The House on Tradd Street (17 page)

The old grandfather clock in the front drawing room chimed three o’clock, reminding me of my schedule. I clapped my hands together. “Okay, everybody. Since we’re all here, let me go over the schedule for the rest of the afternoon. Sophie, I need you to finish the inventory and then give me an idea of what we should start on first. I’ve already met with one roofing contractor, and I have an appointment to meet with another tomorrow afternoon, so I’ve got that covered. As far as what to do next, I haven’t a clue. I was also hoping you’d give me a list of maybe some of the supplies I need to get.”

“Yo—I can help Sophie with that.” Chad rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Sophie’s eyes widened. “I thought Melanie was taking you out to see some properties this afternoon.”

“Yes, actually, I am.” I glanced at my watch. “And if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss our first appointment.”

Chad glanced from me, to Sophie, then up at the sagging wallpaper. “I don’t know, Melanie. Looks like Sophie could really use my help today. Besides, I was thinking that the warehouse spaces on East Bay you were going to show me today might not work anyhow. It’s a long trip on my bike to the school, you know?”

I sighed, trying not to show my annoyance. After all, I seemed to be getting an extra pair of hands, at least for the rest of the day. “Fine,” I said, resigned. “I’ll look over any properties in your budget that are near the college and call you tomorrow with a game plan.”

Chad sent me two thumbs-up and smiled with his blindingly white teeth. “Sounds like a plan.” He turned to smile at Sophie, and she sent him a weary grin. I’d have to sit her down and have a talk. In my mind they should already be married, and I couldn’t understand why Sophie wasn’t seeing it, too.

The sound of something small but heavy falling onto the wood floor came from the drawing room. General Lee had fallen asleep at Chad’s feet, and I could still hear Mrs. Houlihan in the kitchen, and the rest of us were all together still in the foyer. Jack must have reached the same conclusion since he indicated for us to stand behind him as he approached the drawing room. From his vantage point at the threshold, he had a clear view of the entire empty room. He straightened and I followed him as he walked over to the grandfather clock before bending down again to retrieve something from the floor.

It was the old photo of Mr. Vanderhorst and his mother on the piano bench—the same photo that I had most recently seen on the table by the sofa. Across the room. I moved to Jack’s side to take the frame from him, and it was then that I noticed the heavy scent of roses. “Do you smell that?” I asked.

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. “Smell what?”

Chad and Sophie followed us into the drawing room as Chad sniffed one of his underarms. “It’s not me, whatever it is you’re smelling.”

I watched as Sophie hid a smile. “Never mind,” I said. I looked down at the portrait of mother and son in my hands and felt a cold breath on my cheek. I glanced up quickly, meeting Jack’s eyes.

“What is it?” Jack asked quietly, his eyes measuring.

We looked at each other for a long moment before I turned away. “Nothing,” I said. I smiled at Sophie and Chad. “Mrs. Houlihan must have put it on top of the clock or something while she was dusting, and forgot about it. The vibrations from the chiming clock probably knocked it loose.”

I felt three pairs of eyes staring at me, but not one of them said anything about how tall the clock was or even about how a fall onto hardwood floors didn’t break the glass on the frame. I rubbed the glass against my skirt to get the dust off of it and returned it to its place by the sofa.

When I turned around, Sophie was standing on her tiptoes and peering at the face of the clock. “Did you know this is a William Johnstone, Melanie?”

I shook my head. “Who’s he?” I didn’t know a lot about antique clocks, and I was happy to keep it that way.

Sophie shook her head. “Only about the most prominent clock maker in the country around the time of the Civil War. Not a lot of examples of his work remain locally, which is odd since he was from Charleston. But his rate of production was pretty slow, which could also be the reason why there aren’t too many examples left.”

Jack peered at the naval scene painted on the face. “I also seem to recall that he was a Confederate cavalry officer. And very good friends with your Mr. Vanderhorst, Mellie.”

Sophie pulled on the brass handle of the glass door covering the face of the clock. “This is really weird,” she said, straining to see higher.

“What?” I asked, peering over her shoulder.

She pointed to the demilune painting that filled the top quarter of the face. “On all of the Johnstone clocks I’ve seen or studied, they always have pastoral scenes. It was sort of his trademark. His mother was Dutch, and before the war they always had dairy cows on their plantation on the Ashley. But this—” She shook her head. “The face shows what looks like a battle scene from Charleston Harbor, and the little rotating half-circle inset which shows daylight and nighttime looks like a bunch of signal flags in a row. I wonder if they say anything.” She put her heels down and faced us. “The picture makes a full rotation every twenty-four hours, so we could take a picture every three hours to get the whole thing.”

I felt three pairs of eyes on me again. “I go to bed at nine thirty. Ten on weekends—tops. Besides, with the condition of the rest of the house, this should be on the very bottom of the priority list.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Since I love mysteries, and I’m a night owl, I’ll volunteer to sleep on the couch with a camera.” He grinned innocently at me. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

“That’s doubtful,” I said, frowning but feeling an unmistakable rush of excitement traipse up my spine. I hadn’t really been all that thrilled about spending a night alone in the big house by myself, and his presence—anybody’s presence, I tried to convince myself—would be welcome. “But go ahead if you want. Just know that I’ll be very cranky if my sleep is disrupted.”

Jack winked. “And that would be different how . . . ?”

Sophie snorted and Chad coughed into his hand. I sent them both a glaring look.

Sophie began backing out of the room and Chad followed her. “I’d better get busy with this inventory. It could take a while.”

Chad sent us a small wave. “Later, dudes,” he said before disappearing with Sophie.

I was about to protest being called a “dude” when Jack drew my attention back to the clock. He had pulled aside the curtain next to it, revealing the penciled lines I had discovered on my first visit to the house with Mr. Vanderhorst.

“MBG—this must be the growth chart you were telling me about.”

I stood next to him, appreciating the smell of his cologne but trying very hard not to show it. “Yeah. It’s sweet, isn’t it?”

“What did you say it stood for?”

He stood very close to me in the crowded space, and I focused my gaze on the chart. “My best guy. Mr. Vanderhorst said that’s what his mother called him.”

I sensed him nodding. “Not the sort of thing a mother would call a son she planned to abandon.”

“I thought the same thing.” I brushed my hand over a section of the small lettering. “I was thinking about covering this whole part of the wall with clear Plexiglas to preserve it when we repaint the wall.”

He didn’t say anything, so I turned my head, too late realizing that we were almost nose to nose.

“Careful, Mellie,” he said quietly. “People might begin to think that you’re getting sentimental.”

I felt flustered and breathless all at the same time. I took a quick step back. “I’m not getting sentimental—just practical. Preserving that part of the house’s history could make it more valuable.”

His eyes continued to bore into mine but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

I began to back away. “I’ve got to get back to the office and make a few phone calls. I’ll be back later to help you in the attic.”

I was almost out of the room before he said, “Bye, Mellie.”

I faced him, glad to have something to be angry about. “I think I’ve told you, Jack, that I don’t like being called ‘Mellie.’ ”

With a self-righteous toss of my hair, I spun around and headed for the front door, pleased to have had the last word. I almost had it closed behind me when I heard Jack call out, “Bye, dude.”

I slammed the door, then covered my mouth with my hand so nobody could hear me laugh.

I
arrived back at the house around six thirty, dismayed to find my fa-ther’s car parked at the curb. The only thought that saved me from sinking into a complete funk was the fact that Chad had called me earlier to ask if he could take General Lee home with him until I was ready to take care of the little dog. Feigning uncertainty, which I’m sure didn’t fool Chad at all, I’d agreed.

As I fumbled for my keys on the front porch, I spoke to the closed door. “Don’t mess with me tonight. I am not in the mood.”

The door was reassuringly locked as I pressed my key into the lock and turned it, the warm aromas of lasagna and garlic bread greeting me through the opened door. Still clutching my bags of supplies from the local home-improvement store, purchased with a list from Sophie, I resignedly followed the sound of male voices coming from the drawing room.

I was relieved to find that Mrs. Houlihan had taken the dust covers off of the rest of the furniture, and I could smell polish and vinegar melding with that of the food. Despite the tired ruin of the once resplendent room, it did appear marginally brighter. My father sat on the sofa and was in the middle of a conversation with Jack, who sat perched on a Chippendale chair opposite. I tensed as they both turned to me.

Jack stood and approached me with outstretched arms. “Let me take those.” He peeked inside. “Looks like you’re going to have a lot of stuff to put on your work sheet.”

Ignoring him, I took a seat next to his chair, while he placed the packages on the floor next to the grandfather clock. Two tall glasses of what looked like ice water sat on coasters on the dark wood coffee table that crouched low to the floor on ball and claw feet.

“Hello, Dad. I’m surprised to see you here.”

He smiled, the old smile I remembered from when I was a young girl and he was still the perfect father. “Mrs. Houlihan called and I couldn’t resist the offer of a home-cooked meal.”

I wondered if that was meant to be a dig at me for not cooking for my father at all, much less on a regular basis. But I thought not. He and I had long since progressed from mere digs. “I meant that bars are usually open by now, aren’t they? I didn’t expect you here for dinner.”

He flinched and I looked away, feeling sorry for both of us. But it was hard to find forgiveness for a man who’d taught his ten-year-old daughter how to force an aspirin down the throat of a drunk man so that he’d be able to face going to work the next morning. And I couldn’t forget how that same ten-year-old had learned to wake up early and get herself ready for school so that she could make sure her father actually made it to work.

Jack picked up both glasses. “Looks like we could both use a refill. Can I get you anything, Mellie?”

My dad’s eyes searched my face for some sort of reaction to the name but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Sweet tea, please. With lemon.”

We listened to Jack’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway. My dad leaned on his elbows, his hands folded together. I noticed they were shaking but he seemed unable to make it stop. “Your mother called again. She was wondering if I’d given you her message.”

My eyes met his. “What did you tell her?”

He shrugged and I noticed his shoulders were softer than I remembered, rounded like an old man’s. It was with a little jolt that I realized he would be sixty-five in a couple of years, a senior citizen and not the handsome, young father in the sharp-looking uniform anymore. But he hadn’t been that man for a very long time. Sometimes, I even wondered if I’d made him up in my young girl dreams—a fantasy I had devised to soften the edges of my life.

“I told her that you would call her when you were ready. And that I didn’t think it would be anytime soon. She said she had something important to tell you.”

I looked down at my clasped hands, noticing the whiteness at the tips from clenching them too tightly. I felt the old anger, born of grief and abandonment, tumble through my veins like a storm surge. Meeting my father’s eyes, I said, “If she calls you again, please let her know that I got her message.”

His eyes widened. “Are you going to call her back?”

“No.”

Jack walked back into the room and gave us our drinks. I took mine and gulped it until all that was left was clinking ice, trying to fill that part of me that had remained empty for so many years.

Jack watched me as I placed my glass back on the coaster. I gave him a look I hoped he understood meant to remain silent, then dug in my purse for the receipt for the supplies. I slid it across the coffee table to my father. “Here’s the receipt from today’s shopping trip, and I’m sure there’s going to be a lot more. I had the alarm company send the bill directly to you, so you should be getting that anyday now.” I swallowed, trying to find a nonchalant tone to continue. “I am going to suggest opening up a separate checking account for me to write checks on and have access to cash for use on the house. I can supply you with the receipts on a monthly basis for you to verify where the funds are being spent. That way, you won’t have to come here at all.”