The Girl On Legare Street (4 page)

I tugged on his leash to bring him closer to me. “Who are you?”

She stood and faced me and I felt the shock course through me again. Sticking her hand out toward me, she said, “I’m Rebecca Edgerton. We spoke briefly on the phone. About your mother.”

Absently, I shook her hand, unable to tear my gaze away from her face. And then the word “mother” brought me back to attention. I yanked my hand away. “Oh, the reporter from the newspaper. I remember.”

“I thought I might come see the house she grew up in. Start at the beginning of her story.”

I continued to stare at her, unable to shake my first impression. “You look so much like . . .” I couldn’t say the name again.

“Emily. I know. I’ve let my hair grow so I guess the resemblance is even stronger now, but when Emily and I worked together at the paper we would get confused for each other all the time. People used to say that when Jack stopped dating me and started dating Emily he wasn’t even aware that he’d switched girlfriends.” She laughed, the sound broken, pierced like a veil.

I took a deep breath, more relieved than I could explain.

Rebecca’s brow wrinkled. “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

“I, um, I didn’t, actually.” I thought for a moment, trying to come up with a better way to explain that I knew what a dead woman looked like because I’d seen her ghost. “Jack must have shown me a picture.”

She nodded. “Oh, well. That explains it then.”

There was something in her expression I couldn’t read, something unexpected that made me take a step back. “Well, it was nice meeting you.” I pulled on the leash, annoyed to notice that my dog had made himself very comfortable by nestling at her feet. “Come on, General Lee. Let’s go home and eat dinner.” He stared at me blankly, not moving.

Rebecca took the opportunity to close the distance between us. “Since you’re here, maybe you could answer a few questions. Nothing too personal, I promise. Just enough to get me started. If I say anything out of line, just tell me and I’ll stop.”

The dog was looking up at Rebecca with adoring eyes, and I figured it had to be the blond hair. He was male, after all. “I really don’t think so. We’re estranged, and I’m afraid your story will have a negative tone if you start with me. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.”

“I want the truth; that’s all. I hope to get enough interviews to make it a balanced article, but I’m beginning to think that I can’t write it at all without insight from her only child.”

“Unfortunately, you’re going to have to. I know very little about my mother. The truth or otherwise. She left my father and me when I was only seven years old.”

Rebecca looked down at her notebook and flipped a page. “Yes. I’ve got that. It was right after your mother’s trip to the emergency room. A miscarriage, I believe.”

“A what?” I stared at her blankly, not sure I’d heard correctly.

She glanced up at me. “A miscarriage. A serious one. She almost died according to the hospital records. I guess you would have been about six or seven at the time because it was after your parents separated. You and your mother were living here with your grandmother when it happened. I assumed . . .” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I thought you would have known.”

The back of my mouth tasted like rust. I remembered my father showing up at my grandmother’s house and my excitement when I thought he was there to take us both home. But he’d left me there and carried my mother to the car in his arms like a baby. Later my grandmother told me that she’d had appendicitis and needed to stay in the hospital for a couple of days but would be fine. And I had believed her despite how thin my mother looked when she returned or how a baby’s crying had been added to the litany of sounds I chased but never found in my grandmother’s house.

I shook my head. “No. I didn’t know.” I tried to smile. “They probably thought I was too young to understand how babies were made”—my smile dropped—“or lost. How did you find out?”

She shrugged but her gaze remained intense. “It’s part of my job. I just know where to look and who to ask. I saw an old newspaper article in the archives about your grandmother’s death, and there was a brief mention of how it followed on the heels of your mother’s hospital stay. It didn’t say why she was there of course, but I have an anonymous source at the hospital who looked through the records and found out about the miscarriage. All confidential, of course.” She paused for a moment. “The information you need is always there if you’re willing to be persistent and look hard enough.”

I felt we weren’t talking about my mother’s illness anymore. Suddenly uncomfortable I took a step back. “I really need to get home now. . . .”

She looked disappointed. “I understand. But just one more thing—please. I want to show you a picture. I promise I will only take one more minute of your time.” She smiled, and she looked so much like the dead Emily that I paused, giving Rebecca her chance to whip an enlarged photo of my mother at an opera charity event in New York from her oversized purse.

“You look a lot like her.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d always hated it when people told me that—mostly because it wasn’t true but also because I liked to pretend that we weren’t even related.

Rebecca held the picture closer to my face. “She’s wearing the most beautiful necklace and earrings in this photo. Do you know anything about them?”

I stared down at the photo, at the diamond-and-sapphire collar necklace and matching chandelier earrings. I remembered my grandmother allowing me to play dress-up with them, sometimes using her silk bath-robe as my gown as I paraded up and down the hallways. “Yes,” I said. “They were my grandmother’s. My mother must have inherited them when my grandmother passed.”

“So they’re family heirlooms?” Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“I suppose you could call them that. I do know my grandmother said that they had once been her mother’s. How much further back they go I have no idea. To be honest, I think they’re a bit gaudy and if they were mine, I’d probably sell them.”

“Like your mother sold this house.”

I jerked my head up to meet her eyes. “I think I’ve answered enough questions.” I yanked hard on the leash this time, forcing General Lee from his reclining position at Rebecca’s feet, and began to walk away, pulling the reluctant dog. “Good night, Miss Edgerton. It was nice meeting you.”

“You can call me Rebecca.”

I continued to walk away. “Fine, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again. Good night.”

I was about to turn the corner when I heard her say, “Don’t bet on it.”

Pretending not to hear her, I tugged on the leash and pulled General Lee around the corner with me, wondering what it was about Rebecca Edgerton, besides her resemblance to Jack’s dead fiancée, that made me so uneasy.

The rest of my week seemed to pass in slow motion. With the high drama at the beginning of the week—marked by my mother’s sudden appearance and my grandmother’s bid for attention from the grave—I suppose it was inevitable. But even at work time crept by, my usual enthusiasm for my job somewhat muted as if I were being forced to view my life through half-closed eyes.

On Friday morning as I dragged myself into the office, Nancy Flaherty met me at the door, her golf ball earrings swaying in time to her movements. “You look terrible,” she said as she took my coat and briefcase.

“Thank you, Nancy. And how are you?”

She draped my coat over her arm, then reached behind her to the receptionist’s desk and picked up a steaming mug of coffee before pressing it into my hands. “I’m thinking your grumpiness lately is because you’re missing Jack.”

“Because I’m what?” My indignation was forced, mostly because I had the sneaking suspicion that she could be right. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s been kind of peaceful without him barging into my house to do research at all hours of the day and night,” I said, referring to the book he was currently writing about the former residents of the house I’d inherited. “And I don’t have to put up with any of his ridiculous observations or silly comments.” I took a sip of my coffee, studying it carefully so I wouldn’t have to meet Nancy’s knowing eyes. I would never admit to her, or anyone, that despite the presence of Mrs. Houlihan, my dad, Sophie, and Chad, the house had seemed a little empty without Jack’s overwhelming presence. Even General Lee hadn’t been able to fill the void.

I raised my head, narrowing my eyes. “And why are you being so overly nice to me this morning?” I asked, indicating the coffee and my coat, which was still slung over her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She pursed her lips as if deciding whether to lie to me or just blurt the truth out. Apparently deciding on the latter, she said, “Mr. Henderson’s waiting in your office. He wants to speak with you.”

Although Dave Henderson was technically my boss and the owner of the company, he spent most of his time playing golf—which was what accounted for Nancy’s continued employment. There were few other employers who could put up with such a marked devotion to the game of golf to the exclusion of just about everything else—including running a business. Dave had been forced into an early retirement by his wife and cardiologist, which produced a collective sigh of relief by every employee of Henderson Realty. The relief was temporary at best, though, seeing as how he made a point of showing up at the most unexpected times, making sure everybody knew he was still the boss and keeping an eye on productivity. Mostly I saw Dave at sales awards dinners and the weekly sales meetings, where he served as main cheerleader and lead butt kicker. But he was rarely in the office on a nice day—even in the freezing cold. If the sun was shining, Dave was on a green.

I put the coffee mug down, feeling suddenly ill, the donuts and latte from Ruth’s Bakery that I’d wolfed down earlier threatening to make a reappearance. “Any idea why he wants to see me?”

Nancy gave me a nervous smile. “I’m not sure. But I think it has something to do with Jimmy. They were in his office yesterday and there was a lot of yelling going on.”

“Oh, crap,” I said, picking up my briefcase and mentally girding my loins. If Dave Henderson was waiting in my office instead of on a green somewhere, it couldn’t be good.

I stood outside my closed office door for a full minute, finding my composure, before turning the handle and standing on the threshold with a bright smile. Dave was sitting at my desk, reading the latest edition of the
Post & Courier
. My Day-Timer calendar, which I kept closed on the corner of my desk, was open as if he’d just been going through it. He wore a golf shirt under a warm Windbreaker and khakis, like he’d been yanked off of the sixteenth hole somewhere, and my mood shifted from simple apprehension to sheer terror.

“Good morning, Dave. It’s so good to see you.” I plastered a smile on my face so he wouldn’t know I was lying.

He continued to read the paper without looking up. “Interesting story in today’s paper. They’re going to raise that sailboat they found off of Sullivan’s Island a few weeks ago. The divers they sent down discovered the name of the boat, apparently one that’s been missing since the earthquake of 1886. It’s in a relatively shallow area and they’re thinking they can raise it intact. If not, they’ll just salvage what they can.” He rattled the paper as he turned the page. “People are almost as excited as they were when they discovered the
Hunley
.”

“Interesting,” I said, entering my office slowly and putting my purse and briefcase on a chair before sitting down opposite him. I had no idea what he was talking about, since the only thing I used the newspaper for was to examine the real estate listings.

“You are familiar with the
Hunley
, right?”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes at him. One could not be a Charlestonian and not know about the Confederate submarine that had sunk almost one and a half centuries before and had recently been raised to great fanfare. I might not know how many points the Dow average had plummeted in the last weeks, but I knew about the
Hunley
.

I glanced down at my opened calendar and began to feel a little annoyed. I flicked my eyes up, realizing that Dave was watching me.

“You’ve got a pretty busy schedule this week, Melanie.”

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing after all. I smiled, keeping my lips from quivering. “Yes. I do. Business has been very good, despite the real estate market not being what we’d want it to be right now. I’ve already met my sales quota for the month and we’re only halfway through.”

He began folding up the newspaper, making deliberate sharp creases as he folded it smaller and smaller. I began to feel nervous again. He slapped the newspaper on my desk and stood. I stood, too, not wanting to give him the advantage of towering over me. With heels, we were on an even keel.

“But you’d still be able to fit in a new client or two,” he said, examining me closely with brown eyes that were rumored to have made grown men cry.

I swallowed. “Of course. I pride myself on being organized and diligent, and I’m more than capable of handling a fairly large workload. You know that, Mr. Henderson.”

He put his fists on my desk and leaned toward me, his face flushing a little. “Then why would you send a celebrity client to Jimmy Thorn-hill instead of taking her on yourself ? Especially when she’s your own mother?”

I drew myself up to my full height, my anger greedily taking over my apprehension. “Because Jimmy needs the boost of confidence a big sale could give him. My mother knows the house she wants, so it wouldn’t stress him very much. She just needs somebody to handle the paperwork for her.” I glared at him. “And why should it matter to you? Henderson Realty gets credit for the sale regardless of who handles it.”

He came around the desk so that he stood in front of me. “I care when a potential client has to call me personally to ask for another Realtor.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to make my voice sound strong. “My mother called you?”

“Yes. We’re acquaintances from years ago. She was almost in tears when she called me, wondering why you wouldn’t help her.”

“And what did you tell her?” My two donuts and latte fell firmly into the pit of my stomach.

He smiled his closing smile—the smile I knew meant that business was over and he’d won. “I told her that you would call her this morning to schedule a showing of the Legare Street property.” He straightened. “Unless, of course, you’re not strong enough to look past your differences with your mother to clinch this sale. You’d grab the top sales award for the month for sure.” He reached over to my credenza and picked up his golf glove.

“Of course, I could let Wendy Wax handle the sale. Her numbers are pretty close to yours, you know.”

“But what about Jimmy? He could really use the sale.”

Dave shrugged. “Too soft. The Texan who owns the house on Legare is a real tightwad. I’ve met him a few times at the club. Never buys his round of drinks, if you know what I mean. We need somebody real sharp for this deal. And Wendy can handle it if you’re too busy.”

I couldn’t stand the thought of my coworker’s smugness if she handled this deal instead of me. I knew I’d been played but I couldn’t stop myself. “No. That’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

He saluted me with his golf glove. “That’s the Melanie I know. Well, I’m glad we had this discussion and we’re all in agreement here. I’ll expect a call from you to let me know the status on the sale.”

Without even a good-bye, he left my office, leaving the door open behind him. I sat back down in my chair, my feet tapping nervously. But I wasn’t sure if the nerves were from how unfairly I’d just been treated by my boss or from the thought of being alone again with my mother in the house on Legare.

The house was dark except for a single lamp in the downstairs living room when I let myself in after work. I’d stayed at the office longer than I’d planned, researching recent real estate sales on Legare Street as well as information on the current owners to get a better idea of how desperate they were to move. I prided myself on knowing as much as I could so that when I made an offer on a client’s behalf, I knew how much leeway we had for negotiations and at what point we’d walk away. I half hoped that my mother would balk at the current asking price, considering it represented a three-hundred-percent increase over the price at which she’d sold it over three decades before.

The only bright spot in my entire afternoon had been the phone tag I’d played with my mother, each of us taking turns leaving messages so that we’d made an appointment to meet the following morning without once having had to speak with each other.

I pushed open the door and heard the dog bark from the kitchen where Mrs. Houlihan usually left him with a soup bone when she went home. Flipping on the lights as I walked into the foyer, I noted the new addition of scaffolding that reached up to the gold-leaf cornices that Sophie was in the middle of having restored. One of the bracing rods of the scaffolding blocked the stairs and would require I flatten myself to crawl under them if I had any desire to actually use the upper floors of my house. Or sleep in my bedroom. I wondered if Sophie had considered that and just as quickly dismissed the thought.

I paused, my keys held in midair above the hall table. The soft tread of footsteps coming toward me from the living room made me clench a key between two fingers to use as a weapon. Of course, in this house there were no guarantees that any unwanted visitors were the living, breathing kind. Although three of the ghosts had recently been exorcised from the house, both General Lee and I still sensed the presence of several others. But we pretty much stayed out of each other’s way and tolerated each other because we were all content to be where we were and not at all eager to leave.

The lights flickered and I spun around toward the light switch, seeing only empty space. My lungs seemed to crystallize as I gulped in a breath of frigid air, the temperature suddenly plummeting as the stench of rotting fish permeated the air, making me gag. I let the keys drop to the table, knowing they wouldn’t help me. My breath slowed and stuttered, matching the bubbles of fear that ransacked the skin along my spine.
I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you.
My mother’s old mantra came back to haunt me, and I almost smiled at the irony.

I took one step toward the living room and stopped, the sudden jangling of the phone on the hall table jarring in the still air of the quiet house. I froze and stared at it, my breath visible now in chilly puffs. I let it ring six times—three more times after it should have been picked up by my answering machine—before lifting the receiver. My frozen fingers felt scalded by the plastic of the phone and I dropped the receiver, the sound of it hitting the wood of the table unnaturally loud. With shaking fingers, I picked it up again, making sure the heat was only in my imagination before I held the phone to my ear.

“Grandmother?” The line was empty, as if the person on the other end were using a phone in the next room. I held the receiver in two hands now to keep it from shaking. I heard no noise, no breathing on the other end—just silence, as if I’d been plunged into a black hole that absorbed all light and sound like a cosmic sponge.

Melanie.

I strained to hear, not sure if I’d heard my name or not. One thing I knew for sure was that whoever had said my name, it hadn’t been my grandmother.

Melanie
, I heard again, and I pressed the receiver closer to my ear, fighting the impulse to hang up. The voice was soft and airy and most likely female, assuming it was even human.

“Hello? Who is this?”

The black hole began to pop and crackle, erupting something vile and unholy through the telephone line. I held the phone away from me, then slammed it down. But not before I’d heard the voice again.
I am coming for you, Melanie. I am coming for what is mine.