The House on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  I sat back down, figuring this might take a while. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. He seems like a really nice guy. Dresses well, too.” I looked pointedly at Jack’s jeans and ubiquitous oxford cloth shirt with rolled-up sleeves.

  His eyes were serious. “Mellie, remember how I told you that there are no coincidences? Don’t you find it odd that this Marc Longo, a direct descendant of Joseph Longo, has suddenly appeared on your doorstep, asking you for a date?”

  Bristling, I sat up straight. “It wasn’t like that. He wants me to show him some houses. That’s all. And we ran out of time in our meeting, so he invited me to continue our conversation over dinner. It was all very innocent.”

  “So, he didn’t mention the Tradd Street house at all.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

  I contemplated lying just to wipe the smugness off his face, but figured he’d find out eventually. “Actually, he did. He was interested in buying it until I told him that it wouldn’t be available for another year. He had seen the article in the paper and remembered the connection between his family and the Vanderhorsts, and thought maybe that house would make a great first residential real estate investment.”

  “I bet he did. So whose idea was it to look for more houses after you told him yours wasn’t available?”

  “His,” I said. “But what does it matter? I’m sure that whatever happened to Louisa and Joseph isn’t on the top of Marc’s list of important things to find out. And I’m sorry if you think that a guy has to have ulterior motives to ask me out on a date.”

  I could feel Sophie next to me straining to keep her mouth shut. Jack surprised me by leaning forward and taking my hands in his. He used what I could only describe as his bedroom voice when he spoke. “I could never think that, Melanie.”

  My eyes flew to his at his use of my full name. Irritated by the way my hands and arms were tingling, I yanked them back and cleared my throat. “Well, it doesn’t sound that way to me.”

  He frowned, as if weighing what his next words should be. Finally, he said, “I’m just asking that you be cautious. From what I’ve learned, Marc Longo isn’t somebody you should be messing with.”

  “I’m not ‘messing’ with him. I’m just having a business dinner with him.”

  “Where? Magnolia’s?”

  I frowned at his accuracy. “Certainly not Blackbeard’s. He has better taste than that.”

  He surprised me by laughing. “Yeah, well, at least I wasn’t as obvious as Magnolia’s. The guy must be desperate to get on your good side if he’s taking you there for a first date, and I’d like to find out why. Maybe you should wear a wire.”

  I stood abruptly. “I think I’ve heard enough. I’m leaving.”

  Sophie swiveled in her seat and waved her hand at me. “Don’t forget to sign up for my haunted Halloween walking tour. The sign-ups went online this morning.”

  I closed my eyes, remembering the disaster of the previous year’s fund-raiser. “You won’t need me, Soph. You’ll have no problem filling your tour without packing the audience with your friends.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Yes, well, but you always add that special touch.”

  I sent her a warning glance.

  Jack’s gaze moved from my face to Sophie’s. “Am I invited, too? Sounds right up my alley. You have no idea how much I like a good ghost story.” This last comment was directed at me.

  “Do what you want,” I said to him as I turned to walk away. “But Sophie moves fast, and you might trip over your ego trying to catch up.”

  I waved and left quickly before Jack could respond and before I was forced to explain my need to have a dinner date with a good-looking, successful man, regardless of his motives. I was supposed to be a confident, self-made, successful woman, not the kind of person who rarely had a date and usually tripped over her own tongue when speaking to a member of the opposite sex on a topic that didn’t involve mortgages or real estate appraisals. I felt like the plain girl being asked to the prom by the captain of the football team, and I wasn’t about to let Jack Trenholm spoil my fun.

  When I was about four years old, I got a phone call from my grandmother Middleton. I picked up the phone in the hallway when it rang, knowing before it rang that it was for me, and she began speaking as soon as I brought the receiver to my ear. She told me how much she loved me and how special I was, and how I should never worry about what other people might think. I must have fallen asleep listening to her, because the next thing I remembered was my daddy picking me off the floor and carrying me to my room.

  I told him that I was talking to Grandma on the phone, and he got very angry with me. I didn’t know it then, but my grandma had been dead for less than forty-eight hours, and my daddy had been wondering how to tell me when he found me on the floor with the phone cradled next to me. I suppose that was when I first began to understand that I was different, that not everybody saw people who weren’t really there, and that it made other children avoid me on the playground. By the time I was six, the only person I ever told was my mother. And then she was gone, and there was nobody else but me.

  I slid the black dress over my head, then fastened my grandmother Middleton’s pearls around my neck, just as I had done for my “date” with Jack. But this time, I knew where we were going, and my black dress, pearls, and French chignon would not be out of place.

  The doorbell rang just as I was adjusting the straps on my shoes, and I listened as Mrs. Houlihan’s heavy tread slowly made its way to the front door. I waited a few moments to hear her greeting, and when nothing happened I cracked the door a little bit to listen. Mrs. Houlihan’s grunts filled the downstairs foyer, so I gave up on making my date wait ten minutes and ventured out of my room, peering over the banister as I walked down the stairs.

  Mrs. Houlihan was gripping the door handle with both hands and had one knee on the doorframe as she grunted and pulled on the door to open it.

  “What’s wrong with the door?” I asked as I approached.

  Her forehead glistened with sweat. “I don’t know, Miss Melanie. But the door’s stuck. I’ve checked to make sure it’s unlocked but I just can’t open it.”

  An impatient jab on the doorbell sounded again. “Just a minute,” I called out. I motioned Mrs. Houlihan aside, and after double-checking that everything was unlocked, I turned the handle and pulled. The smooth brass doorknob twisted in my hand but it might as well have been attached to a wall.

  “Can I help you with that, ladies?”

  I turned with a start and found Jack approaching us in bare feet. His shirt was untucked, and his hair looked like he’d just woken up. “Where did you come from?”

  He grinned. “I was taking a nap in my room. Had a late night last night, and I intend to take another stab at the attic tonight, so I figured I should grab some sleep while I could.”

  I was angry that he’d ignored my request to stay away from the house tonight when my date arrived, but too eager to get the door opened to say anything. “The door won’t open—can you give it a shot?”

  Mrs. Houlihan and I stepped back as Jack grasped the door handle and turned it, the door opening smoothly toward him. Mrs. Houlihan and I stood speechless, staring at each other and then at the irate Marc Longo on the other side of the door.

  Jack held out his hand. “Hi, there. I’m Jack Trenholm. And you must be Matt.”

  Marc hesitated just for a moment before taking Jack’s hand. “Actually, it’s Marc. And I’m here to see Melanie. . . .” He looked behind Jack’s shoulder.

  I pushed Jack aside. “Hi, Marc. I’m so sorry—we were having trouble opening the door, and Jack was nice enough to help us out.”

  “Jack?” Marc looked pointedly at me.

  “Trenholm,” Jack supplied again, speaking slowly as if he were speaking with somebody of limited intelligence. “I live here.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” I fluttered my hands, flustered. “Actually, he does. But only temporarily.”

  Jack began tucking
in his shirt and doing a bad job of trying to look apologetic. “Sorry. I just got out of bed.” He winked at Marc, and I had the strong desire to go find the mate of the Staffordshire statuette I’d broken the night before and once more make them a matching set with the help of Jack’s hard head.

  “He’s just helping out with cataloging everything in the house. He keeps odd hours, so I offered him the use of the guest bedroom.” I emphasized the last two words so that everybody was on the same page regarding my relationship and sleeping arrangements with Jack.

  Jack put his arm around Mrs. Houlihan. “Well, there’s that and there’s also the fact that the best chef in Charleston, the lovely Mrs. Houlihan, allows me to eat in her kitchen.”

  Mrs. Houlihan blushed, then excused herself to go back to the kitchen to place a foil-wrapped plate for Jack on the stove before packing up and heading home to her husband.

  Marc was studying Jack as if trying to place him. “Wait a minute—I thought your name sounded familiar. Aren’t you that guy who wrote the book about the Alamo? There was a lot of publicity surrounding it, as I recall, although I don’t remember what it was all about.”

  I glanced at Marc, not sure if he was being serious or condescending, and then realizing that it didn’t matter. Jack was a big boy and certainly didn’t need my help. Besides, having been the spider under Jack’s magnifying glass, it was fun watching the role reversal.

  Jack’s smile didn’t dim, but I saw his shoulders tense. “Yes, well, that was an unfortunate situation, especially since I had a band of experts on my side supporting the book who nobody wanted to listen to.” He shrugged. “But I have every faith that the truth will come out eventually, and the book will sell a million copies because of all the free publicity.” He bared his teeth in an effort to widen his smile. “But at least that’s freed up my time so I can focus on a new project. Mellie here is allowing me to use her gorgeous house to research a new book I’m working on.”

  “Oh, really? What’s it about?” Marc was studying Jack intently, and I was surprised to see that he wasn’t feigning interest.

  Jack didn’t break eye contact as the two men sized each other up, standing closer as if they were in a boxing ring, and excluding me completely. I wondered if this was how the female lion felt during mating season—unwanted and superfluous until the battle was won and it was time to get down to business. Although comparing myself to a lion in heat was as humiliating as it was accurate.

  “A previous owner, Louisa Vanderhorst, vanished from this house in nineteen thirty and was never seen or heard from again. On the same day an unwanted suitor—a Joseph Longo—also vanished. Could he be any relation to you?”

  Marc crossed his arms over his chest, exposing the large gold Rolex watch he wore on his right wrist. “Yes, as a matter of fact, Joseph Longo was my grandfather.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “Oh, isn’t that interesting? Maybe we should share notes sometime. Who knows? Maybe we can come up with an answer after all these years.”

  Marc assessed Jack, his expression making it clear that he found him lacking. “Who knows, indeed? We should definitely compare notes. I’ll call you.” He paused for a moment and then added almost as an afterthought, “And maybe during your research in this house you might dig up even more mysteries from the past.”

  Something I couldn’t identify flitted over Jack’s face. “What kinds of mysteries?”

  Marc smiled so that his calculating expression now matched Jack’s. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s an old house. I believe Melanie told me it was built in eighteen forty-eight. That’s a lot of years, a lot of history. There’s bound to be a skeleton or two in the closets.”

  “There sure is,” Jack said slowly, and I was once again struck by the thought that he was holding something back.

  “Well,” said Marc, glancing at his watch, “our reservations are at seven thirty, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “No, we wouldn’t want that, would we, Mellie?” Jack moved to stand next to me and casually draped his arm over my shoulders. I wondered how the female lion would react to this twist on the circling-lion scenario.

  I slid out from Jack’s embrace and reached for my evening bag and silk shawl, which I had left on the hall table. If I had forgotten them upstairs, I would have left them there rather than abandon the two men alone together in the foyer even for the three minutes it would have taken for me to retrieve the two items.

  Marc took the shawl from me and spread it over my shoulders, turning his back to Jack in a clearly dismissive gesture. “I don’t think I had a chance to mention how very beautiful you look this evening, Melanie.”

  I blushed, feeling self-conscious in the direct gaze of two very different but extremely attractive men. “Thank you,” I said and should have stopped there. “I got the dress on sale at RTW on King Street.” I bit my lip thinking of the many times Sophie had suggested we role-play before my dates to make sure I didn’t say anything stupid, which I normally did whenever I was embarrassed or flustered. I made a mental note to take her up on her offer, assuming I ever had another date.

  Marc opened the door and offered his arm to me before leading me outside. “Maybe when I bring you home, you’ll have time to show me around this gorgeous house of yours. Because of the family connection, I’ve always wanted to see what it looked like on the inside.”

  I opened my mouth to reply but was cut off by Jack calling from the doorway, “Good to meet you, Matt.” He tapped his watch. “I’ll wait up—so don’t be too late.”

  I didn’t look back but felt Marc’s arm muscles tense under my hand as he led me through the side entrance and out onto the front walk. As he closed the door behind us, something made me turn toward the old oak tree. The woman was standing next to the still swing, the small boy sitting poised on the wooden slatted seat, clutching the ropes. They were both looking at me, but neither one was smiling.

  I jerked my attention back to Marc and allowed him to lead me to his car parked on the curb, feeling the two sets of eyes on me like points of light in a darkened room until I had disappeared from their sight.

  CHAPTER 13

  I closed the door with a heavy sigh and leaned against it, savoring the food, conversation, and male attention I’d been experiencing for the last three and a half hours. I shut my eyes, still smelling the wine, the crab cakes, and the scent of Marc’s cologne in the cocooned leather interior of his car.

  It had been the perfect evening, but I’d been overrelieved when Marc had declined to come inside for a drink and a nighttime tour of the house and instead accepted my offered rain check. I didn’t think either one of us had the energy to face Jack again.

  After pulling away from the closed door, I set the alarm, then turned off the lights that had been left on for me before wearily climbing the stairs. It was long past my bedtime, and I was beginning to feel it. The sound of television voices and the dim blue glow of light in the hallway brought me to the upstairs drawing room.

  I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene. The drawing room, with its elaborate moldings and Adam fireplace mantel, was an eclectic mix of eighteenth-century antiques and nineteen fifties kitsch. This must have been the room Mr. Vanderhorst used the most as many of the antiques had been sequestered to a corner to make room for a television and its orange metal stand, as well as an overstuffed recliner and an upholstered couch, whose floral design made me place it somewhere circa nineteen fifty-five.

  Being a man with limited exposure to Charleston women excused Mr. Vanderhorst from the unspoken Charleston rule concerning priceless family heirloom furniture: those that have it, use it. The best way to mark a newcomer to the city (anybody whose family wasn’t living here by the Revolution) was his avoidance of using the Chippendale sofa to watch television and eat their frozen dinners.

  A rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger ran across the TV screen, the voices mixed with soft snoring coming from the couch. Jack’s arm was thrown over his head, and he was smi
ling in his sleep, altering his handsome face into that of a little boy and doing something entirely weird to my blood flow.

  Quietly, I moved toward the television and switched it off, then turned to pull a knitted afghan off the recliner to cover Jack in case he got cold. I stood over Jack with the blanket clasped in my hands when I became aware of the drop in temperature and another presence in the room hovering somewhere behind Jack’s head. With dread, I watched as the figure of the young woman slowly materialized in front of me and became not a solid person, but instead more like a reflection in a pool. I could see all of her features clearly, but I could also see what was behind her, and I had the oddest thought that if I stared really hard at her, I could see myself.

  She cupped her hand, then touched the back of her folded fingers against Jack’s temple. I watched his smile broaden as he brought his hand up to his face as if to grasp the hand that was now stroking his skin.

  A tiny droplet of water landed on Jack’s cheek, and for a moment I thought the roof was leaking, until I realized the woman was crying.

  I wanted to leave the room, to deny what I was seeing, but I knew I couldn’t. My mother had told me that I was allowed to walk away, but that wouldn’t mean that I would forget. The woman’s hand now cupped Jack’s cheek and I watched as Jack moved his hand and placed it over hers, holding it close to him. Overwhelming grief surged through me, and I wanted to double over with the pain of it, but I couldn’t. I was mesmerized by what this woman was showing me, and I began to hear her voice.

  I never stopped loving him. I never stopped. The words weren’t spoken aloud; they never were. I heard them in my head, echoing and hollow like a copper penny shaken in a metal cup. Tell him I love him still.

  I shivered, watching as my breath curled around me. The woman had begun to fade, and I reached my hand out to her but felt only empty air. I turned my palm up and caught a tear, the wetness stinging my hand until it simply vanished.