by Karen White
Annoyed, I said, “I’m in the middle of the restoration. We’ve moved most of the furniture out until we refinish the floors and repair all of the plaster. Otherwise, it might get ruined.”
Her eyebrow arched again as she regarded us. “Good. So you know a lot about renovation and restoration. Just the person I need to help me after I buy my house.”
Before I could say anything, she’d turned on her heel. “See you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I listened as the door latch turned, followed by the soft click of the door shutting behind her.
I yanked myself away from Jack. “She’s got a lot of nerve. Like I would help her at all unless my boss forced me to.”
To my surprise, Jack was trying hard to hold back laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. You’re just like her, you know. You always have to get the last word in.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then remembered my mother’s smile and the way she’d said the word “us” and realized that Jack maybe wasn’t so wrong after all.
Instead of answering, I began to walk back toward the kitchen. “I’m taking the dog for a walk.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said as he followed behind me.
As we walked toward the kitchen, I said, “I met an old friend of yours the other day.”
“Really? Who?”
“Rebecca Edgerton.”
“Ah. She said she was going to contact you about the article she’s working on about your mother. I told her that you weren’t exactly—close.”
I pushed open the kitchen door and paused. “Well, that didn’t exactly stop her from contacting me.”
He stopped in the doorway, and he was near enough that I could smell his cologne. “It’s amazing how much she looks like Emily, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think I ever noticed,” he said, brushing past me into the kitchen.
“Hm,” I said, not convinced but unwilling to pick a fight. Dealing with my mother was enough friction for one day.
I watched as Jack put the collar on General Lee; then I led the way out the back door. I was glad for Jack’s company and relieved that I wouldn’t be staying in the house alone, but I was also aware that both he and I knew I’d never admit it to him in a thousand years.
CHAPTER 5
True to his word, Jack spent the night in the third-floor guest room without my having to acknowledge his presence. I did leave fresh sheets and clean towels outside his room to demonstrate that his being there was appreciated if not quite welcome. But even though he was sleeping on a separate floor, I knew he was sleeping under the same roof I was—the way a dog knows you’re hiding a treat in your pocket.
I left the house early the next morning to avoid him and because I couldn’t sleep anyway. I spent two hours in my office drinking sugared coffee and organizing my office supplies as I waited for nine o’clock. I also made a phone call to Sophie, knowing that the prospect of her getting inside a historic home South of Broad would more than make up for the fact that I woke her from a dead sleep hours before she planned on being ambulatory. She didn’t ask me why I wanted her there with me while I showed my mother her childhood home. And that’s why Sophie Wallen was the person I liked best in this world.
I arrived first, at eight fifty. I despised tardiness almost as much as bad table manners and unpolished shoes. This was probably a throwback to my years of being raised by a military father, albeit an alcoholic one, who taught me the rules if only so I could make sure he was dressed properly before being propelled out the door in the morning with a strong cup of coffee.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the gate tapping my foot. I would forgive Sophie for being late; it was as much a part of her personality as her Birkenstocks. But I would only give my mother until five after nine and then I was out of there.
I spotted Sophie’s bright green Volkswagen Beetle and waved to her as she found a spot at the curb across the street. I stared as she exited the car, for once not transfixed by what she wore but instead by the rows and rows of tiny braids with multicolored beads that cascaded down the sides and back of her head. While the hairstyle itself wasn’t so bad, it made Sophie’s tiny head look like a specimen found in a shrunken-head collection I’d once seen in a potential client’s personal library.
“What happened?” I asked, waiting for her to approach. “I hope you’re at least pressing charges.”
She smiled broadly as she stepped up on the sidewalk. “One of my students offered to do it and I let her. Chad loves it.”
I raised my eyebrows but was stopped from saying anything else by her look of wonder as she took in the house behind us. “You are the luckiest human being on the planet, I want you to know. First you inherit the Vanderhorst mansion on Tradd through sheer luck, and then your mother shows up to buy your family home—another architectural masterpiece—giving you access to two of the most beautiful and historic residences in Charleston. And to think you used to rent a condo in Mt. Pleasant.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might have actually preferred that condo? I can vaguely recall days when I didn’t have to spend all my time, energy, and fingernails scraping paint from ancient plaster. Or schedule my days around various craftsmen. I now spend more time with carpenters and painters than I do with my manicurist and masseuse.”
She smiled again, a dreamy expression on her face as she looked up at the three-story Georgian double house whose two-story portico projected over the sidewalk, casting us both in shadow. As if I hadn’t spoken, she said, “This house is a classic. It was built around 1756, I think.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “It was 1755, actually. And the two-story portico with the Ionic columns was added in 1826, showing the neoclassical tastes of the owner during a time when the Federal style was all the rage.”
Sophie turned to me, her self-satisfied smile even broader. “Maybe there’s hope for you, after all. You should probably come talk to one of my restoration classes at the college now that you actually know what you’re talking about. To give a perspective on a real restoration.You might even impress them if you throw in that word ‘neoclassical’ a couple of times.”
I snorted but was secretly pleased. I had once been a “tear-down-the-old-dilapidated-building-and-put-up-a-much-needed-parking-garage” kind of girl before becoming a reluctant home owner. Although I wasn’t officially an old-house hugger, I was definitely not the same person I’d been before I inherited the house on Tradd Street. I realized now that living in a white-walled, ornamentation-free condo prior to inheriting the house had been a form of self-preservation created by a young girl who’d seen the house in which she and six generations of her family had been born sold to a couple from Texas who’d made their fortune in scrap metal.
“What’s with the garden?” Sophie asked as she peered through the garden gate.
“It’s hideous, isn’t it?” I said, swinging it open. “But wait until you see the interior. The listing on the Internet has a lot of pictures, and all I’m going to say is that I hope those were just really bad photos and don’t do it justice. According to the listing agent, the wife didn’t use a decorator for most of the house, saying she liked to use her own style.”
Sophie frowned, staring at the cement and glass blocks whose only claim to art appeared to be the pedestals they’d been set upon. She paused in front of a rusted metal sculpture that looked remarkably like an old car door from Detroit’s better days. “What is this?”
“A car door from a Cadillac Seville. I’d say circa 1977.”
We both turned to see my mother in fur coat and leather gloves scrutinizing a garden that no longer resembled the one she and I had tea in with my grandmother. The parterre herb garden was gone, as were the Confederate jasmine vines and the boxwoods, and I could see from the frown lines on my mother’s face that she was seeing what wasn’t there anymore, too. “This is a disaster, isn’t it?”
Sophie stuck her hand
out and shook my mother’s gloved one. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Prioleau. I’m Sophie Wallen; I teach historic restoration at the college. The recording of you singing the part of Isolde in Tristan and Isolde at the Bayreuth Festival is always on my CD player. I’ve practically worn through it I’ve listened to it so much.”
My mother actually blushed, her gaze taking in Sophie’s braids. “Thank you. I’m flattered, especially coming from you. I’ve been studying up on some of the recent restorations in the city and I’m very familiar with your work. Very impressive. You have such an eye for detail and beauty.” She glanced over at me. “I’m assuming that’s why Mellie has brought you here for the showing?”
Feeling almost nauseous at the fanfest between my mother and Sophie, I stepped between them. “Actually, Sophie’s a good friend of mine. I wanted her with me in case I needed a witness.”
My mother smiled but didn’t say anything. I pointedly glanced at my watch. “It’s four minutes after nine and I’ve got another showing after this one so let’s get this over with.” The two of them followed as I walked quickly to the marble steps flanked by wrought iron railings.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to wait more than five minutes, so I hurried through breakfast to get here.” My mother’s voice wasn’t completely clear of sarcasm.
My cheeks flushed with her accurate assumption and I fumbled for the key in the lockbox. “Some people take their responsibilities seriously. Mine include not being late. If one morning appointment is late, then it makes me late for all of my appointments for the rest of the day. It’s not a good way to run a business. Or a life,” I added as I took the key from the box and turned the lock to open the front door.
We crowded into the wide center hall that ran the length of the house, the large formal entertaining rooms scattered on either side of the impressive entry. I had resisted setting foot inside the house until I had to, relegating my research solely to what I could find from the Internet and the listing agent. This meant, of course, that I was as surprised as Sophie and my mother.
“Oh,” said Sophie, seemingly at a loss for a better word.
I waited for the rush of grief and loss to roll over me like an oncoming tide. Instead, I stared at the room before me, looking for remnants of my grandmother and my life with her. But I saw only a faint likeness—like the ghost image left on your eyelids after the flash from a camera.
We stood gaping at the marble-tiled floor with the faux-zebra shag area rug galloping down the middle of the hall. The elegant egg-and-dart carved cornices had been painted black to offset the fuchsia hue of the walls. Lime green beanbag chairs with legs offered seating to anybody with enough taste to make their knees go weak upon viewing the psychedelic colors of the hallway.
“She did all of her own decorating,” I reminded them.
My mother spun around, taking in the Italian gilt-wood chandelier that had managed to escape the paint gun and the framed portraits on the walls that looked like they could have been done by the owner’s grandchildren. Or monkeys.
Sophie moved over to a pink lacquer hall table and pulled on the drawer knob, which responded by falling off in her hand. She delicately put the knob back on the shiny surface and backed away as if whatever the table had was contagious.
“What—style would you say this is?” I asked Sophie.
“Early Garage Sale Revival, I believe,” my mother responded with a straight face. I turned away so she wouldn’t see my smile or know that she’d said exactly what I was thinking.
“Wow,” said Sophie, who had wandered into one of the formal rooms that flanked the hall. “I’ve seen this window from the outside, but it’s even more amazing from the inside.”
I hesitated briefly before joining her in the room. This room had been my favorite—the room I spent the most time in with my grandmother playing cards or reading with my feet tucked up on one of her priceless antique sofas. If the weather was bad, we’d have our tea in here and Grandmother Prioleau would allow me to pour, regardless of her Aubusson rug. It was a room in which I’d felt loved and cared for—instead of the object of constant friction I was when I was with my parents.
Most of all, I loved the huge window that had been installed in the late 1800s. It was an odd window, not really in keeping with the style of the house or the style of the Victorian period. If anything, it appeared almost contemporary, the two female figures not clearly discernible unless you knew where to look—and how to look at the glass. Wisteria vines ran through the window, intersecting at will like a huge road map leading to nowhere. Although its inspiration and meaning had doubtless been known at one time, both had long since been lost to the past.
I walked over to Sophie so that I stood in the shaft of sunlight that the window transfixed into a buttery yellow. Turning my face up to the warmth, I felt my grandmother’s presence as if the sun were her hand on my skin.
Sophie clucked her tongue. “It’s a good thing that whoever installed this didn’t have to face the Board of Architectural Review or he’d never have gotten it approved.” She smiled at me. “And for the first time in my life, I can actually say that was a good thing.”
My mother’s voice interrupted my reverie. “And it’s also a good thing that the current owners didn’t see the need to change the window to suit their tastes.” She pointedly glanced around at the orange shag carpet, wild daisy wallpaper, and mirrored-plate chandelier.
Sophie ran her hand over the hideous wallpaper. “They’ve covered up all of the beautiful cypress wood paneling that this house is famous for. What were they thinking?” She shook her head, her braids mimicking the movement as if in agreement. “Luckily, they don’t seem to have made any structural changes. Just really horrid cosmetic ones. Whipping it back into shape and returning it to its former glory shouldn’t be a problem.”
“That’s good to know,” my mother said, and I felt her eyes on me.
Remembering my job and what I was supposed to be doing, I turned to the large doorway surround. “Please note the widened door openings from the hall and the door surrounds that echo the neoclassical shapes of the portico. They were added at the same time as the portico and date back to the 1820s.”
“And this mantel,” said my mother—who had moved to the end of the room to stand in front of the fireplace—“is molded from a composition using a mold design by Ramage and Ferguson of Scotland. Only the best for our ancestral Prioleaus.” She smiled at me.
Furrowing my brows, I said, “I still don’t understand why you needed me here. It’s not like you’ve forgotten anything about the house.Wouldn’t it have saved us both a lot of time and energy if you’d just made an offer and signed the papers?”
“I suppose it might have been easier,” she said, slowly walking around the room and taking in the architectural beauty that had been forced to share company with the garish colors and metallic fabrics that were as out of place in this house as a whore in church. “But then I wouldn’t have the chance of seeing how it felt to be in it with you after all these years.”
I watched as Sophie casually walked out of the room, her ruffled denim skirt skimming the wood floor behind her. I frowned after her, willing her to return, but I was pretty sure that her exit hadn’t been unintentional.
Turning back to my mother, I said, “Well, now that you know, why don’t we leave and go back to my office so I can prepare an offer?”
“We haven’t finished looking, Mellie. I want to see the kitchen.”
I paused, remembering that the back of the house had a completely different feel from the front. As a child, I had resisted venturing past the front rooms alone, noticing how the whispering grew louder there, the brushes against my skin bolder. But there was one presence I remembered vaguely—a warm presence in whose company I felt safe. He was my protector, and I navigated the house in peace as long as he was with me. Until I’d made the mistake of mentioning him to my father, who told me it was all in my imagination and that my visits to my gra
ndmother’s would have to be limited if I didn’t stop talking about it.
Even more than the fear of not seeing my grandmother, I was afraid that something might really be wrong with me. So I stopped seeking out my imaginary friend and instead stayed in the front rooms, ignoring the whispering of my name that called me to the back of the house.
“I’ll stay here,” I said.
Sophie appeared in the back hallway that led to the kitchen, rubbing her arms. “Not to ruin a sale or anything, but I think something’s wrong with the heat back here. It’s like twenty degrees colder than the rest of the house.”
I met my mother’s eyes, then reluctantly followed her back to the kitchen.
The space had been recently updated and, despite poor color palette and wallpaper choices, the design was solid as were the cherry cabinets and stainless steel appliances.
“My guess would be that she used a decorator in here,” said my mother.
Sophie nodded. “I know that for a fact because I remember being consulted on this job by the designer.” She pointed to the far corner of the room where a beautiful fireplace with an Adams mantel had once been and where a wall now stood with the mural of a longhorn cow painted on it.
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “Even I think that’s sacrilege.”
Sophie tucked a braid behind her ear. “I told Debbie, the designer, to leave the fireplace and just cover it up without damaging the woodwork. The mantel was kept intact and stored in the attic. But to remove the whole thing really would have been sacrilege. Hiding it was gross stupidity, but happily reversible gross stupidity.”
My mother walked over to an open door across from the mural. “Let’s take these back stairs to see the upper levels.”
“No.” The word came out before I could stop it. Both Sophie and my mother looked at me, but only Sophie’s expression held a question.
“Her grandmother died falling down these stairs,” my mother explained. “But look, Mellie. They have hand railings on both sides now, so it’s safer.”