by White, Karen
“Morning, Ruth.”
Ruth smiled, showing off a gold front tooth highlighted by her café au lait skin. “One of these days, Miss Melanie, I’m going to make you a healthy breakfast. You just need to give me more than two minutes, you hear?”
I put the money on the counter and picked up my bag. Smiling, I said, “I don’t have more than two minutes or I’d let you.” I grabbed my latte, licking the whipped cream off the top as I backed up toward the door.
“You’re just skin and bones, missy. That ain’t right, considering what you eat. You need some greens and some fruit. A bit of meat and eggs to fatten you up right.”
“Maybe next time,” I said as I pushed open the door. “Have a good one.”
The law offices were several blocks away on King Street, but I had decided to walk them to clear my head and prepare myself for whatever was in store. I headed north, past the modern parking garage and office building in the first block—two buildings I’d heard described as “brutalistic” and “bleak,” respectively, by a good number of Charlestonians. Despite a small nagging tug in the back of my brain, I refused to see anything except functionality and a good use of space.
As was my habit, I avoided looking at the historic buildings along King Street, arranged neatly in what has been called “the handsomest shopping street in America.” Yes, I supposed the buildings were beautiful in their own antique, money-sucking way, but it was what I saw sometimes peering out at me from old shop windows that kept my eyes focused straight ahead. It was the same with hospitals. I had to wear earphones just to block out the sounds of the voices from people only I could see.
As I walked past a narrow piazza with stairs leading up to what was once the residential part of the building when it was used as a shop, a pale young girl stood on the bottom step, almost hidden by the climbing hibiscus that clung doggedly to the peeling paint. I had almost walked past her before I realized that her skin was nearly translucent and that her clothes were from another century. By the time I turned back, she was gone, only the slight sway of a large red hibiscus bloom to tell anybody of the girl’s presence.
Focusing once again on the sidewalk in front of me, I passed the new Judicial Center—recalling the furor that had surrounded its architectural conception—and found the law offices of Drayton, Drayton, and Drayton in the next block. Since it was a Saturday, the grand reception desk in the front foyer sat vacant. I stood there, wondering what to do when large double doors off to the side of the reception area opened and an egg-domed head popped out. The middle-aged man was frowning as he caught sight of me and I felt the two doughnuts and large latte roll over in my stomach.
“Ms. Middleton?” He stuck out a well-manicured hand and we shook. “I’m Jonathan Drayton. Thank you for coming. Please come in.”
Giving my mouth a surreptitious wipe in case there were any lingering powdered sugar remnants, I followed Mr. Drayton into the conference room.
There were several people sitting around the table, most of whom appeared to be office support staff. I recognized the eldest Mr. Drayton from previous business dealings near the head of the table. He sent me a tight smile before standing.
“Ms. Middleton, so good to see you again. Won’t you sit down?” He indicated the chair at the head of the table.
Hesitantly, I approached, suddenly wary of my presence there and why I would be sitting at the head of the table. Was all this excitement about me obtaining the listing for the old house on Tradd Street? I sat down, crossed my legs at the ankles, and folded my hands in my lap. I pressed down hard on my hands to keep my legs from doing their normal impatient jiggle.
Mr. Drayton sat again while Jonathan Drayton sat down across from him. The room fell silent, and I began to have a very bad feeling.
Mr. Drayton spoke first. “Ms. Middleton, I apologize for bringing you in here on a Saturday. But this situation is highly . . . irregular, and I didn’t think it in anybody’s best interests to wait until Monday.”
“This situation?” I clamped down hard on my teeth to keep them from chattering.
“Yes. You see, Mr. Vanderhorst, God rest his soul, was not only an old client of this firm—he was also a dear friend.”
I looked back at him without speaking, not comprehending at all and trying hard not to look like a deer caught in the headlights.
Mr. Drayton cleared his throat and spoke again. “I understand that you went to see Mr. Vanderhorst two days ago to discuss listing Mr. Vanderhorst’s house—is that correct?”
I nodded, feeling like a child sitting at her father’s kitchen table and getting ready to be scolded.
“Did he give you any indication that he was willing to sell his house?”
“To be honest, I don’t think the thought ever crossed his mind. I had no idea why he even brought me out there. I figured he was just lonely and wanted company.” I looked down at my hands, remembering the china plate and how it had belonged to his mother. “He seemed to be a really nice man.”
“Do you remember what you did talk about?”
I thought about the woman with the swing in the garden and how Mr. Vanderhorst had known she was there, too. I said, “He mentioned that his father and my grandfather were close friends and had attended Harvard Law School together. I believe he also mentioned that my grandfather had been the best man at his father’s wedding.”
Both men suddenly glanced at each other as if in understanding. I uncrossed my ankles and raised my hands to clutch the sides of the conference table. “What’s this about? Did he decide to give me the listing anyway?”
Jonathan Drayton spoke this time. “Do you like old houses, Melanie?”
The second time in two days somebody has asked me that. I felt a bubble of laughter form at the back of my throat, but I clamped it down, afraid it would turn into a primal scream. “No. Actually, no. To be honest, I’ve always thought they were a huge waste of money and space.”
Mr. Drayton leaned toward me. “But didn’t your mother grow up in the Prioleau house on Legare Street?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“And didn’t she sell it after your grandmother died and after your mother left your father?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Didn’t that cause resentment in you? That you had somehow missed out on your entitlement?”
“Entitlement? What . . . ?” I stood, my chair scraping the carpet, suddenly feeling as if I’d been transported into some kind of fun house of mirrors. “What is going on here? I have no idea why getting this listing has anything to do with my mother or her house.”
Mr. Drayton plastered what I assumed was supposed to be a calming smile on his face. “I’m sorry, Ms. Middleton. Please sit down. I do apologize for what must seem like the third degree, but I’m still in shock at the sudden passing of my friend, and I do want to make sure everything is clear. After you hear the reason why we brought you in this morning, you’ll understand why we wanted to make sure that there was no coercion on your part.”
“Coercion?” I nearly laughed. “Despite my reputation in the business, I’m not in the habit of twisting the arms of potential clients, especially the elderly, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I glowered at him as I lowered myself into my seat again and looked at the two men expectantly. “So, do I have the listing?”
There was some throat clearing and glances between the two men before Jonathan Drayton spoke. “Not exactly. It would appear that Mr. Vanderhorst has left his house and entire estate to you.”
I leaned forward, sure that if I listened closely enough I could hear the theme from The Twilight Zone being piped into the suddenly claustrophobic office. “No.”
“Actually, yes.”
“This is a mistake. He wasn’t in his right mind or something.”
Mr. Drayton leaned toward me. “No, there’s no mistake. I personally oversaw the writing of Mr. Vanderhorst’s will shortly after you left him Thursday morning. He was perfectly sane.” He glanced over at his son
for a moment before concentrating again on me. “Well, except for the fact that he said that his mother would approve. And, to be honest, I fully expected to visit the following week to get him to change his mind. As I mentioned, all of this is highly irregular.”
I rubbed my temple, which had begun to throb. “His relatives will contest the will.”
“He doesn’t have any.”
“Find some.”
The two Draytons stood in unison. Jonathan stepped forward. “Ms. Middleton, I know this is a bit of a shock—it was to us, too—but Mr. Vanderhorst was adamant that his property should go to you.”
Mr. Drayton slid a sealed envelope across the table towards me. I saw my name scribbled across the top complete with my middle initial “P”—just like on the business card I’d given Mr. Vanderhorst.
“Ms. Middleton, Mr. Vanderhorst suspected you might need some sort of explanation, so he gave me this letter for you to be handed over in the event of his death. I just didn’t expect for it to happen so soon.”
I stared at the letter for a long time before sliding it toward me across the polished surface of the mahogany table and picking it up. I held it in my hands, feeling the heavy crisp linen stationery, but didn’t open it.
Looking up at the two men, I said, “I don’t want this. There’s nothing in this letter that could possibly change my mind.”
“Melanie—may I call you Melanie? You’re just in a state of shock right now. Once you have a chance to examine the house more closely, you’ll realize what a treasure you’ve inherited.” Mr. Drayton gave me what probably passed for a warm smile to him.
“Mr. Drayton, I’ve seen the house. It’s a dump. I’d just as soon send in a wrecking ball and end its misery.”
Mr. Drayton looked alarmed. “Oh, no, Ms. Middleton. You can’t do that. The entire historic district is protected.”
“But it’s barely habitable! I’d have to start panhandling in the hopes of not starving to death after I’ve paid to make the house safe enough to sell.”
Mr. Drayton cleared his throat. “Actually, money shouldn’t be an issue. Mr. Vanderhorst is, er, was a wealthy man. Not having any family, he had no use for it except to save it.”
I felt a glimmer of hope. “So I can just abandon it until it falls down and move somewhere else to live in luxury?”
Mr. Drayton cleared his throat again, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Um, not exactly. You see, Mr. Vanderhorst established a trust to ensure that money is spent on the restoration of the house. You will, of course, be able to draw an amount for living expenses as long as you live in the house. The exact amount will be left to the discretion of the trustee. The trust will remain in effect until your death.”
I blinked hard, trying to stop my mind from spinning. “How about selling it as is? I’d have to list it way under market because of its condition, but there are lots of crazy people out there who would jump at the chance.”
“Actually, you could,” said Mr. Drayton. “Except a stipulation in the will states that before you’re allowed to put it on the market, you have to have lived in the house for the period of one year. Ditto for all the furnishings inside the house.”
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “So, what you’re basically saying is that I’m screwed.” I stared down at the envelope in my hand and thought hard. “Could I just refuse it all and walk away?”
“I suppose that’s your prerogative.” Mr. Drayton leaned forward and tapped the envelope in my hand. “But read this before you make any decisions. I don’t think Mr. Vanderhorst made his decision lightly. This house was the child he never had, and he’s left it in your care.”
I gripped the envelope tightly, remembering Mr. Vanderhorst standing in front of the growth chart marked on the drawing room wall. MBG. My best guy. Standing again, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “I need to be alone for a while. I’ll let you know what I decide by Tuesday.”
“You can take longer, Melanie.”
“No. I don’t want this hanging over my head any longer than it needs to. I’ll let you know by Tuesday.”
I didn’t wait to hear their response. I’d already fled from the room and was running down the outside steps before I even realized where I was heading.
When I rounded the corner onto Tradd Street, I heard the sound of the swing again. A brewing storm whipped dirt across the sidewalk and around my ankles, making me shiver despite the heat. I noticed the cracked blue-and-white tiles in the sidewalk in front of the gate, 55 Tradd.
I looked up at the darkening sky as I pushed open the gate, making my way quickly to the piazza and to the peeling white wicker rocker I’d spotted on my first visit to the house. I’d never been a porch sitter, could even think of about ten derogatory terms I’d probably called porch sitters in the last year, but I suddenly felt compelled to sit there now and read my letter from the dead.
My dear Miss Middleton,
I know you must be reading this with some shock. I apologize for this, but do know that I don’t doubt for one moment that I made the right decision. This house is meant for you.
I hope you are sitting someplace calm while you read this—perhaps a chair on the piazza. During the hour of our acquaintance, you didn’t strike me as the patient sort. Your crossed leg was always twitching, and while it could be as a result of the sugar you consumed, I somehow didn’t think that was it. As the old adage says: you should stop to smell the roses every once in a while. And your new house has some beautiful roses.
I am leaving you this house as a father would leave his child in the care of a guardian. One can’t really own a house such as this; we are only asked to be caretakers for the next generation. I saw you looking in dismay at the restoration work needed. I have not had the energy or the good health these last years to see to it myself. But I do have the funds, as I’m sure Mr. Drayton has explained to you, to restore this house to the way I remember it growing up here as a child.
Before you reach any conclusions, you should know something of the history of this house. Yankee officers were quartered here after the fall of Charleston during the Civil War. You can still see their saber marks on the banister in the front hallway. The house was also used as a hospital during several of the yellow fever epidemics that swept through the city in the 1800s. The Vanderhorst women were too strong to succumb, and nursed strangers and dressed the dead for burial in the front foyer. They sent men off to war and kept food on the table long after money ran out. They camped out on the front porch during hurricanes and after the earthquake of 1886, armed with whatever they could find to protect what was theirs for their family. They were like the foundations of this house—too strong to be swayed by little matters such as war, pestilence, and ruin.
You are like them, you know, whether you realize it or not. I think this is why my mother approves of you being the new mistress of the house. You remind me of her a great deal. She was a beauty, too, but never relied on her looks and instead used her keen mind to get her way while never allowing her opponent to know that the fight was over before it started. There is an unease in you, too, which I sensed. You remind me of an anchor searching for a spot to latch on to. We all must have roots, Melanie, or we are like the weeds in the garden easily plucked and discarded. Unlike the rosebush, which clings to the soil and lasts for generations.
My mother loved this house almost as much as she loved me. There are others who disagree, of course, because she deserted us both 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 know this doesn’t sit easily on your shoulders, and must feel like more of a burden now than a gift. But one must be patient, dear, for all good things will be revealed to she who waits.
God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you.
Nevin Vanderhorst
I looked up from the let
ter, aware again of the sound of the rope swing. I stood and slowly walked down the steps to where I could peer around the overgrown hibiscus and into the garden.
The woman was there again, pushing the swing, except this time the swing wasn’t empty. Holding tightly to the rope arms sat a small boy, his mouth open in laughter, the sound like soft air brushing against my cheeks.
A hot, prickling sensation on the back of my neck made me tilt my head upward toward an upstairs window. I could detect a dark shadow behind the uneven glass, with penetrating eyes staring down at me. I could barely breathe, the malevolence of the presence in the window seeming to suck the oxygen out of the air.
Backing away, I turned toward the gate and let myself out. I kept my head down as the sky opened up and rain began to darken the sidewalk in front of me.
CHAPTER 3
I stayed up all night downloading music into the iPod I’d received for Christmas and that was still in the box seven months later. The gift was from Sophie Wallen, latent hippie wannabe and professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston and, inexplicably, my best friend. We’d met when a colleague suggested I consult with Sophie regarding the restoration project of a client’s home I was trying to sell in the historic Harleston Village neighborhood. At the time, she wouldn’t even speak with me until she’d been allowed to read my tarot cards and forced me to sit in the lotus yoga position on the floor of her office while she meditated and I kept stealing glances at my watch.
Afterward, she took me to Ruth’s Bakery and bought me the biggest piece of chocolate torte in the bakery case while she told me that I was borderline obsessive-compulsive, way too repressed as a result of my military upbringing with my father, and apparently I wasn’t getting enough sex because I was as uptight as a department store mannequin. But, she’d said, she thought we could work together. We’ve been close ever since.