The House on Tradd Street (26 page)

“Oh,” I said, no other words coming readily to my tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought . . .” I swallowed, trying to recall exactly what it was I had been thinking. I certainly needed the help, and surely I was old enough that I didn’t have to punish a father who had ceased to be a factor in my life many years before. For an answer, I shrugged.

He slapped his palms against his thighs. “Great. I’m glad we’re in agreement on this matter. I can be there at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You can just leave my revised schedule on one of the porch rockers, and I’ll get it.”

“Fine,” I said, trying to think back to the last time my father had voluntarily awoken before noon. And then I remembered something else: a memory of my father with a shovel in the backyard of another house, making holes for hydrangea bushes. It didn’t matter that we didn’t live there long enough to see them bloom. It mattered that I remembered and that he’d been sober and happy when he’d thought to plant bushes in front of our rental unit. “How about the garden? There are some rare rosebushes in the back behind the fountain. The rest of the yard is pretty much a weed fest. I’m afraid that if I pull weeds, I wouldn’t recognize the difference between what should stay and what should go.”

His smile brightened, and I thought,
He remembers, too
, and I looked away so he couldn’t see my smile.

“I’d like that,” he said gruffly. “I haven’t had a garden in a very long time.”

“Good, it’s settled then.” I straightened the papers on my lap and stood.

“Oh, one more thing.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

I opened it and read a name and phone number. “What’s this?”

“Sophie mentioned that there’s some wood rot on the mantelpiece in the upstairs drawing room, as well as on some of the cornices above the doors downstairs. One of my buddies owns an antiques salvage yard, and if he knows what you’re looking for, he can get it for you. He swears that he doesn’t do any of the demolitions, that he’s just there to give remnants from demolished houses a second life, but it would still be better if you didn’t mention it to Sophie. She gets real emotional when you talk about tearing down old houses.”

“That she does,” I said as I tucked the piece of paper into my purse. “For such a smart person, she can be pretty stupid when it comes to old houses.”

“Careful, Melanie. I hear it’s contagious.”

I snorted. “Don’t worry. I’m immune.”

He stared at me for a moment. “Sure, you are.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d like to spend this afternoon researching Charleston gardens and yours in particular to give me an idea of what it should look like. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just see you tomorrow at the house.”

“Fine,” I said, still wary. “See you tomorrow.”

I watched as he walked away, disappearing into the clusters of tourists and school groups. Then I turned around and began to make my way back to the office, avoiding the little cannon that wasn’t what it seemed, and the memory of the mother who had once held my hand and told me stories that I remembered still.

 
 
There were so many vehicles parked outside the house that I had to park my car two blocks away, meaning I was sweating and annoyed by the time I reached the house. As I opened the door to the piazza, I was horrified to see Marc Longo sitting on one of the porch rockers, his fingers tapping frantically into his BlackBerry. He smiled, then slid it into his jacket pocket as he stood.

Thankfully ignoring my perspiring face and limp hair, he said, “You’re looking beautiful today as always, Melanie.” He took my hands and kissed me on both cheeks. I couldn’t keep myself from being grateful that Jack hadn’t been around to witness his actions, because I’m sure I wouldn’t stop hearing about them for weeks.

“What a nice surprise,” I said. “But did I forget an appointment?”

“Not at all.” He sent me a reproachful look. “I’m hoping that we’re good enough friends now that I wouldn’t need an appointment to see you again.”

“No, of course not—it’s just, well, I know how busy you are, and I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

He took my hands in his again. “I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you since our dinner. Very distracting, you know.”

I blushed under the intensity of his gaze and tried to come up with a suave response that didn’t involve stammering or more blushing. I remained silent.

He continued. “I also wanted to find out if you already had plans for this weekend. I have a house on Isle of Palms right on the beach, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a little end-of-the-week rest and relaxation.”

I opened my mouth to respond, wanting to say yes and no at the same time, and confusing myself in the process. Here was an exceptionally handsome and successful man asking me to spend the weekend at his beach house, but there was also the fact that I had known him for less than a week. Despite my being thirty-nine in real time, my dating age was closer to thirteen.

After watching my mouth move for several moments, Marc said, “Don’t worry. There are eight bedrooms and you’d have one all to yourself. I just wanted to spend more time with you without . . . distractions.” He jerked his head in the direction of the house, where hammering had begun somewhere inside.

“That’s so nice of you to offer,” I finally managed. “I just don’t know if I can get away with all the work that’s going on in the house. . . .”

The piazza door opened and Chad breezed in, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cutoff jeans and carrying his yoga mat under one arm and General Lee, now sporting a red bandanna, under the other. “Hey, Melanie. What’s up?”

He leaned the yoga mat against the front of the house, then stuck his hand out toward Marc. “Chad Arasi,” he said, introducing himself. “Are you one of the roofer dudes who’s supposed to come today? Sophie told me to be on the lookout for you in case you got here before she did.”

“Hi, Chad,” I said, feeling Marc stiffen beside me. “Mr. Longo is another client of mine. And a friend,” I hastily added. “I haven’t seen the roofing people yet, but I’ll go talk to them when they get here.”

I turned to Marc. “Dr. Arasi is a professor of art history at the college. He’s had some renovation experience and has kindly donated his time to help.”

Marc took the offered hand but pulled it back quickly when General Lee began a low growl, baring small fangs that looked about as fierce as marshmallows.

Chad pulled General Lee back. “Whoa, little doggie. That’s no way to be nice.” Looking back at Marc, he said, “Sorry about that. Don’t know what came over the little guy. He’s usually just chillin’.”

Marc smiled but it did nothing to alter General Lee’s opinion of him. The little dog continued to growl and bare his teeth until the front door opened and Jack stuck his head out. The dog leapt from Chad’s arms and ran to Jack, who quickly scooped General Lee up and began scratching him behind the ears like somebody who’d owned dogs all of his life.

Jack stuck a hand out to Marc. “Well, hey, there, Matt. Glad you could stop by again so soon. Hope you brought a change of clothes, because this kind of work can get messy.”

Marc shook Jack’s hand halfheartedly. “It’s Marc, actually, and I was just stopping by to say hello to Melanie and to issue an invitation for this weekend. I don’t think she’s answered me yet, however.”

Jack looked at me, his eyes penetrating. “Well, except for working on the house, I know I’m free. What about you, Mellie?”

I wish he’d been standing closer because I would have kicked him. I smiled, hoping he could read the real message in my eyes. “I believe the invitation was just for me, Jack. But I wasn’t sure what was going on this weekend at the house. I haven’t done the work schedules that far in advance.”

Jack held up a palm. “Say no more. I understand. I’m sure the four of us and the assorted hangers-on can manage without Mellie for a weekend. Just bring your phone in case of emergencies. You never know what can go wrong with one of these old houses.”

“Four of you?” Marc raised an eyebrow.

Jack nodded. “Yep. There’s Chad here and myself, Mellie’s friend Sophie and Mellie’s dad. We’ll all be working here this weekend.”

“Well, then,” Marc said, “looks like you’ve got it covered. And I’m sure you’d agree that Melanie here could use a little bit of rest and relaxation. She’s had a difficult month.”

Jack’s smile didn’t dim. “And I guess you would know best.”

We had all managed to walk into the foyer at some point in the awkward conversation. Chad passed us and was now staring into the drawing room with his hands on his hips, surveying the broken chandelier lying on the floor and the hole in the ceiling. “Man, that must have hurt.”

The three of us moved to stand behind Chad in the doorway. “Luckily, no one was in here when it happened,” I said.

Marc kneeled in front of the chandelier and was inspecting it closely. “Looks like it’s Italian. I wonder if it’s even repairable.” He picked up a loose teardrop pendant. “Of course, you could always sell if for salvage. Old-house owners are always looking for the odd crystal pendant missing from their grandmother’s chandelier.”

“Actually, it’s nineteenth-century Baccarat and worth a fortune.” Sophie had come in without me hearing her and was standing next to Chad in an identical position with her hands on her hips. She was frowning at Marc as she spoke. “I have an expert coming in tomorrow to take it to be repaired. Luckily, it fell on the rug and not the hard floor, so it’s not as irreparable as one would think. It will be expensive to repair, but compared to its value, it’s nothing.”

Marc stood, brushing off his pants knees as he did. “That’s amazing. You’d think it was made of diamonds or something.” He watched me closely as he spoke, making me wonder if I had missed something.

“It definitely wasn’t,” said Sophie, leaning down to pick up a crushed piece of crystal that had been half hidden under the rug. “The poor Aubusson would have a huge hole in the middle if that were the case.” She held up the crushed crystal in her open palm. “Diamonds are a lot more lethal to old rugs than crystal.” She smiled before dropping the pendant into her pocket.

“Oh, my goodness! What happened in here?” We all turned around to find Mrs. Trenholm standing behind us in the doorway, taking in the damage. Her eyes finally settled on Jack. “Please tell me that you had nothing to do with this.”

Jack reached her side and kissed her on both cheeks in greeting. “No, Mother. It just fell out of the old plaster. But thank you for thinking me capable of ripping a chandelier out of a fourteen-foot-high ceiling.”

Mrs. Trenholm shook her head sadly. “I knew you as a toddler, remember.” She approached the chandelier. “Definitely Baccarat. Mid-nineteenth century would be my guess. And certainly worth repairing.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” said Sophie as she offered her hand and then introduced herself.

I greeted Jack’s mother and then introduced the remaining people in the room, ending with Marc.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Longo. I believe we spoke several times on the phone last spring regarding the Gibbes Museum’s AIDS benefit.” She raised an elegant eyebrow, and I thought I could see Marc squirm under her scrutiny.

“Yes. I do remember. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mrs. Trenholm.”

“Likewise,” she said with a polite smile.

I introduced Amelia to Sophie and Chad, then turned my attention to her. “Thanks for coming by. Please excuse the mess.” I indicated the tarps covering the marble floor in the entranceway and the short scaffolding Chad had been erecting in the foyer to begin the arduous process of peeling off fifty-year-old wallpaper without damaging the 150-year-old handpainted wallpaper underneath. With much frowning and agitated sighs, Sophie had finally agreed to show Chad how to do it, figuring it would keep him away from her for a good long while. Chad’s eagerness had bordered on pathetic.

“It’s not a mess, dear. Just a work in progress. And I’m sorry to intrude. Jack called me this morning and wanted me to take a look at some of the things he found in the attic.”

I faced Jack. “Did you finish going through everything already?”

“I couldn’t sleep after you left last night.” He paused—the innuendo intentional, I was sure. “So I decided to finish sorting through the attic. I brought most of the boxes and smaller items and stored them in the two extra bedrooms on my side of the house. The bigger stuff—like your buffalo—I left up there. When Mom’s done, Chad here can help me move the more valuable furniture to other spots in the house—at least until we get the roof repaired.”

“I’m working on it,” said Sophie. “I’ve got our paperwork into the BAR, and I’m waiting to hear from them. Hopefully we’ll just be rubber-stamped. In the meantime, I’ve got some guys coming over today to patch some of those holes over the attic.”

Marc crossed his arms and frowned. “Ah, yes. The BAR. Aren’t they the ones referred to as the second cousin who comes for a visit and stays too long?” Marc looked around for corroboration.

His words echoed my sentiments exactly, but hearing them said out loud embarrassed me, made me feel like an impostor, reminded me that there had been a time when I’d once thought that the oak-lined streets of the historic district were the most beautiful streets in the world.

Marc clasped his hands together at the deafening silence. “Well, then, would this be a good time for a tour?”

“Sure,” I said, avoiding Jack’s glance. “Let’s head up to the attic first to show Mrs. Trenholm some of the treasures Jack’s uncovered, if you’d like to get started there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, heading eagerly toward the staircase. The rest of us followed, including General Lee, who seemed to be adopting the annoying habit of gluing himself to my side whenever we were in the same room together.

As we walked up the stairs, Mrs. Trenholm paused halfway, admiring the view into the foyer. “You truly are lucky, Melanie. I know many people who would just kill to get their hands on this furniture, much less the house! Speaking of which, I have connections with several museums, two of whom have expressed an interest in housing some of your collections while you’re in a state of renovation. I was thinking mostly of some of the museum-quality pieces Jack suspects you might have in your attic, but now that I see the extent of the work being done in the house, you might consider lending a few of the other pieces that are in the way.” She looked around her again with narrowed eyes. “How long are you anticipating the restoration will take?”