The House on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  I returned to the house on Tradd Street, dressed to do battle. I even brought along a rake, a trowel, and a handheld gardening implement with pointy prongs, the name of which I couldn’t recall. They were lent to me by our receptionist, Nancy Flaherty, when I told her the condition of the garden. She even knew of the Louisa rose, and I felt like Sir Lancelot as she’d handed me the trowel and said solemnly, “The very existence of that rose in this world is in your hands, Melanie.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And when did you take time away from your golf game to learn horticulture?”

  She’d refused to take my bait. “Gardening isn’t something you learn, Melanie.” She pressed her golf-glove-covered fist to her chest. “It’s something that’s there. You’re either born with it or you’re not. And who knows? Maybe you’ve got it.”

  “I’m not the nurturing type—you know that. I don’t even keep houseplants. Why don’t I just pave over the whole garden and be done with it?”

  She looked at me as if she thought I was joking. “Just give it a try. You might just find that you love tending a garden.”

  I headed toward the door, gardening implements in hand. “Right. And I might even find that I actually love old houses instead of thinking that they’re huge holes in the ground that stupid people throw money into.”

  She held the door open as I headed down the outside steps. “Stranger things have happened.”

  I was on the sidewalk when Nancy called out to me again. “And you’re wrong, you know.”

  I stopped and looked up at her. “About what?”

  “About you not being the nurturing type. Most people would have written your father off long ago.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer as she closed the office door, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, staring at the closed door with a mixture of resentment and admiration. I headed down the street toward my car with a small feeling of hope that maybe I wasn’t so desperate in the home-horticulture department.

  But as I stood on the other side of the gate at 55 Tradd Street, I knew without a doubt that Nancy had been all wrong, and I thought again of my idea to pave over the garden as a strong contender on my list of options.

  I opened the gate and stepped through it, noticing again how easily it swung on its hinges without any protest. I stood for a moment, listening, and was relieved to hear nothing but birds and the occasional drone of a bee before proceeding into the side garden with its impressive collection of weeds and the forlorn fountain.

  The smell of roses was overpowering there, but not in a sickening, cloying way. Rather, it was more of a good memory, like that of a beloved grandmother putting you to bed at night. I had no such memory, but I still found an odd comfort from the aroma that permeated this corner of the garden.

  I put down the bag Nancy had given me and walked slowly around the fountain again, avoiding the pained look of the lonely cherub, and tramping down the tall weeds with my Keds-clad feet until I stood in the middle of the rose garden. I marveled again at the smell a mere four rosebushes could create before bending down to tug out a weed that had managed to creep up through the freshly laid cedar shavings. I spotted another and bent down to pull it out, too. Before I knew it, I was hunkered down by the base of the fountain and working my way around it with the single determination to rid it of weeds.

  I don’t know how long I was bent at my task, but eventually I became aware of the fact that I was no longer alone. I stopped and slowly stood, feeling my back pop from the effort after having been stooped over for so long. The back of my neck tingled with the familiar mixture of heat and cold, and I turned to where I’d seen the swing before with the woman and the little boy.

  I knew before I turned around that I wouldn’t find them there. There was no sound of rope against tree trunk and even the chirping of the birds had ceased. The aroma of roses had changed from that of fresh flowers to that of dead and decaying petals that had sat in a vase of water too long. I wrinkled my nose as I faced the side of the house, and my eyes were drawn to the second-story windows.

  The sun dipped behind a cloud as I stared at the dark shadow that seemed to fill the window. It took on the distinct shape of a man, and I could feel the penetrating stare from where the face would be. The stench in the garden thickened, and I gagged as I staggered away from the rose garden and made my way to the steps leading up to the piazza.

  Sun glinted off the Tiffany rose window on the front door as I fished the key out of my pocket with trembling fingers. In my long experience with these things, I knew I had two choices: I could ignore it in the hopes it would go away, or I could confront whatever it was to make them go away faster. With this thought, I thrust the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

  The cloying aroma of decay was stronger inside, and I pressed the hem of my shirt up to my nose as I forced myself up the main staircase and found my way to the room on the side of the house where I’d seen the ominous shadow in the window. I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you, I whispered quietly to myself, surprised to find the words my mother taught me so readily on my lips.

  I stood outside the door and slowly turned the brass doorknob. With a quick shove, the door opened on quiet hinges, softly hitting the wall behind it. I sensed immediately that whatever had been in there was gone. I peeked inside the room, taking in the large half-tester bed, the thick damask draperies, and the heavy chest-on-chest drawers, feeling guilty for snooping. I was halfway into the hall when I realized that I now owned this room and all its contents and that I could not only leave the door wide-open, but that I could go in without feeling as if I were invading somebody else’s privacy.

  I forced myself to go stand by the side window, and took a deep breath, surprised to smell the roses again. I checked to ensure that the windows in the room were closed and frowned to myself, wondering how the aroma of roses two stories down and through a closed window could be as strong as if I were sticking my nose in one.

  With my hands behind my back, I walked around the room, realizing that this must have been Nevin Vanderhorst’s. On the side table by the bed and on the chest of drawers opposite, a cluster of silver-framed black-and-white photographs covered the dark wood. I moved closer, studying each one like a botanist would study butterflies under glass, examining the small details that showed the viewer the relationships between the specimens.

  With a start, I realized that the woman in many of the photos was the woman I’d seen in the garden. There were several photos of a young Nevin with the same woman, and I realized it had to be Louisa Vanderhorst. She was young and beautiful, with large dark eyes identical to her son’s, and wearing the same warm smile. There was her wedding photo with a very tall man and a picture of her holding a newborn baby. The frame closest to the bed, the one picture that Mr. Vanderhorst must have seen last thing at night before he turned off his light and the first thing each morning, was a studio portrait of him as a small boy sitting on his mother’s lap. They were facing each other and smiling, their noses almost touching. I picked up the frame to look at it more closely, realizing that the smell of roses had grown stronger.

  I squinted and brought the picture closer to my face, wishing I had my glasses to study it better. But I didn’t think I needed them to know that this wasn’t the picture of a woman who would abandon her son. I closed my eyes, recalling the words from Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter that I couldn’t seem to forget.

  My mother loved this house almost as much as she loved me. There are others who disagree, of course, because she deserted both of us when I was a young boy. But there’s more to that story, though I have failed to discover what it is. Maybe fate put you in my life to bring the truth to the surface so that she might finally find peace after all these years.

  I put the picture down suddenly, knocking it over. It fell facedown and I didn’t pick it up, not wanting to see the picture of mother and child anymore. I knew better than most, after all, how deceptive a mother’s smile could be.

  Turning
on my heel, I ran headfirst into something warm and solid and decidedly male, and screamed.

  Strong arms gripped my shoulders. “Mellie—it’s only me. Jack.”

  I stared into his face for a long moment as I waited for my heart to stop racing before jerking away from his grasp. “What in the hell are you doing in here?” I shouted at him even though he was less than a foot away from me. I was more scared than I cared to admit, and my mother had done a good job of teaching me that anger could chase the fright away. “And my name’s Melanie,” I added, annoyed at his use of the nickname, which added insult to injury even if he was unaware of its effect on me.

  “You invited me, remember? You told me to meet you at the house at nine thirty.”

  I glanced at the brass anniversary clock sitting on top of the chest of drawers. “You’re late. It’s nine forty-five. And, besides, haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell?”

  He smiled his special smile and I had to grit my teeth.

  “Sorry I’m late. I had to help a friend at the library this morning.” He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his jeans, making me wonder what kind of “friend” he’d had to help so early in the morning. He continued. “As for not using the doorbell, I thought that the wide-open door was an invitation to come right in. You know, you really shouldn’t do that. Considering the stuff that’s in this house, you should always set the alarm whether you’re here or not.”

  “There isn’t one. Mr. Vanderhorst told me that he’s had some vandalism recently but that he hadn’t put in an alarm.”

  Jack pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket and unclipped a short pencil from the metal rings. “That should be the first thing on our list, then.”

  I glanced up at the cracked plaster and a large dark spot in a corner of the room that looked suspiciously like mildew. I turned to him, a little irritated at his mention of “our” list. “Really, Jack. I think we have bigger problems than an alarm. Besides, I would think that most vandals would be discouraged from breaking in by the condition of the outside. I know I would be. Unless you think they’ll take pity on me and sneak in at night with paint and paintbrushes.”

  He ignored me, continuing to jot down notes on his pad. “I’ve a friend in the home-security business. I’ll give him a call and set up a meeting, ASAP.”

  “I really don’t think it’s neces . . .”

  His blue eyes rested on my face, the expression unsettling. “Believe me, it’s necessary.” He dipped his head to write something else in his notepad but paused briefly, looking back at me as if an afterthought. “You said yourself that Mr. Vanderhorst had experienced some vandalism. Now that you’ll be living here by yourself, it would be a good idea to have a little security.”

  I found his insistence that I get an alarm as soon as possible odd, but the last part of his sentence caught me off guard. “I didn’t say that I would be living here. . . .”

  His eyes met mine again, but this time with the addition of a raised eyebrow. “You told me that part of Mr. Vanderhorst’s will required you to live in the house for a year.”

  My chest felt like a deflated balloon. I’d somehow forgotten about that little gem. I looked around me again at the mildew and plaster damage. “Assuming the walls don’t crumble down around me first, I guess I’m going to have to.” I sighed, blowing out the air through full cheeks. “Go ahead and call your friend. Guess I’ve got to start spending that sack of money somewhere. Might as well be an alarm system. Maybe we’ll be able to salvage it after the house crumbles down around our ears.”

  I turned to leave.

  “So, this was Nevin’s room.”

  I faced Jack again and found him studying the framed pictures on the bedside table. He picked up the photo of Louisa and her son, which I had knocked over and left facedown. Jack looked at me with an accusing glance before studying it. “They must have been close.”

  I recalled Christmas card photos of me as a young girl with both my parents, beaming at the photographer with bright smiles and frigid poses. “I think that would be a hard thing to judge from just a picture.”

  He didn’t saying anything as he put the frame gently on the table and looked around at the furniture. “My parents would have a fit if they could get their hands on some of this stuff for their store. Have you had a chance to go through anything yet?”

  I had to remind myself that he had a reason to be so nosy about the house and its previous inhabitants. “No. I had thought to get started this morning but I ended up working for a bit in the garden instead.”

  “I didn’t picture you to be a gardener type.”

  “I’m not.” I shrugged. “Nor have I ever had an interest in owning an old house, much less restoring one. Go figure.”

  “Melanie? Are you here?” Sophie’s voice called up from the foyer. “You left the door open, so I’m letting myself in.”

  I shot Jack an annoyed look. “If you’re so concerned about people breaking in, maybe you should try closing the door behind you.”

  He looked surprised. “But I did. I made sure of it. I even slid the dead bolt from the inside to make sure it worked.”

  My eyes met his briefly before I looked away. “The door must not have been latched before you slid the dead bolt,” I explained as I exited the room and made my way to the staircase, convinced that Jack didn’t believe my explanation any more than I did.

  Sophie stood at the bottom of the staircase, examining the Chinese wallpaper that sagged off the wall at the seams, too tired to cling to the house any longer. She wore her ubiquitous Birkenstocks and, defying all logic or fashion sense, striped knee socks and a tie-dyed shirtdress. Her curly hair was piled on top of her head, exposing her slim white neck—the only part of her that could remotely be called vulnerable. I think it was this contrast between hard and soft that men seemed to find so attractive about Sophie. It certainly couldn’t have been her sense of style.

  She didn’t look up as we approached, seemingly mesmerized by the wall. “This stuff is all handpainted and probably imported from China. Just look at that technique! Reminds me of the time I took up painting in the nude art class—wow, that was an experience. You should try it sometime, Melanie. Release some of that pent-up sexual tension you wear like a chastity belt . . .” Her voice trailed away as she looked up and realized I wasn’t alone. A knowing smile lit her lips as she watched Jack come down the stairs behind me. “Well, well,” she said with a smirk.

  I gave her a look that any normal person would have taken to mean “back off ” but which Sophie completely ignored. As Jack approached her, she stuck out her hand. “Dr. Sophie Wallen. Pleased to meet you. . . .”

  He took her hand in both of his, and I thought I saw her melt a little as he smiled down at her. “Jack Trenholm. And the pleasure is all mine. I’m very aware of your work with the Historic Preservation Society. Very impressive.”

  I could have sworn that Sophie blushed, something I’d never seen her do before. “Thank you. And I must admit I’m a huge fan of your work. I absolutely loved Suicide or Murder: The Death of Napoleon. When you postulated that it was the arsenic in his wallpaper that had killed him, I was blown away. It was totally conceivable, considering there was no evidence to support suicide or murder.” She beamed up at him. “And even your Alamo book, despite what happened on Nightline, had a lot of merit. The media shouldn’t have trashed you the way they did without looking at all the facts.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight. Jack finally dropped her hands as a shadow crossed his face. I could tell that Sophie saw it, too, because she beamed back up at him before turning to me and changing the subject. “So, how do you two know each other?”

  “New friends,” Jack said.

  “Practically strangers,” I said simultaneously.

  Sophie’s brows furrowed for a moment before she began nodding knowingly. “Ah. A little anonymous sex in the afternoon.”

  “No!” I shouted.

  “Count me in,” Jack said
at the same time.

  I glowered at both of them. “Mr. Trenholm—Jack—is writing a book about the disappearance of Louisa Vanderhorst, the late Mr. Vanderhorst’s mother. I said I would give him access to the house in exchange for a little help with the restoration and the sharing of information.”

  Sophie wrinkled her nose and I held my breath, waiting for her to impart the next bombshell and leave me with no dignity whatsoever. “Perfect,” she said simply. “Like yin and yang.” She smiled. “Did Mel happen to mention why she wants to find out what happened to Louisa?”

  “She mentioned a letter that Mr. Vanderhorst left her. How he thought she might be the one to answer that question.”

  She wrinkled her nose again, a habit I was beginning to hate. “Well, that’s part of it anyway. Maybe she’ll tell you the rest of it once she gets to know you better. Now that would make an interesting book.”

  I glowered at her as Jack raised his eyebrow. “I’ll look forward to that.” His voice sent little chill bumps down my spine as his words conjured up all sorts of hidden meanings.

  I squared my shoulders, determined to be impervious to his cheap charms. “Don’t hold your breath.” I pretended to think a moment. “Better yet, please do.” I turned to Sophie, eyeing the loose-leaf notebook in her hands. Regardless of how flaky she could be at times, she was always the consummate teacher: always prepared.

  She blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I thought we could sort of start by inventorying everything structural that requires fixing so that we can prioritize what needs to be done first.”

  As if in agreement, a small chip of paint chose that moment to dislodge itself from the ceiling and float down to earth, settling in Sophie’s nest of hair. She eagerly pulled it out from the tangled curls and smiled. “How perfect! Now we won’t have to worry about damaging the wall to get a paint chip to match the paint color in here—the house gave me one!”

  Her enthusiasm seemed so misplaced that I couldn’t do more than grimace back at her. “Yippee,” I said, reaching for her notebook. I unclipped the pen that had been stuck to the cover, flipped open to the first page and wrote number one: Match decrepit paint color from ceiling. See if it can be ordered by the boatload.