by Karen White
With a patient smile, Yvonne slid a photocopied clipping from the stack inside the folder. A grainy and yellowed photograph of a young man with blond hair and a slender build circa the mid-thirties stared out of the photograph. I felt Nola lean across the table. “That’s him, Mellie. That’s the boy doll.”
I nodded, half with acknowledgment and half with relief that it wasn’t the face I’d seen in the window. I turned to Yvonne to explain. “Amelia Trenholm, Jack’s mother, gave Nola a dollhouse and it appears to have been made for and given to Julia Manigault for her birthday when she was ten. It’s an exact replica of the house on Montagu Street, and came with dolls resembling family members, including the family dog.”
Her brow puckered. “A dollhouse? That doesn’t sound right.” She pulled the folder closer to her and began paging through it, finally pulling several pages out and sliding them in front of me. “Julia Manigault was an avid equestrian. She competed against boys her age in boys-only events and usually won. She was also an expert marksman and accompanied her uncle and cousins on hunts, even at an early age.”
I visually scanned the pages, examining the numerous pictures of a younger Julia astride a horse or holding a shotgun or a dead bird, and some of all three. I looked up and met Yvonne’s eyes. “She was a tomboy.”
“Exactly. There’s even an article in there about how she wasn’t allowed to make her debut at St. Cecilia’s because she’d been seen wearing trousers in public. Apparently, young Julia was raised at her uncle’s plantation with his five sons. Her mother was what they used to term ‘delicate,’ which now probably would just mean she needed a little Valium to cope with life. Julia wasn’t brought back to Charleston until she was about ten.”
“So why would her father have given her a dollhouse if that’s obviously not where her interests lie?”
Nola interrupted with a heavy sigh meant to convey, I was sure, our apparent lack of mental acuity. “To help her be more like a girl. Duh. I mean, he already had a son, right? So he wanted his daughter to be a real girl and do girl things.” Nola raised her eyes briefly, then returned to flying her fingers across the screen of her iPhone. She shook her head. “Jack says he’s glad I’m not too girly-girly, like that Rebecca chick. Says that if he had to go to a store and pick out a girl to be his daughter, he’d still pick me.” She snorted. “As if.”
I regarded Nola for a moment, wondering whether she realized what she’d just said, realized that Jack was glad she was his no matter what. That even if she’d yet to come to terms with the fact that she had a father and that he wanted her in his life, he’d reached that conclusion long ago.
I focused again on the papers in front of me and swallowed a lump in my throat. “What did you find out about William? I accidentally came across the Manigault mausoleum at the Circular Church cemetery and he’s not listed on the plaque—just his parents, and there’s a spot for Julia. Jack said the paper trail for William vanishes completely in 1938.”
Yvonne nodded. “There’s actually quite a bit prior to 1938. He studied engineering at Clemson, but there’s no record of him graduating. He apparently dropped out of school in his fourth year, but there’s simply nothing else to tell us what he did afterward.”
“Julia said that he and her father argued and William left. She never heard from him again.”
“Not a word? Ever?”
I shook my head. “I suppose it’s possible to completely cut off your own family, but the fact that he was never seen again or never left any clues as to where he might have gone makes it highly suspicious.”
Without bothering to look up from her phone, Nola said, “My mother moved to California and her family never heard from her again.”
“Yes,” said Yvonne. “Things like that happen all the time. But to have no bank accounts or mortgage or will or a grave site just makes it all so suspicious. Your mother at least had you as her connection with her past.”
Nola just sighed and continued texting.
“I don’t think Harold Manigault was a nice man,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he had something to do with William’s vanishing act.”
Yvonne regarded me with raised eyebrows, as if expecting me to explain how I might have known that about Harold. Clearing my throat, I said, “Julia must have told me something to give me that impression.”
“Mm-hm” was all she said as she pulled out another folder and began rifling through the pages. “There was one other thing that I thought you might find interesting. Remember I mentioned that Harold Manigault made some of his money from investing in property? At one point he owned almost one thousand acres in Georgetown County, including his family’s old home and what was left of the plantation—he apparently got it from his brother in exchange for settling some pretty hefty debts his brother had accumulated. As you can imagine, the land is quite valuable now, and developers have been chomping at the bit for years to build on it. And very recently, it appears they’re going to get their chance.”
“And the land has been in the family that whole time?” I asked.
“Yes. Prime real estate on the river just sitting there. Seems Miss Julia liked the offer a developer made to her, and they’re scheduled to start clearing the land as soon as all the permits go through. Lots of ruckus in the papers lately from the preservationists and green people. I’m sure you’ve read all about it in the paper.”
I smiled, too embarrassed to admit that the only newspaper reading I ever did was the real estate ads. “I, uh, must have missed that.”
“Yes, well, Cobb Homebuilders is planning a multiuse development of the land. One of those all-inclusive neighborhoods with shops and entertainment as well as residential areas. The whole purpose is for people to walk everywhere instead of drive. Sort of how all American towns started out, if you ask me.” She fluttered her hands in front of her face as if to clear the air. “Anyway, the sale is pending, as there has been a slew of lawsuits filed on behalf of the various environmental groups. The National Trust is involved, too, because of an overseer’s cottage still on the property. The main house was destroyed by fire back in the thirties, but the preservation people seem to think there’s some historical significance in the cottage. Regardless, the Cobb people seem very confident that they’ll win, considering they’re already working on the permitting process.”
“I wonder why Julia would sell now, after all this time?”
Yvonne folded her hands neatly on top of the table. “To put it bluntly, I suspect she needs the money. I don’t know her all that well, just through mutual acquaintances, really, but she’s been retired for a long time. She’d have her retirement pension and all of that, but I’ve passed by her house enough times to know that it’s falling apart. Keeping that old house in one piece must be sending her to the poorhouse.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Welcome to my world. And if her inheritance money has run out or she made a few bad investments, and she’s existing solely on her pension, I could see why she’d need the money.”
“And, unfortunately, she’s the last of her line. Of her five boy cousins, only one married and they had no children, so there are no relatives to ask for help. No children to support her in her old age. It must be a very lonely and sad existence. I’m so thankful for my children and grandchildren, you have no idea.”
I had a sudden vision of an older and crinkled me sitting in my crumbling house on Tradd Street with no children to comfort me in my dotage. I’d have cats, lots of them, and I’d scare any child brave enough to ring my doorbell on Halloween. I’d hire somebody like Dee Davenport to feed me soft food and change my diapers. I shuddered. “What did you find out about her fiancé? Jonathan was his first name, but I don’t know his last.”
She smiled a smile that could be called patronizing on anybody else, but on Yvonne it was just simply her all-knowing, confident smile that I’d come to rely on. She stood and moved back to the box and pulled out another folder. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d want
any of this, so I put it all in a separate folder just in case. It’s birth, wedding, and death announcements regarding the family. There’s an engagement notice you might be interested in.”
She opened the folder and plucked something out of it before sliding it toward me. It was a photocopy of a sepia-toned photograph of a man and a woman. The woman, with gleaming dark hair piled high on her head, sat in a large leather-covered armchair, a tall and willowy dark-haired man standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder. The young woman wore a loose-fitting dress indicative of the nineteen thirties. Her left hand, folded demurely on top of the other and resting on her knee, held a large ring with a dark stone that could have been a sapphire. I wouldn’t have called her beautiful, but she was pretty, with pale skin and bright, clear eyes. Her smile, however, transformed her face in such a way that it was hard to look away, or even to understand that this was the same dour Julia Manigault that I knew.
The man, however, was handsome—some might call him beautiful—by anybody’s definition. With strong, chiseled features and dark eyes, he could easily be featured today in an Abercrombie ad. Or maybe Brooks Brothers. He was almost too refined for the beefy Abercrombie models. He was smiling softly, showing no teeth and reminding me a little of the Mona Lisa’s mysterious smile. I held the photo closer, wondering why it looked like he was holding on to a secret.
The caption below the photo read:
Miss Julia Drayton Manigault, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Manigault of Montagu Street, Charleston, is engaged to be united in holy matrimony to Mr. Jonathan Crisler Watts of Georgetown. Nuptials will be held Saturday, August twelfth, at St. Mary’s Catholic Church.
I looked up. “What happened to Jonathan?”
As if she’d already anticipated my question, she handed me another photocopied page. Glancing down, I saw it was a death announcement. I squinted, yet again chastising myself for not bringing my glasses that would have made reading the tiny print of the small clipping possible.
“Should I?” Yvonne asked, holding out her hand.
Settling the glasses that hung around her neck on her nose, she cleared her throat, then read: “‘Jonathan C. Watts, aged twenty-two years and three months, succumbed to influenza after a short illness at his parents’ home in Georgetown on Thursday evening. Survivors include his father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Crisler Watts, and a brother, Henry A. Watts of Murrells Inlet. A viewing will take place . . .’”
She stopped. “You probably don’t need me to read any of the details of the funeral, but you might find the date of his death interesting.” After pausing for dramatic effect, she said, “July twenty-ninth, 1938.”
I raised both eyebrows. “Poor Julia. The same year that William disappeared, and both parents died the following year. To lose all four in such quick succession must have been devastating.” There’s no such thing as coincidence. I thought of Jack’s words, wondering whether in this case it was simply a horrible and unfortunate coincidence.
“Mellie?” Nola interrupted my musings.
I speared her with a look that would have made my mother proud.
“I mean, excuse me, Mellie?”
“Yes, Nola?”
“Jack just texted me and wanted to know where I was.”
I looked at my watch, surprised to see that we were running late. I quickly stuck the papers back into the folders and slid them into my large handbag. “Thank you so much, Yvonne. As always, you’ve been amazing. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
“You’re more than welcome. You know I love working on these little mysteries for you and Jack. Keep me posted if you find out anything more, and I’ll do the same.”
Nola stood, too, and without prompting said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Craig.”
“And you, too, Nola.” She studied Nola’s iPhone for a moment. “Can I text something to your father really quick?”
With a confused glance in my direction, Nola handed Yvonne her phone. “Sure.”
We watched as Yvonne slowly and deliberately pressed each key as she typed her text.
“It would be faster if you’d tell me what you wanted to say and let me do the texting,” Nola offered hopefully.
“No need,” Yvonne said, before typing a few last characters and handing the phone back to Nola. “I don’t know how to send on your phone, so I’ll let you do it. We have pretty bad reception in here, so you might want to wait until you get outside to send it.”
We said our good-byes, then made our exit. Nola paused on the sidewalk outside the building and stared at the screen on her phone, her eyes wide. Without a word, she turned it so I could read the screen. Squinting, I scanned the words before meeting Nola’s eyes.
C u later, hottie. Come up and c me sometime.
“Should I send it?”
“Absolutely. It might make his day. Just make sure he knows it’s from Yvonne.”
She typed something, then hit the “send” button before bursting out laughing. I joined her, hoping that at the very least it would put Jack in a better mood than when I’d last seen him.
When the elevator opened on Jack’s floor, the door to his loft was open. I knocked firmly on the door. “Jack? Are you decent? It’s Mellie and Nola.”
“Come in.” His voice came from somewhere in the back.
We pushed open the door and entered the apartment, the smell of bleach and Windex wafting heavily throughout. Beautiful antiques, from seventeenth-century French to art deco, blended seamlessly with the stainless steel and black granite of the kitchen, the contemporary light fixtures and redbrick walls of the interior adding a sedate backdrop. I knew Jack’s impeccable sense of style had a lot to do with growing up in his parents’ antique store, but his ability to pull it all together was definitely a talent. I might have even found him a little more attractive because of it, but all of his other annoying traits really helped to level the playing field.
“I’m back here,” Jack called.
We followed the sound of his voice to the back bedroom, done in black and chrome, with an amazing chinoiserie armoire converted to an entertainment unit dominating the wall opposite the large king-size bed. I’d never been this far into Jack’s apartment before, and was grateful that Nola was with me. Fortunately, the bed was made, and no dirty laundry littered the floor. And no bras, either. I’d experienced that once already and was in no mood for a replay.
Actually, I realized, there was very little clutter anywhere. In past visits, there’d always been newspapers and magazines, clothes and dishes scattered just about on every surface. The apartment now was spotless.
Jack appeared in the doorway to the connecting master bathroom wearing a white crewneck undershirt and torn jeans. My throat closed a little bit until I registered that he was wearing yellow rubber gloves and holding a spray bottle of foaming bathroom cleanser.
“Are we interrupting something?” I ventured.
He waited to smile until he faced Nola. “No, not at all. Just keeping busy until Nola got here.”
I looked past him to the gleaming chrome and marble of the two-sink vanity, happily devoid of toiletries of both the male and female variety. “Don’t you have a cleaning service?”
“Yes, but sometimes I just get the urge to clean a little more deeply than a weekly cleaning, you know?” His smile faded as he turned back to me. “Why are you here?”
I hid my face by digging into my purse, embarrassed at how hurt his tone of voice made me feel. I pulled out his car keys. “I wanted to give these back to you.”
“You could have just given them to Nola.”
“My mom used to do that, too,” Nola said quietly.
We both turned to her. “Do what?” I asked.
“Clean everything. When she was trying to get better, she would go on this wild cleaning kick. Said it kept her mind off of things and kept her hands too busy to . . .” Her voice trailed off.
My eyes met Jack’s as if we were both recalling my unans
wered question. Are you drinking again? I was pretty sure now that he wasn’t, although I’d asked my dad to keep tabs on Jack to be sure. Just to let Jack know that he wasn’t alone in fighting his demons. A part of me wished I could be that person, but his own unanswered question opened up too many parameters for me to be able to fit into that role. Would you sleep with me if I said it would make me feel better? I blushed at the memory, but didn’t look away.
“Nola and I have a full afternoon planned, so is there anything else you need?”
I’d thought that by my coming over we could work things out between us. That we could apologize—for what, I wasn’t sure—and then get on with whatever we had going on before that little scene on the Battery. Like a child not ready to leave a candy store, I blurted out, “Actually, there is one more thing. My mother mentioned that you hadn’t RSVP’d to my birthday party yet, and I just wanted to make sure that you’d received the invitation.” I cringed, having had no idea that I was going to say that. Not only was asking somebody about an RSVP bad manners, but I really didn’t want him to know that I’d noticed or cared.
I thought I saw his lip twitch, but other than that his face was immobile. “I got it.”
“Great.” I smiled, wishing he’d say something else, like, Of course I’m coming, but instead he remained silent—probably because he knew I was waiting for it.
Feeling like an idiot who didn’t know when to come in from the rain, I pressed on. “Because Rebecca got one, too, and RSVP’d that two people were coming, but just in case I wanted you to know that you’re invited, too, with or without Rebecca. Because she’s my cousin, so of course she’s invited, but you, well, we’re old friends, so you should come, too. With or without Rebecca. So that’s why I sent you your own invitation. Because we’re friends. And there will be lots of really good food. Callie White is catering, and you know she’s the best. My mother had to practically sell her soul to get her booked, because you know that everybody wants her to do their parties now.”