The Girl On Legare Street (10 page)

“What appointment?”

“To see the house, obviously. Please don’t tell me that we just drove two hours to get here and we might not even be able to get in the house.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asked, watching the rain drum against the windshield and judging the distance between the car and the house.

“It’s not adventure I hate, it’s wasting my time.” I tried to hoist the bucket of potatoes to free my legs but couldn’t position myself to do it.

“Allow me,” said Jack, and he leaned forward to lift it, apparently taking his time and readjusting his grip several times before finally succeeding in dislodging it from its prison between my legs and balancing it on the console. “I’m going to race to the door and knock on it. If everything’s fine, I’ll motion for you to follow.” He handed me the bucket. “Stick this on the seat when I leave.”

I kept my ideas of where I’d like to stick it quiet and watched as he ran up to the door. It was painted black and large gaslight lanterns on either side of the door were lit, piercing the gloom. I watched as Jack knocked twice and then waited before the door slowly opened and an older man, with a stocky build, ruddy complexion, and wearing a hunter’s flannel shirt, peered out at Jack through thick glasses.

They spoke for a moment and instead of Jack motioning for me to come, he followed the man inside, closing the door behind them. Annoyed beyond belief, I wrapped my coat around me, then threw open the car door and began running to the porch. Unfortunately, my legs were more cramped from holding the bucket in place than I had thought and my motor coordination—never very good at the best of times—failed me completely and I tripped, landing in a deep puddle that seemed to have been recently carved by a large truck wheel. My shins, what was left of them, stung in the icy water. I blinked heavily, my eyes tingling with pain, as more icy rivulets wound their way inside my coat, soaking my dress through to my skin.

The rain seemed to stop suddenly, but I could still hear it thumping against something hard. I opened my eyes to find Jack standing over me with a blue-and-white-striped golf umbrella, waterfalls of water spilling around the edges like a jester’s hat.

“What are you doing?” he asked calmly.

I was still on my hands and knees. I looked up in annoyance. “I’m studying the effects of raindrops on puddles.” I lifted a hand and he hauled me to a standing position. “You were supposed to motion for me to follow you.”

He squinted at my drowned-rat appearance. “I thought borrowing an umbrella and coming to get you would be a better idea.”

My teeth were chattering now and all I could do was nod. With one arm around my shoulders and the other holding the umbrella, he steered me toward the house. “I’m sure Mr. McGowan will give you a towel. Or two,” he added after giving me a second glance.

The older man, presumably Mr. McGowan, held the front door open for us. Jack tossed the umbrella onto the porch floor and ushered me inside. I stood on a braided wool rug, shivering as Jack made the introductions, but I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to hear past the sound of water dripping off me and onto the wood floors. It was just a whisper, unintelligible, but with a certain urgency I recognized. I closed my eyes to hear better and a shudder tripped through me as the voice crept closer and whispered in my ear.
Melanie.

My eyes flew open to find Jack and Mr. McGowan staring at me expectantly. The top of an old sea captain’s chest that was used as a bench in the foyer was opened, revealing stacks of neatly folded blankets and towels. “Yes, thank you,” I said, hoping I’d guessed correctly at the question. Jack poked me in the back. “Nice to meet you,” I added hastily.

Mr. McGowan ambled to the chest and pulled out a large beach towel. “We always keep these handy for the grandkids. They love to go playing in the creek out back.” He pronounced it “crick” and I tried to smile, but it stopped midway when I became aware of the sudden and pungent odor of rotting fish.

I tried to tell Jack as he helped me out of my sodden coat and placed the towel around my shoulders, but my teeth were clenched too tightly together to keep from chattering—and not all of it because of the cold.

I slipped out of my waterlogged and now completely ruined pumps and was led into a warm living area furnished with antique farmhouse furniture in yellowed pine and scuffed oak. Soft checkered rugs anchored the comfortable sitting area that surrounded a crackling fireplace. I would have felt more relaxed if I didn’t feel someone watching me from behind, close enough that I could feel the cold breath on my neck.
I am stronger than you
, I whispered to myself, and Jack looked at me oddly.

Jack turned to our host. “It’s very nice of you to let us in to see the painting, Mr. McGowan. We don’t mean to put you out.”

Mr. McGowan waved his hand dismissively. “I love getting visitors. With my wife gone to visit her sister in Atlanta, I was feeling lonely.” He winked. “Plus I hate drinking alone.” He opened an armoire on the far side of the room, with shelves of glasses and bottles crammed inside. “I converted this myself to give me a little ‘man space.’ ” He winked again, but this time it was directed at Jack. He held up a bottle of brandy. “It’s a little early, but I figure the lady here could use a bit to warm up.”

“Not for me, thanks. I’m driving,” said Jack. “But I’m sure Mellie would like some. She’s shaking like a mouse at a cat convention.”

I scowled at him before turning to Mr. McGowan. Forcing my mouth open, I said, “I don’t drink hard liquor, but thank you.” I felt a little sanctimonious saying that, knowing that although I was the daughter of an alcoholic, Jack had been in the trenches himself.

Mr. McGowan pulled two glasses from the cabinet and began pouring. “This is the best thing for you when you’re as cold as you appear to be.Trust me. Just a few sips and you’ll feel as if you’re sunbathing on a beach.”

I was cold inside my bones, and my extremities were gradually growing numb. With an encouraging nod from Jack, I said, “All right. Just a little, please.”

He poured a generous portion into two double old-fashioned glasses and handed one to me. “Thank you,” I said, trying to hold the glass steady so its contents wouldn’t slosh up over the sides. I took a healthy sip, nearly gagging as the heat trickled down my throat and filled my nose with steam. I coughed, my eyes watering, but it did the trick. Immediately, I felt my core begin to thaw and greedily took another sip to hurry along the process. I couldn’t fight the presence that seemed to be hovering over me if I was frozen solid.

“Can we see the painting?” I asked, moving forward, and somehow missed a step. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t see where to put my foot on the floor; it was more like the floor wasn’t staying where it should be.

Mr. McGowan topped off my glass before leading us into the dining room. The smell of rotten fish was stronger in there, and I took another deep sip of my brandy to fortify myself. I was already feeling warmer and more confident, and only a little bit shaky on my feet. I looked up at Jack to see if he’d noticed anything, but he was focused on the painting between the two front windows.

This portrait, while obviously painted by a different artist than the portrait of the two girls, was eerily similar. The subject of the painting, another young girl who appeared to be a little older than the girls in the first painting, was staring out of the canvas. She was long and lean and standing by an upholstered chair in an indistinct room. Her face and expression were unremarkable, although her coloring, the shape of her mouth, and the way her eyes tilted up at the corners made me think of the taller girl in the other painting. There was nothing memorable about this painting at all except for the heart-shaped locket around her neck, which bore the inscribed initial
A
.

I remembered the glasses I’d left behind in my purse in the car and cursed under my breath. At least I’d thought it was under my breath until I saw both Jack and Mr. McGowan look at me oddly. “Sorry,” I murmured, the word quickly followed by a little hiccup. “Excuse me,” I said, my hand over my mouth as I swallowed back a second one before taking another gulp of my brandy. I was completely warm now and would have forgotten all about falling in the puddle if my wet hair wasn’t stuck to my face and my stockinged feet didn’t squish with each step I took.

I was relaxed, too, in a way I rarely let myself be. So relaxed that when I felt the cold finger touch the back of my arm, I didn’t jerk away. It was as if I almost believed that I could be stronger than it was.

Jack stepped closer to the painting and flipped open his phone to examine the picture he’d taken the previous day. “The locket appears to be identical to the other two. Right down to the font used for the engraving and the design that goes around the heart-shaped face.” He turned to Mr. McGowan. “What do you know about this painting?”

The older man took a sip of his brandy. “Not much. It was here when my father purchased the house back in the thirties. The family that lived here for about a hundred and fifty years before we bought it was originally from somewhere up north. New England, I recall. My wife discovered that from a box of letters she found in the attic. Big family, too. According to the letters, they were always asking for relatives to come down to visit, or to come help them with the farm. Must have been a wealthy family, too, because they sent a lot of money up north. Came across tough times during the Depression, though, which is how my family came to own the property.”

I stood and stared at the girl’s hands while nursing my brandy and wondered hazily what seemed so familiar about them. I knew there were questions I should be asking, but my tongue seemed to be nestled into a corner of my mouth where it didn’t want to be disturbed. Jack kept glancing at me as if wondering why I was so silent, but I held my wobbling finger to my lips to show him that I had to be quiet, if only to hear my name whispered again into my ear by the same voice I’d heard before. Each time I heard it, I took another sip of brandy until even my fear disappeared into a locked box for which I’d conveniently lost the key.

Jack put his arm around my shoulders but I didn’t have the energy to protest, especially since I realized I’d been leaning and most likely would have keeled over if it hadn’t been for Jack keeping me vertical. “Do you remember the family’s name?”

Mr. McGowan shook his head. “Not offhand. My wife might know. Or we could certainly find out by going through the letters again. Either way, you’ll have to wait until she gets back next week. She has a filing system that I’m not allowed near.” He chuckled. “You know how some women are. She files everything. Even my socks are filed in alphabetical order by color.”

“How very odd,” said Jack. “Must be difficult to live with sometimes.”

I went to elbow him in the ribs, but my elbow missed and I struck air instead, causing me to twist to the left in an odd and outdated dance move. Jack put his arm around my shoulders again and pulled me so close that I couldn’t move and didn’t really need to work that hard to stand up. He leaned into my ear and whispered, “That’s what happens when you listen to too much ABBA.”

My left hand was trapped and I couldn’t swat at him, so I took another sip of brandy instead.

I tried to focus my eyes again on the floating picture in front of me, trying to see whatever it was I was supposed to. In the calm part of my brain that was numbed by the brandy and nicely insulated from my fear, I knew that the thing whispering my name wanted to hurt me and the reason why had something to do with the portrait in front of me.

I turned to Jack to ask him to take a picture but couldn’t remember the exact words I needed. Lifting my index finger from my brandy glass, I made a motion of clicking the shutter button. Catching on quickly, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the digital camera I’d given him to hold. After first leading me to a wall to lean against, he took several pictures from different angles, including one close-up of the artist’s signature.

After pocketing the camera and peeling me off of the wall, he turned to Mr. McGowan. “You’ve been very generous with your time, sir, so we won’t take up any more of it.” He offered his hand and they shook. “And if it’s all right with you, I’d like to call your wife when she returns to see what she might know.”

Our host led us back into the foyer. “Oh, she’d love it. She fancies herself a bit of a genealogist and loves to talk about it. Just make sure you have a nice comfortable seat first before you dial the number.” He chuckled and then thumped Jack on the back and I heard the whoosh of air coming from his lungs.

As we stood inside the front door I smiled my good-bye to Mr. McGowan, not sure I could pry my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Jack took the beach towel off of my shoulders, then pried the brandy glass out of my hand before handing them back to our host.

The old man opened the door and stuck his head outside. “Looks like it’s stopped raining, so you won’t get wet getting back to the car. Just watch out for puddles.”

Jack smiled. “Thanks again, Mr. McGowan.”

“You’re most welcome, young man.” He pointed to me and winked conspiratorially. “And she’s a keeper, that one. Nice and quiet.”

Before I could set the facts straight, Jack retrieved our shoes, then hurriedly hustled me out of the house and down the porch steps. He stuffed me into the car, then buckled my seat belt, struggling to reach around me as I attempted to snuggle with the bucket of potatoes he’d put in my lap. As soon as he was finished, I rested my head on top of a large spud and closed my eyes, aware of Jack putting his coat over me and tucking in the edges.

I must have slept the entire trip home because the next thing I realized I was being thrown over Jack’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried up the stairs of my house—having no idea how he’d managed to get both of us around Sophie’s scaffolding at the bottom of the staircase. I grunted, trying to show him that I was aware that he was manhandling me without mentioning that I didn’t mind the placement of his hand on my rear end.