The Girl On Legare Street

by Karen White

  His words had an opposite effect than the one he’d intended. I sat down in my chair, deflated. “What do you want, Jack?”

  He sat down across from my desk and stretched out his long legs. “What makes you think I want something?”

  “Because you’re always nice to me right before you ask me for something.”

  He looked hurt. “I’m always nice to you.”

  Technically, that was true. But his being nice always led me to do something I didn’t want to be doing. “Spit it out, Jack. The earlier I tell you ‘no’ the earlier you’ll leave so I can get back to work.”

  “Fine, then. I wanted to know if you’d like to take a road trip today.”

  “Today?” I looked down anxiously at my desk with my neat to-do list and the stack of pink phone messages I still had to return.

  “Yes, today. Right now, actually. It’s still early enough that if we left now, I could have you back by your nine o’clock bedtime.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was the mention of my bedtime that made his eyes sparkle or the prospect of taking a road trip. Remembering his easy dismissal of me the previous day when he took Rebecca to visit Yvonne at the historical archives, my mind started preparing my refusal when my mouth asked, “Where to?”

  “Ulmer.”

  “Ulmer?” The name wasn’t familiar. “Ulmer as in your long-lost uncle Ulmer?”

  He smirked, unveiling a dimple that had a completely unwarranted and unwanted effect on my blood pressure. “No. I meant Ulmer as in Ulmer, South Carolina. Or right outside it, anyway. It’s about a two-hour drive from Charleston on State Route 321.”

  I frowned, remembering past road trips I’d made with USC college friends to their parents’ old family hunting lodges or restored farmhouses. They were second homes and used for family gatherings and holidays where friends with nowhere else to go were always welcomed and sometimes pitied.

  “Isn’t 321 the road that cuts through a bunch of swamps where the only signs of human habitation are billboards that advertise deer corn and bait worms?”

  “The very one.”

  “Then why do we want to go there?” I realized too late that I’d used the word “we” instead of “you” and that I was already hooked—ready to be reeled in and thrown on deck.

  A smug smile crossed his face. “To go see a two-hundred-year-old plantation that has old family portraits still hanging on the wall that I thought we should look at.”

  My computer screen flipped to the screen saver—a rolling marquee that read: WASTED TIME IS LOST SALES!—which reminded me how long I’d been idle. Irritated, I asked, “Why would I want to go see somebody else’s old family portraits? And do they really expect any tourists that far out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Actually, it’s not open to the public. It’s a private home and still owned by the family that purchased the house back in the 1930s from the descendants of the builder. And I’m suggesting going there because when I showed Yvonne the picture of the portrait of the two girls you found in your mother’s attic, she said I needed to go there.”

  Intrigued, I sat up. “Why?”

  “Well, she didn’t have a picture of it anywhere in the archives, but she’s been inside the house several times to catalog its contents and remembers the portrait. It’s of a young girl—and she’s wearing a necklace that Yvonne thinks is very similar to the one worn by the girls in your painting.”

  “How similar?” I asked slowly.

  “Similar enough to think it would be worthwhile to drop everything and take a road trip to the nether regions of South Carolina.”

  I looked down at my desk again and all of the work I still had waiting for me, the marquee’s scroll sliding past the screen with an accusatory glare. “I’m not sure if I . . .”

  “Mellie?”

  My eyes met his and I noticed how the dark blue sweater under his leather jacket matched his eyes. “Yes?” I said hesitantly.

  “Have you ever played hooky before?”

  I shook my head.

  Jack sighed. “I didn’t think so. I’m going to go get your coat while you clean up here, and I’ll meet you out front.”

  He left before I could argue, or maybe I waited too long to argue. Whatever was the case, I didn’t feel right letting him wait up front all day so I dutifully cleaned up my desk, switched off my computer, and left my office, coming back once to retrieve my glasses and toss them into my purse.

  We took Jack’s Porsche because he said it would get us there faster. I only agreed after he assured me it had the requisite airbags and ABS. After denying my request to stop at a fast-food restaurant to get fries and a shake to eat in the car—although he promised we’d stop someplace on the way as long as I didn’t actually bring any food into the car—we headed west on Interstate 26.

  I refrained from looking at the speedometer and commenting on how fast he was going in exchange for being in control of the radio. I found an oldies station that was playing an hour of ABBA and leaned back into my leather seat thinking that life couldn’t get much better.

  We chatted during the commercial breaks about his parents and the restoration of my house and the progress on his current manuscript that involved him spending so much time in my attic going through the previous owner’s papers. He skillfully skirted any mention of my mother and I was thankful for that until I began to question his motives for being so nice to me. I was about to ask him out loud when his cell phone rang.

  He hit a button on his dash to answer it and I heard the caller’s voice broadcast into the car. “Hi, Jackie.Where are you? I’m sitting outside your condo with a bag of ribs from Sticky Fingers and a bottle of wine.”

  I recognized Rebecca’s voice and turned to look out my side window as he picked up his Bluetooth and put it to his ear so I could only hear his side of the conversation.

  “I’m actually on the way to Ulmer right now. I wanted to see that painting Yvonne told us about for myself. I’ll be home by nine.”

  I noticed how he’d omitted mentioning that he wasn’t alone. I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics of “Waterloo” while pretending to block out Jack’s half of the conversation.

  “I’m disappointed, too,” he was saying quietly but not quietly enough that I couldn’t still hear him over the purr of the car’s engine. “Can I take a rain check for tomorrow? Great. I’ll see you then.” He took his Bluetooth off his ear and tossed it into the console.

  I felt him looking at me, and I was beginning to think he assumed I was sleeping when he said, “Sorry about that. It was Rebecca. She was wondering where I was,” he added unnecessarily.

  I nodded sleepily. “I know.” I was silent for a moment. “I still can’t get over how much she looks like Emily.”

  Jack continued to stare at the road in front of us. “Others have mentioned that before but I don’t think I’d really ever noticed it.”

  I felt a perverse need to press on despite Jack’s obvious desire not to. “They’re practically twins. As a matter of fact, when I first met Rebecca, I thought it was Emily and that she’d come back.”

  He turned to consider me before concentrating on his driving again. “Emily’s definitely gone. I feel it.”

  I didn’t have any doubts either but I let Jack contemplate the knowledge alone. Still, Rebecca’s intrusion into my life wouldn’t allow me to drop the subject completely. “I can’t help but wonder if your attraction to Rebecca could be because she does look so much like Emily. Like she’s playing a role for you, to give you the chance to say good-bye to Emily that you didn’t have before.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Don’t you think I can tell the difference between two different women? And what makes you think I’m attracted to her? We’re just old friends, getting reacquainted with each other.”

  I snorted. “You’re male. She’s blond. And she’s definitely interested, Jackie. Need I say more?”

  “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Mellie?”

  Before I cou
ld deny it, he swerved off the highway onto a little dirt side road that had a sign that read: SWEET POTATOES—$5 GALLON BUCKET. A field of high sandy rows were dotted with the orange skin of the potatoes, glowing like meteors in the winter sunlight.

  I grabbed on to the door handle to keep myself from falling into the driver’s seat if only because Jack would have enjoyed that too much. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t you like sweet potatoes?”

  I frowned at him. “I’m from the South. It’s illegal to be a Southerner and not like sweet potatoes.”

  He grinned the grin that always had the unfortunate response of raising my internal temperature several degrees. “Is it? I didn’t know. It’s a good thing I love them, then. And I make a mean sweet potato bread.”

  He pulled sharply into a dirt clearing where an elderly woman sat in her pickup truck, buckets piled with potatoes as large as suckling pigs in the truck bed.

  I turned back to Jack. “You make bread? From scratch?”

  Putting the car in park, he took the key from the ignition. “Somebody gave us a bread maker as a wedding gift and told me to keep it even when it became apparent there would be no wedding. What else was I going to do with it?”

  I thought of several things including returning it to the store, but I remained silent as I watched him exit the car. His words had been flippant, but I’d sensed the thin veil of grief that still hovered over him like a sigh. How long did it take a person to get over a broken heart? And what happened if you never did?

  It didn’t take very long for the woman in the truck to begin batting her eyelashes at Jack as he spoke, his arm draped on the door surround as he leaned toward her. Eventually, he slid out his wallet and handed her a five before lifting a bucket from the truck. He came to my side of the car and paused, staring in at me.

  I opened my door. “Do you need something?”

  Jack eyed his minuscule trunk and nonexistent backseat. “Yeah. A place to put these.”

  I followed his gaze to the floor in front of me. “Please don’t tell me you want me to stick the bucket between my legs for the rest of the trip.” I sighed, recognizing the inevitability of the situation but not willing to give in too easily.

  “I’ll make you a loaf of sweet potato bread,” he offered helpfully.

  “Deal,” I said, hoisting the bucket and situating it between my feet on the floor of the car. “If the tires start to deflate, we can throw them out the window one by one like ballast.”

  Jack slid behind the wheel. “Don’t you dare. I’ve got just enough to make a few loaves of bread and a pie for Rebecca. She loves sweet potato pie.”

  I looked down at the offending spuds, no longer seeing them as just an inconvenience but more as an affront. Maybe if we stopped to look at the scenery they could be accidentally left behind.

  “So, how long did you date Rebecca?” The question was out of my mouth before I could call it back.

  He seemed amused. “Long enough to know that she likes sweet potato pie.”

  Chagrined, I sat back in my seat. “But not long enough not to have your head turned when somebody new appeared on the scene.”

  He knew I was talking about Emily, but he didn’t take the bait and instead raised the volume on the radio. “I know this will be hard for you, but try not to bruise the potatoes by clenching your legs so tightly together.”

  “That’s not funny,” I said as he sped off with a wave to the woman in the truck.

  “It wasn’t meant to be. I was simply concerned about the potatoes.”

  “Sure you were,” I said as I turned away and watched as the sun dipped behind darkening clouds and the first splat of rain hit the windshield.

  Mimosa Hall was little more than a large farmhouse with a covered porch and white clapboard siding that seemed to glow in the gray of the pouring rain.

  “What time was our appointment?” I asked as Jack pulled into a gravel drive and shut off the ignition.

  “What appointment?”

  “To see the house, obviously. Please don’t tell me that we just drove two hours to get here and we might not even be able to get in the house.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asked, watching the rain drum against the windshield and judging the distance between the car and the house.

  “It’s not adventure I hate, it’s wasting my time.” I tried to hoist the bucket of potatoes to free my legs but couldn’t position myself to do it.

  “Allow me,” said Jack, and he leaned forward to lift it, apparently taking his time and readjusting his grip several times before finally succeeding in dislodging it from its prison between my legs and balancing it on the console. “I’m going to race to the door and knock on it. If everything’s fine, I’ll motion for you to follow.” He handed me the bucket. “Stick this on the seat when I leave.”

  I kept my ideas of where I’d like to stick it quiet and watched as he ran up to the door. It was painted black and large gaslight lanterns on either side of the door were lit, piercing the gloom. I watched as Jack knocked twice and then waited before the door slowly opened and an older man, with a stocky build, ruddy complexion, and wearing a hunter’s flannel shirt, peered out at Jack through thick glasses.

  They spoke for a moment and instead of Jack motioning for me to come, he followed the man inside, closing the door behind them. Annoyed beyond belief, I wrapped my coat around me, then threw open the car door and began running to the porch. Unfortunately, my legs were more cramped from holding the bucket in place than I had thought and my motor coordination—never very good at the best of times—failed me completely and I tripped, landing in a deep puddle that seemed to have been recently carved by a large truck wheel. My shins, what was left of them, stung in the icy water. I blinked heavily, my eyes tingling with pain, as more icy rivulets wound their way inside my coat, soaking my dress through to my skin.

  The rain seemed to stop suddenly, but I could still hear it thumping against something hard. I opened my eyes to find Jack standing over me with a blue-and-white-striped golf umbrella, waterfalls of water spilling around the edges like a jester’s hat.

  “What are you doing?” he asked calmly.

  I was still on my hands and knees. I looked up in annoyance. “I’m studying the effects of raindrops on puddles.” I lifted a hand and he hauled me to a standing position. “You were supposed to motion for me to follow you.”

  He squinted at my drowned-rat appearance. “I thought borrowing an umbrella and coming to get you would be a better idea.”

  My teeth were chattering now and all I could do was nod. With one arm around my shoulders and the other holding the umbrella, he steered me toward the house. “I’m sure Mr. McGowan will give you a towel. Or two,” he added after giving me a second glance.

  The older man, presumably Mr. McGowan, held the front door open for us. Jack tossed the umbrella onto the porch floor and ushered me inside. I stood on a braided wool rug, shivering as Jack made the introductions, but I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to hear past the sound of water dripping off me and onto the wood floors. It was just a whisper, unintelligible, but with a certain urgency I recognized. I closed my eyes to hear better and a shudder tripped through me as the voice crept closer and whispered in my ear. Melanie.

  My eyes flew open to find Jack and Mr. McGowan staring at me expectantly. The top of an old sea captain’s chest that was used as a bench in the foyer was opened, revealing stacks of neatly folded blankets and towels. “Yes, thank you,” I said, hoping I’d guessed correctly at the question. Jack poked me in the back. “Nice to meet you,” I added hastily.

  Mr. McGowan ambled to the chest and pulled out a large beach towel. “We always keep these handy for the grandkids. They love to go playing in the creek out back.” He pronounced it “crick” and I tried to smile, but it stopped midway when I became aware of the sudden and pungent odor of rotting fish.

  I tried to tell Jack as he helped me out of my sodden coat and placed the
towel around my shoulders, but my teeth were clenched too tightly together to keep from chattering—and not all of it because of the cold.

  I slipped out of my waterlogged and now completely ruined pumps and was led into a warm living area furnished with antique farmhouse furniture in yellowed pine and scuffed oak. Soft checkered rugs anchored the comfortable sitting area that surrounded a crackling fireplace. I would have felt more relaxed if I didn’t feel someone watching me from behind, close enough that I could feel the cold breath on my neck. I am stronger than you, I whispered to myself, and Jack looked at me oddly.

  Jack turned to our host. “It’s very nice of you to let us in to see the painting, Mr. McGowan. We don’t mean to put you out.”

  Mr. McGowan waved his hand dismissively. “I love getting visitors. With my wife gone to visit her sister in Atlanta, I was feeling lonely.” He winked. “Plus I hate drinking alone.” He opened an armoire on the far side of the room, with shelves of glasses and bottles crammed inside. “I converted this myself to give me a little ‘man space.’ ” He winked again, but this time it was directed at Jack. He held up a bottle of brandy. “It’s a little early, but I figure the lady here could use a bit to warm up.”

  “Not for me, thanks. I’m driving,” said Jack. “But I’m sure Mellie would like some. She’s shaking like a mouse at a cat convention.”

  I scowled at him before turning to Mr. McGowan. Forcing my mouth open, I said, “I don’t drink hard liquor, but thank you.” I felt a little sanctimonious saying that, knowing that although I was the daughter of an alcoholic, Jack had been in the trenches himself.

  Mr. McGowan pulled two glasses from the cabinet and began pouring. “This is the best thing for you when you’re as cold as you appear to be.Trust me. Just a few sips and you’ll feel as if you’re sunbathing on a beach.”

  I was cold inside my bones, and my extremities were gradually growing numb. With an encouraging nod from Jack, I said, “All right. Just a little, please.”

  He poured a generous portion into two double old-fashioned glasses and handed one to me. “Thank you,” I said, trying to hold the glass steady so its contents wouldn’t slosh up over the sides. I took a healthy sip, nearly gagging as the heat trickled down my throat and filled my nose with steam. I coughed, my eyes watering, but it did the trick. Immediately, I felt my core begin to thaw and greedily took another sip to hurry along the process. I couldn’t fight the presence that seemed to be hovering over me if I was frozen solid.