The Girl On Legare Street (18 page)

The sickly sweet odor of gunpowder trickled in the air in front of me and I looked up, careful not to look directly at the specter of the soldier.

“We’re not alone, are we?” asked Sophie, rubbing her arms where I could see gooseflesh prickling her skin.

I shook my head. “No.” I turned my face closer to the soldier. “Who were you protecting?”

He didn’t answer, and I could tell that he was uncomfortable, as if I’d discovered part of his secret. Impatient for an answer, I turned toward him, remembering too late not to look at him. With a shimmer in the air, he was gone just as quietly and as quickly as he had appeared.

I awoke with a start—disoriented—and realizing somebody had been calling my name. General Lee was spread out on the pillow next to me, snoring quietly, the headlights from a passing car spearing shafts of light across the wallpapered walls and hideous ceiling mural before throwing me back into complete darkness again.

Searching for my glasses on the nightstand, I stuck them in front of my face to read the glowing numbers on the clock by my bed: three thirteen a.m
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I groaned, then listened again, wondering if I’d just been dreaming. I’d surprised myself by falling asleep quickly for the second night in a row, despite the jarring experience of witnessing my father trying to kiss my mother good night at the front door. Luckily, I’d heard them from the kitchen where Sophie had been watching me work on a new spreadsheet for the Legare house restoration, so I was able to throw the door open before any permanent damage was done.

Melanie.

I sat up, fully awake now, and the sickly sweet scent of gunpowder was heavy in the room. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I made out the dark shadow of a man in a tricorn hat by the door. I blinked, studying it so hard that I barely noticed the door opening with a soft creak, a blast of warm air from the hallway making me realize how cold my room was.

Follow me, Melanie.

I knew not to be afraid, but I was reluctant to follow him out into the darkened house. I sensed him waiting for me, though, and realized he would wait for as long as it took me to get out of bed and follow him.

I slid off the tall bed that had been moved from my mother’s apartment in New York and was one of the few things of good taste that now resided in the house. I gripped one of its thick mahogany posts as I put my fuzzy slippers on, then grabbed my terry-cloth robe and followed the soldier out into the hallway.

Since the streetlamps didn’t reach this far into the interior of the house, it was dark and I found myself following his scent down the front stairs and into the kitchen. I paused for a moment outside the saloon doors, remembering the wet footprints and feeling my first fissure of fear.

Do not be afraid, Melanie. I am here.

Swallowing thickly, I pushed the doors open and stepped into the kitchen. Keeping my back to the door, I slid over to the light switch and flipped it on. The recessed lights glowed dully overhead for a brief moment before sputtering out one by one, as if something else in the room was zapping all of their energy.

I smelled his scent again, reassured that he was still there. “What do you want?” I asked.

Come here.

I scanned the dim kitchen, pools of shallow light from the streetlamps dripping onto the dark wood cabinets and countertops. I stopped at the wall mural of the longhorn cow and saw my soldier leaning against what was once an Adams mantel but was now just empty air. After taking a deep breath, I headed toward him, careful to avoid running into the kitchen table. I stopped in front of him, not looking directly at his face, but instead concentrating on how clearly I could see his hand as it rested on the invisible mantel, the glow of a streetlight illuminating the fine blond hairs on the backs of his fingers.

“What is it?” I whispered, not really sure why I was being quiet. My mother couldn’t have heard us up in her bedroom. But the entire time I was aware of the dark door on the other side of the kitchen that led up the back stairs.

It is in there.

“What is?”

What you seek.

I studied the solid wall for a moment, not understanding. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Within the waves, hide all our guilt.

I strained my eyes to see his face better in the dark, but all was in shadow. “That’s on my grandmother’s gravestone. What does it mean?”

I heard him sigh and then, almost imperceptibly, I felt a soft brush of fingers against my jawline, soft enough to be mistaken for a trickle of air. My breath caught with the icy heat of his touch, and I wanted to step away and stay at the same time. In the years I’d known him as a young girl, he’d never touched me, and I wondered what had changed to embolden him now that I’d returned to this house.

You are so beautiful, Melanie.

Months of fending off Jack gave me the strength I needed to keep hold of my senses. “Who are you? What’s your name? What guilt is hidden beneath the waves?”

He touched me again, and I was sure it was to make me stop asking questions. He stood in front of me now, both hands feathering light strokes on my neck. I kept my gaze on the wood floor, resisting the temptation to give in to the sensation of ice and heat teasing my skin.

“Who were you trying to protect?” I asked, my voice shaky, but determined to find answers.

His fingers stopped, and I thought I could hear him breathe, or maybe it was the house breathing, a silent, palpable beat of unknown origin.

“Who were you trying to protect?” I asked again, feeling him leave me before the words had completely escaped from my mouth.

The lights flickered on brightly above me, accompanied by the sound of the swinging doors, and I spun around to find my mother standing inside the kitchen doorway, thankfully wearing a short robe that covered most of her skin.

“He was here, wasn’t he?”

I knew better than to pretend I didn’t know whom she was talking about. “Yes. He woke me up and brought me down here.” I pointed to the wall behind me. “He said that what I seek is in here. And he quoted the last line on Grandmother’s gravestone: Within the waves, hide all our guilt.”

She frowned, then stepped closer. “You’re—flushed. And your eyes are really bright.” Her eyes widened. “Did he touch you?”

I nodded, and felt myself blushing, remembering how good it had felt. “Yes. He did it before, a few days ago. He didn’t hurt me.”

She shook her head, then sat down at the table. “No. He wouldn’t.”

I sat down opposite. “What do you mean?”

A small smile lifted her lips. “He’s a gentleman.”

I chewed on my lip, realizing with surprised relief that my mother was the only person I could discuss this with. “Sophie found a journal in Grandmother’s desk. But I don’t think it was hers. Sophie thinks it’s at least one hundred years old, possibly older.”

My mother raised an eyebrow as she waited for me to continue.

“I haven’t had a chance to read through it yet, but when I was flipping through the pages, I came to an entry about a Hessian soldier. And how the journal writer felt he was there to protect her.” I held my mother’s gaze for a moment. “It looks like he’s been here for a long time, protecting people.”

She shook her head. “Not just people. Women.” She frowned again. “But the fact that he can touch you now . . .” She bit her lower lip, as if to prevent herself from going on.

“Tell me.” My voice was harsher than I’d meant it to be, but I’d lived for so long with unanswered questions that I didn’t think I could live with one more.

“It means you’re stronger. That you’re a brighter beacon now than you’ve ever been.” Her fingers drummed restlessly on the table. “It will be easier for those lost souls seeking the light to find you now. You’ll need to be prepared.”

“But what has that got to do with his touching me?” I glanced down at my exposed forearms, seeing the goose bumps prickling the skin.

My mother leaned forward. “That they can feed off your strength to make themselves stronger. And not just for those that mean us no harm.”

I shivered, remembering what had happened when I’d been in the kitchen by myself. “When you were in New York, there was—an incident. The girl from the boat, she was in here. She scratched me. But the soldier came and made her go away.”

Her hand cupped my cheek, her thumb gently rubbing my skin as her brow furrowed with worry. I didn’t flinch or pull away. “Why now, though? What’s changed?”

She dropped her hand, then slid the sugar bowl toward her and began to spin it in circles, her gaze focused on it. “You’re older, your abilities stronger whether or not you want them to be and regardless of whether you’ve been actively using them.”

I knew she wasn’t done, so I remained silent, waiting.

“And because I’m here. The two of us together are like a bonfire in the darkness. Things won’t stay quiet for long.”

“That’s what we want, though, right? Because then we can make them go away.”

She swallowed, then nodded, swirling the sugar bowl in tight circles. “That’s the way it usually works.”

I put my hand on hers to still it. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She looked at me, and I saw such sadness in her eyes that I didn’t pull my hand back right away. “Why do you think I’m not telling you everything?”

I sat back in my chair, placing my hands in my lap, my eyes locked on hers. “Because I remember, from the time before you left. The way you looked at me. The way you answered my questions with questions or answered me by changing the subject. It made me feel as if it was Christmas-time, and you’d hidden presents all over the house so I couldn’t find them. Only, it wasn’t Christmas, was it?”

She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I’ve told you what I know, Mellie. I don’t know who the girl is, but I suspect she’s been here for a very long time, before I was born, even. And I know your German soldier. He was here when I was a child, but I don’t know who he is, either. Only that he seems to be here to protect. That’s all I know.” She smiled a secretive smile. “And he never touched me.”

We stared at each other for a long time until my mother looked away, her gaze falling on the stack of photographs I’d left on the table. She began thumbing through them, pausing over each one. She stopped at the one of my grandmother and the window.

“You can see what a beacon you were back when you were a child.” She tapped a photo with a long red-painted fingernail, pointing to a cluster of white spots my father had thought meant a defective camera. “It could be the combined presence of your grandmother, too, but they’re all gathered around you.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “It’s a gift, Mellie. A gift you can use to help others, if you choose. But it shouldn’t be a burden, or something you’re ashamed of.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Maybe for somebody like you. You’re an opera singer, an artistic person. People expect you to be eccentric. But I’m a Realtor. Clients generally don’t want to buy houses from somebody who sees and talks with dead people. I agreed to help you get rid of this spirit, but as soon as we’re done, I’m back to pretending I don’t see them or hear them.”

My mother smiled softly, her face reminding me so much of my childhood that it hurt to look at her. I concentrated on the sugar bowl as she spoke. “I’m glad we’re doing this together, Mellie. I won’t lie and tell you I haven’t been looking forward to it, hoping that maybe somehow it will bring us together. That maybe you’ll learn that this gift we share is our bond.”

I jerked to a stand, but my anger was muted, like a fist wrapped in soft velvet. “A long time ago I would have welcomed a bond between us. But I’ve spent most of my life trying to separate myself from you, and I’m too old and too tired to go back to another place and time.” I shook my head. “I don’t know why you left, or even if those reasons should mean anything to me now. But I’m proud of who I’ve become, without your help and despite what you did to me. So no, Mother. The main reason I don’t want to accept this ‘thing’ you call a gift is because it is the one thing we do have in common. And believe me, there is nothing I’ve ever wanted to have in common with you.”

I turned around before she could recognize what I’d said for the lie it was, but not before I’d seen the slight upturn of her lips as if she knew it anyway.

I sucked in my breath as Sophie stood behind me, stuck a knee in the lower part of my back, and pulled on the corset strings. I thought I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen as spots danced across my field of vision.

“Why on earth do I need to wear this thing? It’s bad enough you’ve got me looking like Scarlett O’Hara on the way to Twelve Oaks, but how authentic do I really need to be?”

Sophie collapsed on the bed, panting with exertion. “It’s not for authenticity. It’s to give you cleavage and to make the male tourists who march through here tonight give an extra donation to the historical society.”

I caught sight of myself in the cheval mirror—another rescue from the Tradd Street house—and nearly didn’t recognize myself. She was right. Pushing up all of my insides above the waistline had actually given the false impression of real breasts, if only my lungs hadn’t been squashed against my rib cage allowing only small puffs of air to be inhaled at one time.

I pirouetted, admiring the navy blue silk gown with white lace encircling the off-the-shoulder décolletage and decorating the wrists. There was something to be said about the enhanced hourglass figure of 1860s fashions, but one day spent in a Charleston July without air-conditioning would send me running for a pair of shorts and padded bikini top.

“I think your mother’s sapphires add a nice touch.”

My hands went up to the heirloom necklace. My mother had brought the necklace and earrings to me in a black jeweled box as a sort of peace offering as I was getting dressed. I was about to refuse when she reminded me that they’d been my grandmother’s, and that she would have wanted me to wear them, too.