by Karen White
Smelling the old beeswax, I wrinkled my nose again, comparing my surroundings to my brand-new rented condo in nearby Mt. Pleasant complete with plain white walls, wall-to-wall carpeting, and central air. I would never understand people who felt privileged to pay a great deal of money to saddle themselves with a pile of termite-infested lumber like this, and then continued running themselves into bankruptcy from supporting the horrendous upkeep such an old house demanded. I shuddered, thankful that my own military-brat upbringing had never fostered any root-growing tendencies or warm and fuzzies toward ancient architecture.
I looked around the room, careful not to touch anything that would get dust on my hands and clothes. Sheets covered most of what looked like antique furniture except for a faded grospoint-covered Louis XV armchair and matching ottoman as well as an enormous mahogany grandfather clock. A small black-and-white dog lay curled on the ottoman and looked up with large brown eyes that strongly resembled those of my host. The thought made me smile until I spotted the huge crack in the plaster wall that snaked up from the baseboard to the cracked cornice in the corner of the room. My eyes drifted from the large water spot on the paint-chipped ceiling to the buckled wood floor underneath. I felt exhausted all of a sudden, as if I had somehow absorbed the age and decay of the room.
I moved to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping daylight might perk me up. Pushing aside a faded crimson damask drapery panel, and almost choking on the smell of stale dust, I paused, wondering if the small etchings I saw on the wall were actually hairline cracks in the plaster. I leaned forward and squinted, wishing I’d brought my glasses. A pale gray line stretched from the top of the baseboard to about four feet from the floor. Small markings bisected the line at approximately one-inch intervals, and tiny numbers were written in a delicate handwriting next to each demarcation. Squatting to see better, I realized I was looking at a growth chart, with the initials MBG written alongside the vertical line along with the age of MBG starting at one year. Tracing my finger along the line, I saw that it stopped at MBG’s eighth year.
“That was mine.”
The voice came from directly behind me, and I jumped, wondering how he had managed to move so quietly.
“But the initials . . . aren’t you Mr. Vanderhorst?”
His eyes focused on the pencil marks on the wall, and I noticed that an antique writing desk had been pulled away from the wall to expose the marks and now stood almost in the middle of the room. “MBG stands for ‘my best guy.’ My mother used to call me that.”
The soft tone of his voice reminded me of my own little-girl voice pretending to speak long distance on the phone to my absent mother. I looked away. A tray with delicate china teacups and a plate of pecan pralines had been laid on an uncovered side table. Moving toward it I spotted a large frame set on the table holding a sepia-toned portrait of a young boy sitting on a piano bench.
Again, Mr. Vanderhorst’s voice sounded right in my ear. “That was me when I was about four years old. My mother was an amateur photographer. She loved to take my picture.” He shuffled behind me and pulled off a dusty sheet from a delicate Sheridan armchair and indicated for me to sit.
I sat, placing my leather portfolio on the floor by my feet, then leaned forward to spoon four cubes of sugar and a splash of cream into my coffee, noticing the rose pattern on the teacups. I had expected the ubiquitous antique blue-and-white Canton china found in most of the houses in Charleston’s historic district. The roses on this set of china were bright red with large blooms of layered petals, nearly identical to the roses I’d seen in the neglected garden. I took a praline and placed it on a small rose-covered plate, then took another, aware of Mr. Vanderhorst watching me. Nervously, I sipped my coffee.
“Those are Louisa roses—my mama’s hybrid and named after her. She cultivated those, you see, in the garden. They were famous for a while—famous enough to have magazines coming from all over to photograph them.” His eyes fixed on me behind the thick glasses, studying me as if to gauge my reaction. “But now the only place in the world you can find them is right here in my garden.”
I nodded, eager to move on to the subject at hand.
“Are you a gardener, Miss Middleton?”
“Um, no, actually. I mean, I know what a rose is, and what a daisy looks like, but that pretty much covers all of my gardening terms.” I smiled tentatively.
Mr. Vanderhorst sat down across from me in a matching chair and picked up a teacup with slightly trembling hands. “This house had beautiful gardens when my mother lived here. Sadly, I haven’t been able to keep them up. I can just find enough energy to keep up the small rose garden by the fountain. That was my mama’s favorite.”
I nodded, remembering the odd little garden and the sound of a swing, then took another sip of coffee. “Mr. Vanderhorst, as I mentioned on the phone yesterday, I’m a Realtor, and my real estate company is very interested in obtaining the listing for your house.” I set my cup down and reached inside my portfolio to pull out the information on the property values in the neighborhood, as well as brochures that explained why my company was better than any of the other dozens of real estate companies in the area.
“You’re Augustus Middleton’s granddaughter, aren’t you? Your granddaddy and my daddy were at Harvard Law together, you know. They even started out clerking in the same law firm, and Augustus was best man at my daddy’s wedding.”
My arm felt awkward and heavy as I kept it extended in Mr. Vanderhorst’s direction while he ignored it. Finally, I leaned across and placed the information on the table between us, then picked up my coffee again. “Ah, no. I wasn’t aware that our families knew one another. Small world.” I took a quick sip of my coffee. “So, anyway, as I mentioned, my company is very interested—”
“They had some kind of a falling-out when I was about eight. Never spoke to each other again. Saw each other occasionally across a court-room but never exchanged another word.”
I focused on swallowing without choking and breathing slowly, and made a conscious effort to still my leg from twitching. Damn. Had Mr. Vanderhorst brought me out here just so he could tell me about my grandfather Gus? Was he about to ask me to leave? And couldn’t he have just told me this on the phone to save me the trouble?
“Despite their disagreement, my daddy always thought him to be one of the most honorable men he’d ever met.”
“Yes, well, he died when my father was only twelve, so I can’t really say.”
“You favor him a great deal, you know. Your father, too, although we’ve never met. I’ve seen pictures of him and your mother in the paper every once in a while. You don’t look a thing like her.”
Thank God. If he started talking about my mother, I’d have to leave. There was only so much sucking up I was prepared to do to get this listing. “Look, Mr. Vanderhorst, I’ve got another appointment I need to get to, so I’d like to go ahead and discuss—”
Once again he interrupted me as if I hadn’t spoken. He glanced down at the two pralines on my plate and seemed to grin. “Your grandfather had a legendary sweet tooth, too.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but Mr. Vanderhorst said, “Do you like old houses, Miss Middleton?”
For a moment, I wondered if there were hidden cameras pointed on me to be replayed later on one of those stupid reality television shows. I felt my mouth working up and down as I tried to figure out how truthful I should be. As if not wanting to hear outright lying, the little dog jumped off the ottoman, gave me a withering look, then ran out of the room.
“They’re, um, well, they’re old. Which is nice.” Brilliant. “What I meant to say is that old houses are really popular right now in today’s real estate market. As you probably already know, prices and interest in historic real estate have increased dramatically since the nineteen seventies when the Historic Charleston Foundation sponsored the restoration of the Ansonborough neighborhood. People are buying old houses as investment properties, fixing them up, then selling them
for a nice profit.”
I risked taking another sip of coffee, hoping he wouldn’t steer the conversation away again. I eyed the pralines, still untouched on my plate, and decided that eating one would give Mr. Vanderhorst too much of a chance to change the conversation again.
“As I said on the phone, your lawyer, Mr. Drayton, contacted us about possibly listing your house. I understand that you’re thinking about moving into an assisted-living facility and have no relatives who would be interested in owning the home.”
While I spoke, Mr. Vanderhorst left his untouched coffee and pralines and walked to one of the tall windows that looked out into the garden. I could see part of the old oak tree from where I sat. I paused, waiting for him to confirm what I had just told him and took the opportunity to bite into a dark chocolate praline.
His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “I was born in this house and I’ve lived here my entire life, Miss Middleton. As did my father, and grandfather, and his grandfather before him. This house has been lived in by a member of the Vanderhorst family since it was built in 1848.”
The chocolate stuck in my throat. Here it comes. He’s not selling the house and I’ve just wasted an entire morning. I swallowed and waited for him to continue, my conscience tugging at me, reminding me of almost identical words my mother had once said to me. But that had been a long, long, time ago, and I was no longer that girl who had listened with so much hope in her heart.
“But now I’m the only one left. All of those generations before me who worked so hard to keep this house in the family. Even after the Civil War, when things were tight, they sold their silver and jewelry and went hungry just so they could hold on to this house.” He turned to face me, as if remembering that I was in the room. “This house is more than brick, mortar, and lumber. It’s a connection to the past and those who have gone before us. It’s memories and belonging. It’s a home that on the inside has seen the birth of children and the death of the old folks and the changing of the world from the outside. It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hands.”
I wanted to add, It’s an unbearable weight of debt hanging around your neck, pulling you down until you land face-first into insolvency. But I didn’t say anything because Mr. Vanderhorst’s face had lost its color, and he seemed to be swaying on his feet. I jumped up and led him to his chair, then handed him his cup of coffee.
“Can I call a doctor for you? You’re not looking well.” I put the coffee on the table next to him and took his hand, remembering what he’d said about his house. It might be just brick and mortar to me, but it was his whole life—a life nearing its end with no family left to refurbish the garden or enjoy the rose china. It saddened me and I didn’t want it to, but I held tight to his hand anyway.
He ignored the coffee. “Did you see her? In the garden—did you see her? She only appears to people she approves of, you know.”
I was torn between answering him and calling his doctor. But something he had said I had heard before and once, a million years ago, I had believed with all my young and gullible heart. It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hands. I looked into his eyes and allowed myself to see his need and understand his pain.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Yes. I saw her. But I don’t think it’s because she approves of me. I . . . seem to see things that aren’t there on a kind of regular basis.”
Some of the color returned to his face, and he actually smiled. He leaned over and patted me on the leg. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good news.” He leaned back and drank his coffee in three big gulps before standing as if nothing had happened.
“I hope you don’t mind me ending our nice meeting so abruptly, but I have a few things I need to do this morning before my lawyer arrives.” He pulled a clean linen napkin off the serving tray and put the pralines, complete with the rose-covered china plate, into it before twisting the napkin into a knot on top and handing it to me.
I stood, stunned, his actions again rendering me speechless. Finding my voice, I blurted out, “But we haven’t even discussed . . .” I took the napkin-covered plate as he shoved it into my hands. “And I can’t take your plate. I don’t know when I’ll be back this way to return it.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, never you mind about that. It will be back amongst the other plates sooner than you’d think.”
I wanted to be angry over wasting my morning for a pointless visit. But when I looked down at the plate in my hands, all I could feel was a peculiar regret. Over what? It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hands. Once again, I was seven years old and standing hand in hand with my mother in front of another old house. I felt in my bones what Mr. Vanderhorst was talking about, no matter how much or how long I wanted to deny it, and I allowed a foolish tenderness toward the old man to shake my heart loose.
Mr. Vanderhorst leaned across and gently kissed my cheek. “Thank you, Miss Middleton. You’ve done this old man a world of good by your visit today.”
“No, thank you,” I said, surprisingly close to tears. It had been a long time since anyone had kissed me on the cheek, and for a moment I wanted to ask if I could stay for a while longer, eating pralines and drinking coffee while chatting about old ghosts—both the living and the dead kind.
But Mr. Vanderhorst had already stood, and the moment passed. Mechanically, I hung my portfolio over my shoulder and clutched the loaded napkin carefully as Mr. Vanderhorst led me to the front door. We passed a music room dominated by a concert grand piano, and I remembered the photo of the little boy sitting on the bench.
I didn’t have time to linger as Mr. Vanderhorst’s surprisingly strong hand on my back propelled me toward the front door. For a man who shuffled, he seemed determined to get me out of the house. Which was fine with me, really. I’d wasted enough of my day.
I stepped outside onto the piazza and turned back to say goodbye. He was beaming now, his eyes bright, shiny pennies behind the thick glasses. “Goodbye, Mr. Vanderhorst. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” I was surprised to find that I really meant it.
“No, Miss Middleton. The pleasure was all mine.”
I walked down the piazza toward the door leading to the sidewalk, feeling his gaze on me. When I got to the door, I remembered the plate I was holding. I turned and saw Mr. Vanderhorst watching me from the doorway of the house, as much a part of it as the piazza columns and leaded-glass windows. “I’ll bring back the plate as soon as I can.” I even imagined I’d look forward to a return visit.
“I have no doubt that you will, Miss Middleton. Goodbye.”
I opened the door, then shut it behind me, feeling him watching me through the garden gate until I disappeared from his view. I didn’t once turn toward the garden, where the sound of a rope swing against old bark had once again begun to punctuate the muggy morning air.
CHAPTER 2
The jarring ring of my phone two mornings later jolted me awake. I peered groggily at my clock, then cursed under my breath as I reached for my glasses so I could read the time. I hadn’t quite reconciled myself to the fact that I actually needed glasses, much less wore them, so most of the time they remained in their case in a drawer. I squinted at the clock: six thirty. Damn! How could I have slept so late? I normally set my alarm for six o’clock each morning so I could get a head start on my day, and I’d already wasted half an hour sleeping in.
I slapped my hand on the receiver, castigating myself for staying up so late the previous evening and forgetting to set my alarm. But I’d been so engrossed in alphabetizing my bookshelves in the living room that the time had gotten away from me. “Hello?”
“Hi, Melanie. Sorry to be calling you so early, but Mr. Henderson said it was important that I reach you ASAP. Not that I can figure out why he didn’t call you directly and let me sleep, of course, except that he knows I keep an early tee time every Saturday morning.” The soft twang of my office secretary’s voice seemed particularly jarring at six thirty on a Saturday morni
ng, but the mention of my boss’s name helped part the fog currently residing in my head. She cleared her throat. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, Nancy. I had to get up to answer the phone.” I waited to see if the secretary noticed my sarcasm. Nancy Flaherty was very good at the rudiments of her job, but it was no secret to anybody that most of her concentrated efforts remained on her next tee time and practicing her chip shot. Ergo, most sarcasm was completely lost on her.
“That’s good. Because Mr. Henderson has scheduled a meeting with you and Mr. Drayton for nine o’clock this morning, and he doesn’t want you to be late. It has something to do with Mr. Vanderhorst’s estate.”
I blinked, then sat up fully, waiting for the words to stop swirling around my head like water in a sink. “His estate? You mean he . . . ?”
“Yeah. Seems he died in his sleep.” There was a brief pause and the sound of a soft grunt of breath, and I pictured Nancy in her bedroom with a phone headset on as she practiced putting. “That’s a very peaceful way to go, you know.”
“But I just saw him two days ago.” I couldn’t explain the sudden sadness I felt at the old man’s passing. I pictured him as I’d last seen him, staring out the window in his faded drawing room, looking at the oak tree that had been there before his birth and remained there still.
“I don’t understand—did he mention why Mr. Drayton needed me?”
“You know that if I had that kind of information, I’d tell you, right?”
“Yeah, right.” I swallowed, surprised to find a lump there. “But it’s Saturday—why couldn’t this wait until Monday?”
“I don’t know, Melanie. All I know is that Mr. Henderson expects you to be there today.”
Wearily, I sat up. “Can you tell me where we’re meeting?”
I wrote down the information Nancy gave me, then hung up the phone and stared at it for a full five minutes before walking away.
After quickly showering and dressing in a suitably conservative skirt and blouse for a meeting at a law office, I made the quick drive over the new Cooper River Bridge from Mt. Pleasant and parked in my reserved space in the lot behind my office on South Broad Street. I then stopped at the corner bakery, purchasing two doughnuts with a large latte, whipped cream on top. The owner, Ruth, had already started bagging the doughnuts when she’d spotted me through the front window and had the latte machine whirring by the time I came inside.