The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  The sky sat leaden and ominous above us, the scent in the air unfamiliar to us Charleston natives. The meteorologists on every channel kept predicting snow, but the models weren’t exactly clear as to when or how much. One even said it would miss us entirely and head straight to North Carolina. I just kept hoping the storm would hit hard Saturday so that the progressive dinner would be canceled and I could get back to work on figuring out what was hidden in the mausoleum.

  When my finger finally found the doorbell button, I pressed it, then waited for the dulcet tones of the chime. After trying two more times and not hearing anything—typical in the damp and salty climate of the Lowcountry—I knocked. Then knocked again. Finally, I resorted to pulling out the key that my mother insisted I have and let myself in.

  “Mother,” I shouted from the foyer. Despite her constant reminders that this was my house, too, and I didn’t need to make an appointment to see her, I’d sent her a quick text to let her know I was coming. Just in case she and my father were busy. Doing exactly what, I didn’t want to know, but I did want to give them fair warning.

  I walked through the foyer, which was bedecked, similarly to mine, in garland and fruit, my grandmother’s furniture a warm and familiar backdrop to the decorations. She’d loved Christmas and had always made it a special time for me despite the tension between my parents. Her antique miniature English village had been set out on the center-hall table, the small figures of a caroling choir dressed in distinctive Victorian garb. I wondered if Sophie knew about this and had given her blessing. Not that it mattered. My mother had a way of doing what she wanted while making others think it was their idea. And Sophie, a huge opera fan, was always a little starstruck where my mother was concerned.

  “Mother!” I called again, peeking into the front parlor with the stained glass window, then back through the foyer toward the dining room. “Mother!” I shouted, more loudly this time.

  “Back here,” called a small voice toward the back of the house.

  I made my way through the kitchen and a narrow hallway into a glass-walled sunroom that my father had transformed into a greenhouse. My mother used it as a morning room to drink her tea and listen to her music, piped through brand-new speakers hidden within the walls according to Sophie’s advice. The room had been a later addition to the house, but that was no reason to desecrate (Sophie’s word) the integrity of a historic house with unsightly modern conveniences.

  My mother, wearing a thick red velvet lounging robe and matching slippers, reclined on a chaise, delicately sipping from a teacup. “Hello, Mellie. I’m sorry—I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  “It didn’t . . .” I began, then stopped when I realized she wasn’t alone.

  “Hi, Melanie.” Rebecca sat opposite my mother in an upholstered armchair that had been my grandmother’s but was recently re-covered in a gorgeous Liberty of London floral print. Rebecca looked small and wan within its brightly patterned cushions, and I wondered if she might be sick. Or if something had happened to Pucci, since her ubiquitous four-legged companion wasn’t with her. Her eyes looked puffy and red rimmed and I wondered if she might have lost her favorite pair of pink gloves.

  “Oh, hello, Rebecca. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  She gave my mother a quick glance. “It was sort of last-minute.”

  “Have some tea,” my mother offered.

  I removed my coat, then poured myself tea from my grandmother’s antique Limoges pot into a matching teacup. Sitting on the edge of the armchair next to Rebecca, I allowed my gaze to move from one woman to the next, finally settling on Rebecca, noticing again how pale she was. “I’ve been trying to reach you ever since I saw you at the Francis Marion on the night of the Shop and Stroll. I didn’t think we’d finished our conversation.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been busy.” She took a long sip from her tea, avoiding my gaze.

  “I’m sure. A part-time job at the paper and no children must leave you exhausted by the end of the day.”

  My mother sent me a warning glance and I immediately felt ashamed. It made me wonder how old I’d have to be before that look no longer affected me. Or how long it would take before I’d no longer need it.

  She cleared her throat and asked, “How is Jack, Mellie?”

  “Still very sick. The doctor suspects it’s the flu, so he’s being quarantined in our room. I’m sleeping in the second guest room, which hasn’t been updated or changed since Mr. Vanderhorst lived in the house. I’m giving Jack flu medication prescribed by his doctor and taking his temp at regular intervals. Mrs. Houlihan keeps him fed with her homemade chicken soup, and Cooper’s been keeping him well stocked on all the spy-thriller movies that have been released in the last ten years so that at least he’s entertained.” I looked accusingly at Rebecca. “Not that he can stay awake very long to watch an entire movie. I think the stresses of the last year have really taken their toll on him and this is his body’s way of telling him to slow down and recharge.”

  I didn’t mention how Cooper was also bringing Jack every book he could find that Jack didn’t own or hadn’t already read on code breaking through the centuries. Jack was desperate to keep working on figuring out what Gallen Hall was hiding, but he barely had the strength to hold one of the books up for longer than it took him to fall asleep.

  “I hope you’re not using Jack’s illness as an excuse not to fill him in on any developments,” Mother said softly. “I know he needs his rest, but I’m sure he’d appreciate you keeping him in the loop.”

  “Of course,” I said, making sure my indignant tone was loud and clear. I hadn’t exactly shared everything with Jack, because he really was too sick. And the medication made him groggy, so that he was barely coherent anyway. As soon as he was better, I’d tell him everything. I would. “And I don’t think this is the appropriate time to bring this up,” I said, my eyes darting over to where Rebecca sat.

  “Rebecca understands the importance of family, Mellie. Despite what you might think. We’ve just been talking about that very thing.”

  “Really?” I asked, turning my attention to my cousin. “So, about our unfinished conversation . . .” I began, then stopped when I noticed fat tears rolling down her pale cheeks. She grabbed a small tea napkin from her lap and dabbed at her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I came here to get some advice from your mother—she’s much more worldly than my own mother, which is why I came to her first.”

  My mother had been a world-famous opera singer, but I couldn’t imagine any of Rebecca’s troubles needing any kind of worldly advice. I made a point not to roll my eyes, my gaze drifting instead to the antique Dresden desk clock on the side table by the chaise. I had a house showing in an hour and I still needed to speak with my mother.

  “Maybe I can help,” I suggested, trying to move the proceedings further along.

  “Why don’t you tell Mellie what you just told me?” Mother suggested gently.

  I sat up in alarm. “Have you been having more dreams about Jack or Nola?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “No. I can’t. I’m . . . blocked, it seems.”

  I sat up straighter, remembering how that had felt when it had happened to me twice before. And the reasons why.

  “Go on,” Mother prompted.

  “Are you sure? It’s not like she’s a fan of Marc’s to begin with.”

  “That’s true. But is anyone, really?” Mother smiled benignly, taking the sting out of her words. “Besides, Mellie understands discretion. Don’t you, dear?”

  “Of course.”

  “And we’re all family here,” my mother continued. “I’m sure we’re all in agreement that blood trumps everything, correct?”

  I waited until I saw Rebecca nod before I did the same.

  With a small voice that I needed to strain to hear, Rebecca said, “Marc’s cheating on me.”

&nbs
p; I couldn’t even feign surprise at this revelation. He was such a cheat and a liar in all of his dealings, it would follow reason that he couldn’t remain faithful in his marriage. Still, I felt a glimmer of compassion for her, recalling how tied up in knots I’d been the year before when I thought that Jack and Jayne were having an affair.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He’s been acting . . . weird lately. Not himself. I know this whole filming thing has been a huge distraction, and Harvey Beckner is good at making everyone around him miserable. But still . . .” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Last week, Marc fell asleep on the couch, and his phone fell to the floor. It dinged when I walked in the room, and I went to pick it up to see if it was important and if I needed to wake him. It was . . .” She shuddered. “It was a photo of a woman. A brunette,” she said with distaste, apparently forgetting that she was in a room with two brunettes. “She barely had on a blouse—and definitely not a bra—and she was saying she couldn’t wait to see Marc again, since the last time was so amazing.” She stifled a sob with her balled-up napkin. “I felt so . . . defiled.”

  “You poor thing,” my mother said, getting up to refill Rebecca’s teacup.

  “I didn’t say anything, wanting to be sure first. So I did a little digging and found out she’s a grad student at the college—in psychology or something. And they’ve been seeing each other for months. For months.”

  “Are you going to leave him?” I asked.

  Her shoulders hunched forward as she began to sob and shake her head. “I . . . can’t.”

  “But why n—” I stopped. Recalled what she’d said about how her dreams were blocked, and I remembered when that had happened to me. “You’re . . . pregnant?”

  Rebecca glared at me with reddened eyes. “You don’t have to sound so surprised, you know. Marc is a very virile man.”

  I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat. “I’m sure he is. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay married to him, you know. If you have the right support system in place, it’s possible to raise the baby on your own.”

  A fresh torrent of tears streamed down her face. “But I love him. I will never love another man as much as I love him.” She slumped down so completely she was almost folded in half, looking as pathetic as a kitten in the rain.

  I sat back in my chair, completely defeated. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of using the situation to convince her to share with me the piece of paper Jack and I so desperately wanted to get a look at. But seeing Rebecca’s desperation made me quash that idea. The mere thought of trying to make a life without Jack made me sick and crazy at the same time. It was inconceivable, really. I understood her pain, and I couldn’t take advantage of it, no matter how much I wanted to. Or how much Marc deserved it.

  “I’m so sorry, Rebecca. But like Mother said, we’re family. We’re your support system. We will help you get through this whether you decide to stay with Marc or not.”

  My mother moved to sit down on the arm of Rebecca’s chair, pulling her close. “Mellie’s right. We’re here for you.”

  Rebecca’s phone in her purse announced a text. Slowly, she pulled away from my mother and reached for it. She stared at the screen for a long moment, blinking only once and very, very slowly. I thought she might start to cry again, but then I saw her expression change to disbelief, then anger, and finally fury. Without responding, she threw her phone into her purse. “That was Marc. He said he won’t be home tonight for dinner again. He’s got a business meeting and said not to wait up.”

  She sat still, breathing deeply, her expression slowly returning to neutral while my mother and I watched, unsure what we should do. “Are you all right?” my mother asked.

  Rebecca shook her head, a new, determined glint lighting her reddened eyes. “Not really. But I will be.” She reached into her purse again, pulled out a piece of paper folded into a square, and held it close to her chest. “I put this in my purse right after I saw you at the Francis Marion, not really thinking I could go through with this. But Marc has left me no choice.” After an exaggerated pause, she stood and handed me the paper. “Just in case you weren’t aware that Marc has already ransacked your house looking for your drawing while he’s supposedly helping Harvey. And don’t worry—this is a copy. I could see you already worrying about how to tell Sophie about the creases.”

  I wished I could tell her she was wrong. Instead, I quickly opened it up and saw what looked like a page identical to what Jack and I had found in the papers from the shoebox. “Thank you,” I said. “Won’t Marc be angry?”

  She slid her purse strap over her shoulder. “He won’t find out, will he? I might still love him more than he deserves, and I will do what I can to fight to get him back, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy a little revenge for what he’s done to me. And our baby.” She rested her hand on her still-flat abdomen.

  Rebecca embraced my mother. “Thank you both. Right now, I’m in dire need of a spa day and I’m headed to Woodhouse Spa. I’m charging it all on Marc’s credit card. And then I’m going to figure out how to win him back—right after I find a way to punish him.”

  We said our good-byes and she left, saying she’d see herself out, and for once I didn’t roll my eyes behind her back, regardless of how much she’d just reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara after Rhett Butler’s departure. This was the first time since I’d known Rebecca that she’d demonstrated that she had more brains and gumption than the Barbie doll she closely resembled.

  “Well,” my mother said, “that was illuminating.” She indicated the piece of paper in my hand. “Do you think that will help?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ll compare it to the matching piece of paper that we have and see if it means anything.” I looked down at the page, at the weird lines and swirls that resembled the bricks of the mausoleum but were somehow different. I’d have to put them side by side to know for sure.

  I carefully refolded the paper and placed it in my purse. “I came over to discuss the schedule for Saturday night. I’ll have Nola bring the twins and dogs over to Amelia’s house—and remind her to make sure JJ has his kitchen whisk. She forgot it last time and Amelia gave him one from her kitchen, but he apparently can tell the difference. Anyway, I know you’ll be busy doing one of the appetizer sessions here, but I was hoping you could hurry to my house before the dinner to help me with last-minute preparations since I won’t have Jack.”

  My mother sat up and pulled her notepad from the side table before adjusting her reading glasses on her nose. “Of course, dear. I’m sure your father can handle any stragglers so I can leave. And I’ll make sure Mrs. Houlihan makes more of her gingerbread cookies just for Jack—they might cheer him up, and the ginger can’t hurt. Did you know that she sent over a little gift bag of cookies for us? She’s just the sweetest.”

  I looked at my mother to see if she might be deliberately tormenting me, but she was busy writing on her notepad.

  My phone buzzed, alerting me that I had a text. I glanced at it to see who it was. “It’s just Nola,” I offered. “She’s not supposed to be using her phone at school, but occasionally she’ll text me about things she needs at the store or for a homework project. She likes to be prepared.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Mother said as she bent over her notepad. “So, since yours is one of the dinner houses, you’ll need to lay out the appropriate serving pieces for oyster stew and bone-in ham. I’ll stop by your house later to get a count of dinner plates, but I’d suggest using the Vanderhorsts’ beautiful antique Imari china. All of that gold will look beautiful with the decorations, plus I know there are a ton of serving pieces.”

  The phone buzzed again, and I pulled it out to make sure the message was from Nola. As I yanked it out, it caught a purse strap, which caused the purse to tip over, spilling the contents.

  My mother stood to help, b
ut I held up my hand to stop her. “You don’t want to touch something you might react to,” I warned.

  “What’s that?” She pointed near the skirt of the chair Rebecca had just vacated.

  I recognized the signet ring that Greco had found. I’d brought it to show Sophie when I met her for lunch and had thought it was secure in the pocket of my purse. I had planned to tell my mother that we’d found it and where but had no intention of actually showing it to her. “Don’t touch it,” I said. “It was in the bedpost, just like you suspected. Greco found it.”

  Ignoring my warning, she moved toward it, reaching it before I could get up off of my hands and knees. “Mother . . .”

  “I didn’t get bad vibes from it, Mellie. It was practically begging me to find it. I think it’s okay for me to touch it.” She bent down and picked it up, holding it tightly in her palm. I waited for her to scream or for some otherworldly voice to come from her mouth or for her face to become unrecognizable. Instead she closed her eyes serenely, her face softening as she tilted her head to the side as if she were listening to a voice that only she could hear. And then her other hand flew to her neck, pulling at something I couldn’t see, and she began to cough.

  “Mother!” I grabbed her hand, pulling at her fingers to get her to release the ring, but they were like steel straps, unwilling to let go of their prize.

  I was wondering if I should call Jayne for help, when my mother stopped coughing and her breathing returned to normal. Her eyes moved under her eyelids like those of a person having a vivid dream, but she was no longer agitated.

  She stayed that way for a full minute, until her hand relaxed and the ring fell onto the rug with a small thud. She opened her eyes as if to reorient herself, then sat back in the chaise. I went to her quickly, taking her hand and finding it surprisingly warm.