The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  “Apparently not one of Nola’s favorite recording stars,” I said. “Why don’t you turn the radio off? We’re almost there anyway.”

  With a frown in my direction, my mother shut off the radio without question. I wondered if she’d have been so understanding with me at that age, or if all the absent years and the separation of a generation was all that was needed to bridge the mother-daughter abyss. If I ever had children—which was highly doubtful, seeing as how I was thirty-nine and perpetually single—I decided that I’d drop them off on my mother’s doorstep when they reached ten and retrieve them again once they were in their twenties.

  Amelia found garage parking on Meeting Street and then we walked a couple of blocks to Reid Street, where Alluette’s Café was located. The coral-colored restaurant appeared casual yet charming, with a rustic counter bar and a square pass-through behind it to the kitchen, where several people were busily preparing for the lunchtime rush. Above the pass-through was a chalkboard with the day’s specials, along with the words HOLISTIC SOUL FOOD AND VEGANS WELCOME. Despite the warning, the list of specials included fresh local fried shrimp that’s along with the savory scent of cooking food, made my mouth begin to water. Three large glass canisters filled with what appeared to be chocolate-chip cookies sat on the bar. Organic or not, they looked moist and delicious, and I knew I’d be leaving with at least two to tide me over until dinner.

  I turned to see my mother and Amelia greeting a tall, slender blond woman dressed sharply in a navy twill pants outfit with an Hermès scarf knotted around her neck and a younger version of herself standing just inside the doorway.

  My mother motioned for Nola and me to approach. Not sure why I was doing so, I put my arm around Nola’s shoulders and led her forward. I shook hands with both Cecily and Alston Ravenel, then introduced Nola by gently propelling her in front of me. I watched as both Ravenels took in Nola’s boots and choice of clothing, my fists clenching.

  Cecily smiled and reached out her hand to Nola. “You are the spitting image of your father, but I’m sure you’ve heard that.”

  I looked closely at her, trying to judge her age, which I assumed was probably a few years younger than my own, and wondered whether she’d dated Jack. Most of the female population of Charleston seemed at one time or another to have had some sort of relationship with him. My fingernails were now biting into my palms, and I had to force myself to unclench my hands.

  “Your grandmother and Mrs. Middleton have been telling me so much about you that I can’t wait to get to know you better.” Her smile was warm, her words genuine, and I found myself relaxing. She was either an authentic Charleston lady who kept any negative thoughts to herself, or she really was looking forward to getting to know Nola. Or she’d dated Jack and still had fond memories. I felt like mentally slapping myself to get the image out of my head.

  Nola’s smile was guarded as she shook Cecily’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I looked on with surprise, realizing I’d been holding my breath to see how Nola would respond. Obviously, her mama hadn’t forgotten her Southern roots, regardless of how far she’d left them behind.

  Reaching behind her to grab the blond girl’s elbow, Cecily said, “And this is my Alston, who, as I’m sure you’ve already learned, will be starting eighth grade at Ashley Hall this fall.”

  Alston reached out a slender, manicured hand, a pearl bracelet circling her wrist. “Hello,” she said, her voice so soft that I had to lean forward to hear her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  As with her mother, there was nothing underlying her comments, and I looked on closely as Nola took Alston’s hand and shook it. “Likewise,” she said slowly, as if waiting for Alston to pull something out of her Coach bag and hit her on the head with it.

  Alston withdrew her hand. “I like your boots,” she said softly, and I realized two things right then about Alston Ravenel: She was very shy, and she was also very kind. Or, despite her tailored appearance, had really bad taste in clothing.

  “Thanks,” said Nola, taking in Alston’s Lilly Pulitzer skirt, blouse, and pale yellow cardigan tossed over her shoulders. Even the girl’s headband boasted a Lilly print. I was about to pat myself on the back for a successful meet-and-greet when Nola leaned forward. “What kind of name is Alston?”

  I held my breath, waiting for Alston’s answer. She looked surprised, like nobody had asked her that question before. And, I realized, living in Charleston where everybody recognized the name, they probably hadn’t.

  Matter-of-factly, she said, “It’s a family name on my daddy’s side. His great-grandmother was an Alston and I guess he wants everybody to know it. What about Nola? Is that a family name?”

  Nola smirked, and I forced myself to keep my hand by my side instead of clamped over Nola’s mouth. “Nope. It’s a nickname. It stands for New Orleans, Louisiana.”

  Good, I thought. Time to stop there. I watched as the older women began to move away toward our table, hopefully out of earshot.

  “That’s where I was conceived,” Nola continued.

  Cecily looked a little shocked, but Alston threw back her head and let out a decidedly unladylike laugh. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in, like, forever.” We began to move to our table, the two girls following me. In a quieter voice, Alston said to Nola, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m named Alston, because otherwise they might be calling me Four-poster.”

  Nola let out a loud laugh, causing heads to turn, but I didn’t care. It was the first time I’d ever heard her laugh, and I couldn’t wait to tell Jack. As I settled in my chair, I felt the old familiar tingling on the back of my neck. Turning my head slightly so no one else would notice, I stared at the front window, where a woman with a sad face was peering into the restaurant. She wore a flowing skirt and a T-shirt, her blond hair long and parted in the middle like a seventies hippie. She was so solid that I’d started to think she was real. But then somebody on the sidewalk walked right through her and she vanished, leaving only a lingering feeling of despair.

  I turned back to the table and saw Nola watching me closely, and as we ate our meal, I couldn’t help but wonder whether Nola had felt it, too.

  CHAPTER 7

  I backed myself through the front door of Henderson House Realty, balancing my briefcase and my usual breakfast of a latte with extra whipped cream and bag of chocolate-covered doughnuts. I’d worked at Henderson House for over a decade as a Realtor specializing in historic Charleston real estate, despite the fact that I held firmly to the belief that old houses were little more than money-sucking holes in the middle of an otherwise great lot, and usually filled with enough spirits to keep a person up all night. Assuming you were unlucky enough to have been born with the ability to hear them.

  But I was good at what I did, and it paid the bills and kept me in my Louboutins, so I couldn’t complain too much. Except when the spirits of the dead got tired of me ignoring them and decided they needed to get my attention.

  I carefully made my way through the reception area, intent on making it to my office in the back without spilling anything, when I made an abrupt halt. Slowly retracing my steps, I stopped in front of the receptionist’s desk, where the intrepid Nancy Flaherty, receptionist and wannabe golf pro, had sat ever since I’d come to work at Henderson’s. There was her golf ball paperweight, golf club bookends, St. Andrews course mouse pad, and T-shaped paper clips all on her desktop, but no sign of Nancy. Instead, in front of the desk on what appeared to be a bright orange yoga mat, sat an attractive woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with white-blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. She sat in an extremely uncomfortable-looking pose, with her legs crossed and her feet on top of the opposite inner thighs and her hands folded as if in prayer.

  “Namaste,” she said in such a thick Southern accent that I had to think for a long moment before I understood what she’d said.

  “Good morning,” I said hesitantly. “Where’s Nancy?”

  The woma
n unfolded herself from her pose and rose to her full height, which hardly seemed to be much over five feet, if that. “Hi, there,” she said, offering her bejeweled hand. “I’m Charlene Rose, and I’m a friend of Nancy’s. Yesterday we were playing golf and I accidentally pinged her on the head with a badly timed shot. The doctors say she’ll be fine once the stitches come out.”

  “Stitches? Was she hurt badly?”

  “Just three stitches, and I said I’d pay for any plastic surgery if so much as a mark is left on her forehead. But she’s okay. I booked her into the Charleston Place hotel and spa for a week so she can recover.”

  “Great,” I said, staring closely at the woman. “Have we met before?” I asked, still wondering why she was there on a yoga mat in the reception area.

  She brightened. “I was in a movie once with Demi Moore. I was an extra, actually, but I had a speaking part. They cut all of those scenes out, but I was in a crowd scene at the end. Maybe that’s where you saw me.”

  “Maybe,” I said, pausing long enough for her to explain why she was there. And why there was a yoga mat on the floor.

  Her gaze traveled to my latte with the towering dollop of cream and the bakery bag with the grease spots on the bottom. “You must be Melanie Middleton.”

  “Good guess,” I said, realizing that if Nancy had felt well enough to prep Charlene, then she must really be okay.

  Charlene frowned. “That stuff isn’t good for you, you know.”

  Catching myself before I rolled my eyes, I said, “Why are you here? And why are you doing yoga in the reception area?”

  Charlene’s bright smile didn’t dim a single watt. “I like getting up early to exercise, and Nancy promised me that nobody gets here before nine except for you, and that you didn’t mind her chipping practice.” She patted the phone that I noticed had been moved to the edge of the desk. “I made sure I could reach it.”

  I restrained myself from stamping my foot. “But why are you here?”

  “Oh, I guess I should have explained myself. I’m here as a substitute for Nancy while she’s out. She knew I’d be perfect for the job, because she talks about all y’all a lot, so I feel as if we’ve practically known each other for years. And don’t worry about training me. Nancy’s already told me everything and I’m a quick study. Plus, I’ve got Nancy’s number on speed dial in case I run into any trouble.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said slowly as I began to make my way back to my office. “I don’t like . . .”

  “. . . to be disturbed before nine o’clock, because you need this time to organize your day and your calendars, although I can’t see why a person would need more than one. And I’ll be happy to pick up your breakfast on the way in each morning. Maybe something healthier. You’ve got a cute figure now and all, but with what you’re eating and your age, you can’t expect that to go on forever.”

  I gritted my teeth and walked a little faster so I wouldn’t be forced to dump a hot latte on her.

  I was just washing down my last doughnut when my BlackBerry buzzed on my desk. I glanced at the screen and saw Jack’s name and cell phone number. I flipped it over so I wouldn’t be tempted to answer. I needed to separate myself from him, and speaking with him first thing in the morning was a guaranteed way to make me think about him all day. I’d call him back at one minute past noon, so then I’d have the morning free from thoughts of Jack.

  I’d just started my spreadsheet of the day with all of my appointments and bathroom breaks when the office phone on the corner of my desk rang. I hit the speaker button. “Yes, Charlene?”

  “It’s Jack Trenholm on line one.”

  My jaw clenched. “I thought you knew that I don’t take phone calls before nine.”

  “But this is Jack. Nancy said that you always take his calls.”

  I took a calming breath. “No, she’s mistaken. I’d really rather not talk to him at all, but especially not first . . .”

  I looked up to see Jack standing in the doorway of my office. Speaking into his cell phone, he said, “Thank you, Charlene. You don’t need to patch me through. And did I mention how pretty you look in blue?”

  I hit the disconnect button at the same time Jack shoved his phone in a back pocket. He looked better than the last time I’d seen him, and I wondered whether it was because he didn’t have the daily stress of dealing with a teenager to age him. Still, there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite match his usual self-assured Jack-ness.

  Sitting back in my chair, I slid my reading glasses off my desk and into the top drawer. I didn’t think I could take one more reference to my age. “Hello, Jack. Lovely to see you, as always.”

  Without being asked, he came inside and sat down on one of the two comfortable armchairs I had placed in front of my desk for clients. “Likewise. Although I will admit to feeling a little hurt that you’ve been screening my phone calls.”

  “Sorry. But some of us have actual jobs that require us to work.” I scrutinized him, taking in his chin stubble, his wet hair, his slightly rumpled appearance that I found oddly attractive. “And it’s rare to see you awake and mobile at this hour of the morning.”

  “Maybe I never went to sleep.” His eyebrows lifted slightly. I felt a little stir somewhere in the pit of my stomach that I attributed to too much sugar.

  I forced myself not to blink. “You must want something if you’re here instead of in bed.”

  He paused just long enough to make sure that my use of the words “bed” and “you” in the same sentence had not gone unnoticed. “I’m on the way to the airport, but I wanted to stop by and show you something first.”

  “Shouldn’t you save all your personal viewings for the TSA guys?”

  His only response was another quick raise of his eyebrows before he leaned over to the backpack he’d set on the floor beside him. He unzipped the top, then reached inside to retrieve a small object before placing it in the middle of my desk. I stared at the miniature piece of furniture, so exquisite in its detailing that it looked like the full-size version had been miraculously shrunk.

  “What is that?” I asked, resting my chin on the desk so I could examine it more closely.

  “When Chad and I moved the dollhouse to your mother’s, I noticed this miniature sideboard in the dining room. It looked really familiar, so I borrowed it to show my mother, and I was right.”

  “About what?”

  He pointed at the diamond-shaped inlays on the double-tier top of what appeared to be mahogany wood. “This inlay design is characteristic of Robert Walker. He was a cabinetmaker from Scotland who had a shop here in Charleston. His furniture is very rare and valuable now, and my mother had a very similar piece in her store a few years ago.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Meaning that if what we’re assuming is correct—that the house and its contents were modeled after a real home—then the house was mostly likely in Charleston, and might even still be. That should help us find the original owners and find out whether any of them are still hanging on in the miniature version.”

  “So no luck tracing previous owners?”

  “Not much. Following the sales records, all I’ve been able to determine so far is that it’s been all over the South and spent a year at a house in Boston. The dollhouse doesn’t seem to be a favorite with any owner. The longest it’s lasted at the same location is a year and a half.”

  I thought for a moment, remembering the figure of the boy and the broken dog, and could pretty much figure out why nobody wanted to keep the dollhouse for very long. “But if the house it’s modeled on is still here, why wouldn’t Sophie or I recognize it? Between the two of us, we know every single historic house in Charleston, at least by sight. But not this one.”

  “Well, assuming it wasn’t torn down before the Preservation Society got its teeth into the area, it could be disguised. Over the years owners made changes to make a house seem more modern. We’ve seen Greek Revivals
remade into Victorians and vice versa, depending on the current day’s style. Our house could be hiding behind a Georgian pediment, for all we know.” He slid the sideboard toward me. “I’ll let you have this now so you can put it back before Nola sees that it’s missing.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “And speaking of Nola, I learned something interesting this week. We were in the car and that new hit by Jimmy Gordon, ‘I’m Just Getting Started,’ came on the radio, and Nola got pretty upset. Had us change the station even. Said that she’d met him and she didn’t like him.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair. “Did she say anything more? Like how she’d met him?”

  “No, actually. She made it very clear that it was a subject she didn’t want to pursue.”

  He tapped his fingers against the desktop. “She and I need to spend more time together. Maybe while I’m gone you can think of something that a father and daughter could do together that would be fun.”

  I didn’t think it would be helpful to point out to him that I had no frame of reference for that sort of thing. My childhood with my father consisted of me trying to keep him sober, or making sure he at least appeared that way.

  Jack continued to look at me, but I could tell that he wasn’t really seeing me, and I wondered whether he was thinking about Bonnie. Finally, he said, “In the meantime, I’ll do a little checking on Jimmy Gordon. Could be he and Nola met through Bonnie, since she was a songwriter. Would make sense, I guess. It’s worth checking out, anyway. Anything to get through to Nola would be a help at this point, since nothing else is working.”

  His voice sounded full of defeat. I didn’t want to, but I found myself feeling sorry for him. “How long will you be gone?” I asked gently.

  His eyes brightened, and I could tell that the old Jack was back. “Why? Are you planning on missing me?”

  I sighed, all sympathy vanished. “No. I just wanted to know whether I should be the one to check back with your mother about the piece of furniture. If you’re off somewhere having fun, I wasn’t sure you’d remember to call.”