The Girl On Legare Street (17 page)

The light in Jack’s eyes shifted as he stepped forward, making me nervous. “Do you ever do anything just because you want to, Mellie? Or because you think it might be fun?”

I stepped back, not liking how close he was standing. “Of course I do. I just think that fun, like everything else, needs to be scheduled so it doesn’t interfere with more important things. And right now, I need to make sure I’m not late for my next appointment.” I stared pointedly at his car. “I’d appreciate it if you’d drive me home, but I could walk if it’s too much trouble.”

He took a step closer so that our noses were almost touching but I didn’t step back this time, wanting to stand my ground. Softly, he said, “You had a terrible childhood. I get it. And you certainly deserve a lot of praise for turning out as well as you did, and even for forging a new relationship with your father.”

“Please stop,” I said, my voice struggling for conviction. Somewhere in my brain, I heard Sophie’s voice telling me that I needed to find somebody to let go with, to allow them in to see what she referred to as the “kinder, gentler Melanie Middleton.” But I couldn’t help but think that if I ever allowed myself to let it all go with Jack, I might never find myself again. Or worse, I’d find myself back where I’d started, as a scared and angry little girl abandoned by the two people who were supposed to love her best.

Jack’s thumbs gently rubbed at my jaw. Ignoring my request, he continued. “Somewhere along the way, you forgot how to have fun. One day, Melanie Middleton, I’m going to take you out of your little box and we’re going to have a little fun together. And you’re going to like it so much that you’re going to thank me.”

My breath was coming in little gasps now, mostly from indignation but I couldn’t deny the little tremor of anticipation, either. I stiffened my shoulders. “You already tried that, remember? I missed a whole day of work so you could take me to the backwoods of Timbuktu and get me drunk. What part of that was supposed to be fun?”

He grinned his killer grin and stepped back. “You weren’t supposed to get drunk, but yeah, I had a good time.” He chuckled to himself, then walked to his car and opened up the passenger door for me.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, hesitating briefly before stepping into the front seat. I was relieved that he’d stopped touching me, but worried, too.

He chuckled again. “Nothing.” He shut my door and went around the car to get into the driver’s side.

“Then what are you laughing at?” I racked my brain again, wondering what I might have said to him when I wasn’t sober enough to remember—anything that might be used against me. I had a fuzzy impression of me burping in his ear, but I quickly dismissed it as being too improbable.

He started the engine and turned to face me, his eyes sparkling, which made my blood do that stupid swishing thing. “You. You’re almost forty years old and you still haven’t grown up.”

I turned away, annoyed and angry. “Is that so? And you think you’re the one to fix me.”

He pulled the car away from the curb. “Well, it sure as hell isn’t Marc Longo.”

Surprised at the vehemence in his tone, I sat back in my seat as we sped forward on Church Street, looping around the church that intruded into the roadway. “Where are you taking me?”

“To Legare Street, like you asked. Because you have so much work to do.”

I looked away—not seeing the passing scenery as it flickered by—and wondered why I was so disappointed.

It was full dark by the time I returned to the house on Legare Street later that night, exhausted from hours spent showing a couple from Poughkeepsie houses in the Colonial Lake neighborhood. They’d complained about how old everything was, and how high the real estate prices were despite all of the fixing up they’d be required to do, and it was all I could do to not tell them that if they wanted new, cookie-cutter, and move-in ready, they should be considering a move to the Atlanta suburbs instead.

I’d managed to convince them to look at newer construction in Daniel Island and had spent the last three hours in my office making appointments for the following day.

I hesitated on the steps leading up to the front door, noticing that the front lights were off. I didn’t want to step into that shadowy place, where I couldn’t see what might be hiding in the corners. I dug into my purse and pulled out my mini emergency kit and took out the small flashlight I’d never had a need for until now. I shone it into the corners, then approached the door, key held ready.

I stuck the key in and was about to turn the knob when I glanced up at one of the sidelights by the door and froze, the air around me suddenly brittle. The face of a girl stared back at me through the wavy panes of glass, the eyes dark and glittering, the space between us filled with an almost palpable hatred. The air seemed to shimmer with it, warming my face through the bitter night air. My hand shook, the key rattling in the lock as my eyes met hers.

I am stronger than you.
I wasn’t sure if I’d spoken the words out loud or to myself, and I had the distinct impression that the words would have no effect on this spirit. I felt the knob turn under my hand and I resisted, not wanting to be face-to-face with whoever the girl was, knowing that my strength alone wouldn’t be enough.

The knob turned again, harder this time, and I felt myself losing my grip as the door swung inward. I stifled a small scream as I recognized Sophie in her endearingly familiar Birkenstocks and wild hair.

“I could have sworn I turned the front lights on,” she said, moving to the light switch and flipping them on. “And you’ve got to have the thermostat looked at. I swear it’s thirty below in . . .”

Her last words came out in a puff of air as I threw myself at her, clutching tightly to her sari as my gaze darted to the lit corners of the vast hallway.

“Whoa, Melanie. It’s good to see you, too.” She held me at arm’s length and peered into my face, small frown lines appearing between her eyebrows. “What happened to you? It looks like you’ve seen a . . .” Her voice petered away as her eyes widened.

I kicked the door shut with my foot and nodded. “She was right here. One of the girls from the portrait—only she looked to be a bit older. The shorter one wearing the locket with an
R
on it.” I reached inside my jacket and pulled out the locket with the
M
engraved across the face. “The one that looks like this.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow as she stared at it. “Where did that come from?”

“The sailboat.” I fluttered my hand in front of her to stop the recriminations that were already bubbling up to her lips. “They’ve already photographed it and documented it. The guy on the salvage team is an old friend of my father’s and figured that since it essentially belonged to me, I should have it.”

Sophie tightened her lips around her teeth, making her look more like a professor than her outfits ever could. “And you’re going to give it back now.”

“Believe me. I can’t give it back fast enough. The previous owner has been asking for it.”

Her eyes widened again, but she knew better than to ask. “Any idea who she is, yet?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. We’re working on it. So far everything points to my great-grandmother, Rose. But she was an only child, which doesn’t explain who the other girl in the portrait is. The one wearing the
M
necklace. Nor does it explain why she seems to dislike me so much.”

I put my briefcase down and took my coat off while a clock, stuck onto the front of a lacquered piece of driftwood and inadvertently left on the wall in the parlor by the previous owners, began to strike the hour. I looked back at Sophie. “It’s eight o’clock. Why are you still here? And where is my mother?”

“Your father took her out to dinner, to discuss the garden, as she kept explaining to me even though I didn’t ask. I’m still here because she didn’t want you to be alone in the house and asked if I’d stay here until she got back.”

I was still stuck on the first part of her explanation and didn’t have time to analyze the second. I noticed Sophie’s dry eyes and nose for the first time. “Where’s General Lee?”

“In your room. I explained to your mother about my allergies and she was very understanding. The little guy wouldn’t use the back stairs, though. Kept barking at them with his tail between his legs, so your mother took him up the front stairs.”

“Makes sense,” I said.“I’m starving. I hope Mrs. Houlihan left me something good.” I began walking back toward the kitchen, but turned around when I realized Sophie wasn’t following me. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually, there is. A truck from Trenholm’s Antiques dropped off a desk today. Your mother recognized it as having belonged to your grandmother and had them put it in your grandmother’s sitting room.”

“Great. I wasn’t expecting it so soon, but I’m glad it’s here already.” When Sophie remained where she was without moving to follow me, I took a step toward her. “Is anything wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong, exactly. Just weird—and I can’t believe I’m using that word after I’ve hung around you for so long.” She smiled apologetically at me, a thick beaded braid falling from its haphazard placement on top of her head.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Well, right when it was being delivered, the house phone rang and I answered it. It was Rebecca. She asked me if we’d had a new piece of furniture brought into the house recently, and I told her about the desk. She got really excited and said she’d had a dream about something hidden inside of it, like a book or something, and she wanted to come over right away to see if she could find it.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I’d found a secret compartment already. All those old desks had them, so it wasn’t that big of a stretch. But I told her there was nothing in it.”

“Dang.” My shoulders sagged. “I guess that’s one clue we’re not going to be able to use.” I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I’m so exhausted. I just want this over with. I want to find out who this girl is and get rid of her so I can go back to my life.”

I peered back at Sophie, who was watching me with a satisfied grin on her face. “I didn’t say that I told her the truth.”

“Soph!” I said with surprise as she brought out what appeared to be a tattered leather-bound book from a drooping pocket in her sweatpants. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

She shrugged. “Because I don’t trust her. I saw her at the library today at the college, in the special-collections section on the third floor. I was looking for some historic photos of the interior of this house and saw her with her nose buried in a book, taking notes. She was real careful to cover up what she’d been writing, and tried to be evasive when I asked her what she was doing. Knowing she couldn’t stop me without causing a scene, I flipped up the cover of the book she’d been looking at and saw that it was a pictorial history of Louis Tiffany windows from 1878 to 1933.” She stared at me pointedly. “Rebecca finally let on that she was looking for information on the drawing room window, but hadn’t found anything useful yet.”

“But you didn’t believe her?”

“I’m not sure. But I didn’t tell her what I’d found in the desk because I wanted you to see it first. It was your grandmother’s desk, after all.”

Sophie placed the brown leather book in my proffered hand and I flipped it open to reveal lined pages filled with small, neat cursive writing. “It looks like a journal,” I said as I sat down on the bottom step to get a better look. Sophie sat down next to me. I surprised her by putting my arm around her shoulders and hugging her. “You’re a good friend, Soph. Even though I no longer know what fingernails are supposed to look like, I still think you’re the best, best friend ever.”

She snorted, then elbowed me in the side. “You’d still turn me in for a
What Not to Wear
episode and you know it.”

I elbowed her back. “Yeah. But you’d end up thanking me for it.”

She shook her head, her beaded braids dancing around her face. “I doubt it.” Opening up the cover of the journal, she said, “There aren’t any names in here that I can see; everything’s written in the first person with only a few initials thrown in. It’s as if the writer was afraid somebody might find it and read it.”

I flipped through some of the pages. “How old do you think it is?”

“Hard to tell exactly, but from the quality of the paper, and the type of ink on the pages, and even the good condition of the leather cover, I’d say between one hundred and one hundred and fifty years old. You’ll have to take it to an expert to be sure, but I think I’m pretty close.”

My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten yet, and I was about to say something about making the journal wait until after we’d eaten when two words on a page caught my attention: “Hessian soldier
.
”

Wishing I had my glasses with me, I squinted and brought the book up to my face to see better, and read the words out loud. “My Hessian soldier watches over me and I know that while he is here, I am protected. I don’t think she can see him, but I think she suspects something. We are so close in age and should have much in common, but I find that I can never truly relax when I’m in her company. It’s as if she watches me always, like a cat at a mouse hole, waiting for me to be less vigilant.”