The House on Tradd Street (14 page)

Jack raised his eyebrow. “That’s a possibility.”

I sat in the passenger seat and waited for Jack to close my door and come around the car to the driver’s side. “If it is the same guy, do you think it’s just a coincidence?”

Jack looked at me with an expression similar to the one in the picture on the back of his book jacket, and it became clear to me why he’d been such a hit on the morning talk show circuit—something else I’d found out when I’d Googled him.

“Trust me, Mellie. In my line of work, where old secrets go to great lengths to stay hidden, there’s no such thing as coincidences.” He started the car and pulled out onto the street.

I started to tell him again that my name wasn’t Mellie, that the only person who had ever used that name had forever ruined it for me, but I stopped. I was looking at his profile, where a pulse had begun in his jaw. His brows were furrowed in concentration and I thought that perhaps he was inadvertently allowing me to see the real Jack Trenholm—the Jack Trenholm he hid from the eyes of admiring fans and talk show hosts.

The Jack I saw smoldered with something dark and burning—something that drove him forward fast enough that he didn’t have the time to sit and dwell. And I sensed, without a doubt, that whatever it was had something to do with the specter of a woman whose unsettled presence lingered with him. I sensed her now: the sadness, the loss. I felt something else, too; this woman, whoever she was, had a secret. A secret that she wanted Jack to know. And, unfortunately, she had chosen me to figure out what it was.

I turned my head away to stare out the window and at the old streets of the Holy City and wished, not for the first time, that dead people would just leave me alone.

I
kept my gaze focused outside, not even commenting when Jack made a detour north of Market to make a quick bank run. He parked in front of the bank, an edifice that had become synonymous with “toadstool building,” on the corner of Gadsden and Calhoun. It was easily a contender for the city’s ugliest building and widely disdained by not only the city’s preservationists but also by any passerby with good taste.

“Why did you go so far out of your way? Aren’t there ATMs closer to your parents’ store?” I asked as Jack got back into the car.

He flashed his trademark grin. “Because I happen to know the head teller in this branch, and she always takes the time to make sure I’m a happy customer.”

I pressed my lips firmly together so he could tell I wasn’t amused. “Couldn’t this have waited?”

“Sorry. But I owed my mom some money, and I knew she’d be expecting it the next time she saw me.”

Surprised, I asked, “You borrowed money from your mother?”

“Lost a bet,” he said as he started the car and pulled out onto Calhoun Street.

I smirked. “You made a bet with your mother and lost? What was it about?”

With a sidelong glance, he said, “I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t tell me? Why on earth not? It’s not like you’re a bastion of secrecy. Everything anybody wants to know about you is there for everybody to see on the Internet.”

He set his jaw. “Yeah, well, there’re some things even Google can’t reveal.”

Annoyed that he wouldn’t divulge his secret to me, I crossed my arms. “Like how you can’t stand to lose—even if it’s to your own mother.”

“That, too,” he said, grinning. “Among other things.”

I looked away, not wanting him to see how his sudden need to be private and secretive somehow excited me. Maybe it was because he already seemed to know so much about me. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

We rode in silence for a few blocks until we reached King Street, and he found a curbside parking space not far from Trenholm’s Antiques. I was nervous about meeting Jack’s mother, although not for the reasons he assumed. I stood and straightened my white linen pencil skirt and walked with Jack toward the imposing wood and stained-glass doors that lead inside the venerable antiques store.

The smell affected me in the same way as that of old houses—a reminder of decay and rot, huge repair bills and dead people. It also brought back old memories that I had no wish to ever revisit.

Highly polished dark wood furniture crowded the showroom floor without being overwhelming. Small occasional tables held delicate accessories and complemented the dark red walls and bright gilt chandeliers that shimmered from the ceiling. Oil paintings of various men, women, and children stared down their noses at us from walls capped with decorative moldings, as if trying to show Charleston homeowners how the beautiful furniture and wall hangings would look in their own opulent houses. I had never walked down King Street without peering into these shop windows, wanting to go in and touch the old wood almost as much as I wanted to turn away and forget why I hated old houses and furniture in the first place.

A petite blond woman, with her hair pulled back in a French twist and wearing a St. John suit and Chanel shoes, approached us from the rear of the store. I recognized her immediately as Jack’s mother from the dark blue of her eyes and the elegant shape of her eyebrows. I wondered if he’d learned the inquisitive lift of one eyebrow from her or if it was just some inherited Trenholm trait.

“Jack, darling. It’s about time you decided to drop by and visit with your poor old mother.” She took both of his hands and stood on tiptoes to raise her cheek to be kissed. She had smooth, flawless skin and one of those faces that seemed to get more beautiful with age, as if only good experiences had ever happened to her so as not to mar her complexion with lines and folds. Which didn’t make any sense if she was indeed Jack’s mother. “Did you bring my money?”

He kissed her and then enveloped her with a bear hug that she seemed completely comfortable with and that made me smile. “You get younger ever time I see you, Mother. One day you’ll have to show me where you found your fountain of youth. And, yes, I have your money. We’ll settle up before I leave.”

She smiled and then they both turned identical eyes in my direction. “Mother, I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Melanie Middleton. And, Melanie, this is my mother, Amelia Trenholm.”

She faced me and held out her hand. I shook it, surprised at the firmness of it, considering her skin was as soft as it looked. She continued to hold my hand for a moment longer as she stared in my face, and a sinking feeling crept into the pit of my stomach.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you,” I said in an attempt to avert disaster.

“We’ve met before,” she said, both of her hands now enclosing mine. “At your grandmother’s house on Legare when you were just a little girl. We were good friends, you know, your mother and I.” She peered closely into my face.

“I remember,” I said, finding it hard to meet her eyes. “I just never made the connection between my mother’s friend and Jack’s mother, even though you had the same name. I guess it’s because I didn’t remember you having a son.”

She nodded. “Yes, well, you wouldn’t. When I’d go to see your mother, I’d leave Jack behind. Ginette, well, except for you, she didn’t really enjoy small children.”

I know why,
I wanted to say but remained silent. I’d happily buried the memory of my mother long ago, and I wasn’t about to resurrect her ghost now.

Mrs. Trenholm smiled. “You look like her in the face. You have your father’s eyes, but the rest of you is all Prioleau. Do you sing, too?”

“Not a note,” I said, dropping my hand, eager to change the subject but somehow sad to let go of the warmth of her hand. It had been a very long time since I was reminded of what I had missed for so long. But it was hard to miss something you’d been telling yourself you never really had.

“Do you at least enjoy opera? Your mother’s made quite a name for herself in Europe. I supposed it would be inevitable that you would have an ear for it.”

Jack snickered from behind me. “Mother, she listens to ABBA. I think that says it all.”

I felt like snapping back at Jack how I listened to other music, too, just never opera, but for some reason I wanted to be on my best behavior in front of his mother.

Mrs. Trenholm hooked her hand in the crook of my elbow and smiled. “All music has its merits. Would you like some coffee, dear? I’ve just made a fresh pot. We could sit down and have a nice chat while Jack goes in the back to help his father unpack boxes of silver serving pieces and flatware he brought back from an estate auction in France.”

Jack frowned down at his mother but didn’t argue. “All right, Mother. But don’t mention any of my childhood embarrassments, all right?”

“We’d be here all month if I did that, Jack. Now go help your father. And don’t hurry back.”

Amelia Trenholm gently propelled me toward the back of the store while Jack went through a side door I hadn’t noticed before. An oval mahogany dining table had been set with a Limoges coffee service and white linen place mats and napkins. A tall silver coffee urn sat on a matching sideboard with elegant curved legs, and a silver platter holding dainty pastries sat in the middle of the table.

“Please sit, dear, while I pour the coffee. Or do you prefer tea?”

“Coffee’s fine, thank you.” I stared at the sideboard. “Is that a Thomas Elfe piece?”

She finished pouring coffee into my cup. “Good eye, dear. It’s one of very few still in existence, so not everybody understands the price we’re asking. But I suppose your knowledge of good furniture should be expected.”

My eyes met hers as she placed the delicate china cup and saucer in front of me. “I’m sorry, Melanie. I don’t mean to upset you. But your mother and I were once dear friends, and we still occasionally keep in touch, so I suppose it’s only natural that I would think of her when speaking to you.” She sat down in a Chippendale chair and pulled it up to the head of the table. “I understand why you’re a little prickly every time there’s a mention of your mother—any normal person would be the same. I also understand the circumstances surrounding her departure from your life. So perhaps I can offer some insight. . . .”

I put my coffee cup down with a small rattle. “Mrs. Trenholm, I really have no interest in talking about my mother or even trying to understand her. I’m a big believer in moving forward, and she is definitely part of my past. So, thanks for the coffee, but I think it’s time for me to leave.”

She put a firm hand on my arm, her insistence reminding me so much of her son that I almost smiled. “You have your father’s temper, don’t you? Why don’t you sit down and let’s start all over? I won’t mention your mother, and instead we can sit and chat about Jack. Or about your new house and its furnishings, which I know are marvelous, because I’ve been in the house before at some function or another. And please call me Amelia.”

She removed her hand from my arm and smiled at me, which reminded me of her son, and I relaxed. I settled back down. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so edgy. I think it’s all that’s been happening in my life, lately—first with Mr. Vanderhorst’s passing and my inheriting his house. It makes me lie awake at night.”

Mrs. Trenholm patted my arm and nodded sympathetically. “That’s perfectly understandable. I’d probably be the same way if I were in your situation. No offense taken.”

“Thanks,” I said, and began to add three sugar packets and cream to my coffee. To her credit, she didn’t comment, and instead slid the tray of pastries closer to my plate. Knowing I didn’t need to impress this woman, I helped myself to two of them.

I took a sip of coffee before speaking. “As soon as I complete my inventory of all the furnishings in the house, I’d like to get your help in determining the value of some of the bigger pieces as well as advising me on any repairs. I’m a bit over my head with it all, I’m afraid. My own condo is more Pier One and Pottery Barn than Chippendale and Sheraton.” I laughed at my own joke and was dismayed by Amelia’s grimace.

“Sorry, dear. It’s just a bit of a shock, knowing, well, you were raised with the good stuff and you have a houseful of it now, so I just can’t imagine . . .”

My smile tightened. “I was raised by my father from the age of seven, so I learned not to have anything too valuable or permanent. It saddles you with too much baggage so that it’s harder to move on.”

“I see,” she said, surprising me by smiling brightly. “Now I know why, besides the obvious, Jack feels such a connection to you. You’re both brilliant at denial.”

I almost spit out my coffee. Instead, I stuck a pastry in my mouth to prevent my first words from making it past my lips.

I swallowed and took a sip of my coffee. “Mrs. Trenholm—Amelia—if we can’t steer the conversation away from my past, then I really am going to have to leave. I’m not in denial. I’ve just made peace with my past so that I can move forward.”

Her eyes were warm as she took a sip from her coffee and nodded as if she agreed, but I wasn’t fooled. Still, despite her comments, I felt that I had somehow found an ally.