted with an exaggerated shrug. He cupped his ear to indicate the sound of approaching sirens. “I’m sure the fire department will bring the Jaws of Life to let you out soon.” He turned his back, and his smile quickly slipped from his face as he focused on the passenger from the car stalking toward his daughter.
The man stopped in front of the two women, jabbing an index finger in their faces. “Which one of you is the driver?”
Jayne put on her nanny face and spoke firmly and calmly to the man, keeping her arm around Nola. “There is no need to shout, sir. . . .”
“Like hell there isn’t! I could have been killed!” He did a figure eight in the air with his pointer finger, moving from Jayne’s face to Nola’s and then back again. “Which one of you is the idiot who caused this accident?” When no one answered, he leaned closer. “Which one of you?” He was so close, I’m sure spit flew in their faces.
Nola responded by bursting into tears just as Jack reached them and pulled her into his arms, letting her sob against his chest. “You need to calm down, sir. You’re all in shock right now. Can we just stop with the shouting until the police and emergency vehicles arrive? Let’s just take a moment and be thankful that no one was seriously hurt.”
I was standing next to Jayne and moved closer to put my arm around her, but I noticed that my father had reached her first and that she was now safely tucked against his side.
The man let out an expletive. Even though I was sure Nola had heard it before, Jack put his hands over her ears. I could tell that Jack’s temper was on the verge of igniting, although he kept it in check as he spoke to the man again. “Really, sir. There is no need to use that kind of language.”
Fortunately, the next two words out of the man’s mouth, which were probably a suggestion of what Jack could do to himself, were drowned out by the simultaneous arrival of a fire truck, an ambulance, and two police cars.
Everyone began speaking at once as the police officers approached to get statements, and two firemen approached Marc’s car, leaving me alone in front of the house, watching everything as if it were unfolding like a movie. I stared at the man as he elbowed his way in front of Jack and Nola to give his statement first, his words carrying back to me.
“I’m going to sue the person responsible for everything they’re worth. I’m going to make them pay for this! I could have been killed, or maimed, because of some moron who has no business behind the wheel.” He pulled out a cell phone and began stabbing at the screen. “I’m calling my lawyer and he’ll be on the first flight out of LA.”
“Sir, may I have your name, please?” the officer asked calmly.
He stopped barking into his phone briefly to address the policeman. “It’s Harvey Beckner, and I demand to have a complete medical evaluation and I want that driver locked up.” He pointed vaguely in Jayne and Nola’s direction, not yet having ascertained who the driver had been and not, apparently, overly concerned.
The name sounded vaguely familiar—not in a personal way, but as a name I might have read in a magazine or heard on the news. Jack’s gaze caught mine, and I could tell that his thoughts were running along in tandem with mine. I glanced at the cowboy boots, the perfect physique, the Botoxed face and mod hair—the entire package more at home in Los Angeles than in Charleston. I darted my gaze back to Jack as realization dawned on me. Jack’s eyes widened and I knew he’d figured it out, too.
A scream of tearing metal brought our attention back to the Jaguar, where a metal arm was prying the door from the side of the car as two firemen freed Marc from his prison. After they pulled him out he brushed them off, ignoring their advice to lie down on the waiting gurney. He staggered toward the cluster of people surrounding the policeman, grasping Harvey Beckner’s arm. The man was currently yelling into his phone, presumably to his lawyer, telling him that he wa
s going to sue the person responsible and the whole city of Charleston if he felt like it.
“Harvey,” Marc said, attempting a smile. “Glad you’re okay.”
Harvey pulled the phone from his ear and looked at him as if he’d forgotten Marc even existed. He yanked his arm away, looking with disgust at the blood smear from Marc’s hand. “Okay? Are you blind?” He swiped at the blood dripping from his nose, grimacing as dark red drops landed on his sleeve. “I think my nose is broken! And who knows how much therapy I will need? I’ll probably have PTSD.” He jerked his head in the direction of Nola and Jayne. “What I do know for sure is that I’m suing these yokels. They won’t even know what hit them once I’m through with them.”
As if suddenly registering our existence, Marc faced us, pausing for a moment before slowly turning his attention to Nola. His face relaxed into a cold smile. It was a ghostly shade of white—a hue I was overly familiar with—making the blood garish in contrast.
An EMT was trying to get his attention. “Sir, you’ve got a wound on your forehead and you might have internal injuries. You need to lie down. . . .”
He brushed the EMT aside, his grin wider now. “So, Nola, you were driving? You’ve got your permit, right?”
I wanted to tackle her to the ground, anything to keep her quiet. But she was already nodding, no doubt lulled by the false sense of security of Marc being familiar to her.
“This is perfect,” he said, fully smiling now, the sight odd beneath the blood oozing from his forehead.
“You know these people?” Harvey asked, his tone only slightly less belligerent than before.
“Very well, I’d say. Actually, we’re related. Aren’t we, Cousin Jack?”
Jack smiled, and I wondered if anyone else could see the tension in his jaw or the odd light in his eyes. I assumed they hadn’t, or they’d all be moving back to a safe distance.
“No, actually, we’re not. Matt.” He emphasized the name he’d been calling Marc since they’d met.
Marc swayed a bit on his feet, but his grin remained. “No matter.” He turned to Harvey. “This is Jack Trenholm. You probably haven’t heard of him, so don’t worry if the name doesn’t sound familiar. But he and his wife own Fifty-five Tradd Street. The house where our movie is set.”
Our movie. I knew for sure now. This was the producer of the film based on Marc’s book. Or Jack’s book, I corrected myself.
Harvey examined us now with interest, and I wanted to grab my entire family, run into the house, and bar the door before he came to the same conclusion that I had already reached, and that I was certain Marc and Jack had, too.
I took a step toward Nola so that Jack and I flanked her as Jayne and my dad looked on, realization dawning in their eyes, too.
Marc continued, his grin never dimming. “And that girl, the one who nearly killed us, is their daughter Nola.”
“Is that so?” Harvey said. “So this is the family who’ve been denying us access to the house for filming?”
“That’s right,” Nola said, stepping forward, apparently not hearing my silent screams for her not to speak, to admit nothing. “I was driving, but it was an accident. I was just practicing backing out from our driveway and I didn’t see you coming.” She hiccupped, her voice coming between shallow breaths. “And Marc stole my dad’s book idea, and that’s why we will never allow that movie to be made in our house. Never. That’s why Melanie said she’d dye her hair purple and restore another house if that ever happened—which means it never will.”
She was shouting by the last word and I drew her to me so she could bury her face in my shoulder and catch her breath.
“Is that so?” Harvey said, his grin now matching Marc’s. He leaned in close to Nola’s ear. “Because I think never is going to be a lot sooner than you imagined.” He straightened, focusing his attention on me. “And I sure hope Melanie likes purple.”
Jack moved forward, blocking Nola and me. “Are you threatening my wife and daughter?”
Marc threw back his head and made a sound that could have been a chortle, his pallor even worse than before. He ignored the two EMTs on either side of him trying to coerce him into lying on the gurney. “That wasn’t a threat, Jack. I think he was just explaining that you lost. Again.”
Jack’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t count your chips yet, Marc. Because no matter how many times I might lose, you’ll never be a winner.”
Harvey was back to shouting to his lawyer on the phone, and the police had begun to take statements from Nola and Jayne. Which was why no one noticed when Jack hooked one of his feet behind one of Marc’s. Marc slid to the ground like a kebab without its stick, landing with a small oomph.
The EMTs struggled to lift him off the ground and onto the gurney while Jack got the attention of one of the policemen. “Make sure you check him for alcohol. He didn’t appear to be too steady on his feet.”
Jack didn’t wait for a response, instead returning to Nola and me, putting his arms around us both as Nola and Jayne made their statements to the police while I weighed which was worse: being sued for everything we had or learning to like purple hair.
* * *
• • •
I sat on the floor of the master closet with my labeling gun, organizing the Christmas presents I’d already bought. Before my family had increased exponentially, I’d usually finished with my shopping and wrapping before Thanksgiving. But ever since the twins were born, I no longer seemed in complete control of my life. Not that I ever regretted having children—I couldn’t imagine my life without all three of them.It was just that even with a nanny, two sets of grandparents who lived nearby and were involved in our lives, and a supportive husband, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to do all of the things that had once filled my days.
Like decorating and labeling the new storage bins I’d bought to store gifts in my closet. Part of the problem had been that my labeling gun kept disappearing, but even my gift spreadsheet, where I listed gift recipients along with gift ideas, was still mostly blank, with only the headers along the top. My brain felt pulled in too many directions to settle on any one thing, so nothing seemed to get done, leaving a trail of half-finished projects in my wake.
I sat back and sighed. Despite its already being December, the bins were nearly empty and those gifts that were inside hadn’t yet been wrapped. Jayne had bought four tickets for the King Street and Downtown Holiday Shop and Stroll for the following weekend, so I hoped I’d make a dent in my list. Assuming I ever finished making the list.
I rubbed my eyes, exhausted from watching two back-to-back Hallmark Christmas movies with Nola. We’d settled ourselves in front of the TV in the upstairs family room while Jack finished with the police and called the insurance company before driving my dad home. Nola had been resistant at first, but after five minutes she’d been hooked. Four hours and two bowls of extra-buttery popcorn later, she said she felt much better. But that if I ever told her friends what she’d just watched, she would make sure no doughnut would ever cross the threshold of my house again.
I felt Jack’s presence before he joined me in the closet and pressed a kiss on the top of my head. He sat down on the floor beside me and smiled, although I could see the tense lines around his eyes and mouth. “You look so cute when you’re organizing.”
“Thanks. You might try it sometime. It’s very relaxing.”
His eyebrows rose. “Do you have an extra labeling gun?”
“Is the sky blue?” I leaned forward and flipped off the lid of a shoebox. Like all of my shoeboxes, this one had a photo of the shoes inside taped to the outside to make finding the right pair easier. Except this box had a photo of a pair of shoes I’d given to Nola last year. I reached inside and pulled out my spare labeler and handed it to Jack. “The last time it disappeared, I bought two.”
He looked down at it with a frown.
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br /> “It’s the old-fashioned kind,” I explained. “Where you have to dial the disk at the top and click it with the trigger. They’re harder to locate than the new digital ones, but I find the clicking very therapeutic.” I gently elbowed him in the arm. “Go ahead and try it. Right now I need two sets of numbers one through ten. That’s so I can label each of the presents for the twins so they get the same amount.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes. You and I were only children growing up so it didn’t matter, but I want to make sure I’m always fair.”
“But . . .”
I reached for the labeling gun. “And if you argue with me, it’s not therapeutic anymore, okay?”
“All right, all right.” He began twisting the disk to the number one. “I just got off the phone with Harvey Beckner’s lawyer.”
My throat tightened. “And?”
“And Beckner is apparently okay with forgiveness and a fat check from our insurance company in exchange for the rights to film in our house. In a surprising move, he also said he would still pay us the going rate for the use of the house. Which is a good thing since I won’t see a penny of income for at least a year except for straggling royalties for my older books.”
I looked over at Jack, clicking the trigger on the labeling gun with more force than required, lost in his thoughts. “I guess we’re supposed to feel grateful, but I can’t help but believe there’s another shoe somewhere waiting to drop.”
Our gazes met before he returned to the labeling gun.
“How’s Nola doing?” I asked, eager to change the topic. Jack had knocked on Nola’s door as I was leaving after the Christmas movie marathon, just as Rebecca called to let me know that both Marc and Harvey had been released from the hospital with only a few stitches. It was another thing for which I should be grateful, but I just couldn’t manage.