Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
The Strangers on Montagu Street (26 page)
I nodded, understanding completely. “So,” I repeated, “what do we do now?”
He stood, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll arrange a schedule with Miss Manigault. But for the first few times, at least until Nola’s comfortable, I’d love it if you and your mother wouldn’t mind taking her over. She’s much happier when you two are around, and I thought that might help acclimate her.”
“So Nola agreed to go?” I knew his powers of persuasion were legendary, but he’d seemed to hit a brick wall where his daughter was concerned.
“Not exactly. But she agreed to go at least once, if only to prove to Miss Manigault that she’s not lazy. I’ll figure out a way to convince her to keep going.”
He began to walk toward me, and I kept my arms folded across my chest. “I’d like to go back, and Julia requested that I accompany Nola. She knew who I was—about me seeing ghosts. I think she wants me to help her with the spirits that are haunting the dollhouse—and her house, apparently. I saw one both times I was there, and he wasn’t the warm, fuzzy sort.”
Jack stopped in front of me, his gaze resting on my folded arms. “Yeah, I thought there was something besides the desire to teach music to Nola that brought her over here. And the way she talked about that doll that looked like her brother, William, I knew there was something she wasn’t telling us. So of course I went to see Yvonne and did a little research.”
Yvonne Craig worked at the library of the South Carolina Historical Society and had been a huge resource for both Jack and me in searching through historical archives relating to both my house on Tradd Street and my mother’s house. She was at least eighty years old but looked two decades younger. And had a huge crush on Jack, of course.
It was my turn to raise a brow. “And what did you find?”
“That her brother, William Manigault, disappeared from the public record in 1938, which, coincidentally or not, is the same year the Manigaults sold the dollhouse. The same year Julia’s mother, Anne Manigault, was committed to a home for the mentally weak. She died a year later.”
“But as you’ve said more than once, there’s no such thing as coincidence,” I said.
“Exactly.” He reached a hand toward me.
I held my breath and waited, then felt his fingers brush something off my chin. “Powdered sugar,” he said, bringing his hand back down to his side.
Embarrassed, I tried to think of something witty to say but was cut short by the sound of a radio blaring at high volume. We both followed the sound out of the kitchen, then stopped, trying to make sense of what we were seeing. Floating from seemingly thin air, pages and pages of loose sheet music drifted like snow into the foyer, carpeting the floor like rose petals.
“What the . . . ?” Jack began before we heard a door being flung open with enough force to crash into the wall, the song from the radio, “I’m Just Getting Started,” even louder now.
“Mellie!” Nola shrieked as she skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs. In her hands she held Bonnie’s guitar, each and every string snapped in half and curling over the brown varnished wood of the guitar’s body.
Something flew through the air and whizzed by my face, striking Jack in the arm.
“Ouch,” he said, before leaning down to pick up whatever had hit him. Our eyes met over the dollhouse figure of William Manigault.
“Nope,” he said. “There’re no such thing as coincidence.”
I looked up the stairs at a white-faced Nola watching another sheet of music floating past her face.
I put my foot on the first step and looked down, the acrid scent of smoldering carpet heavy in my nostrils. The words “Stop her” had been burned into the runner, the edges still smoldering.
My worried gaze met Jack’s. “This is probably the only time you’ll ever hear me say this, but I think you might be right.”
CHAPTER 16
I
parked my car on Queen Street, then studied my face in the rearview mirror. I was meeting Marc for dinner at Husk, and I wanted to make sure I conveyed the right message: not too sexy, not too interested. Just dinner between old friends, if you could even call us that. He’d left a message with Charlene earlier, saying that he had reservations at seven and that he had something important to tell me. I’d tried to call him back to find out more, but his secretary had said he was in meetings all day and couldn’t be reached. I’d left a message with her, saying I’d be there, then proceeded to spend two hours in my closet trying to find the right outfit that would make me appear as neutral as Switzerland.
parked my car on Queen Street, then studied my face in the rearview mirror. I was meeting Marc for dinner at Husk, and I wanted to make sure I conveyed the right message: not too sexy, not too interested. Just dinner between old friends, if you could even call us that. He’d left a message with Charlene earlier, saying that he had reservations at seven and that he had something important to tell me. I’d tried to call him back to find out more, but his secretary had said he was in meetings all day and couldn’t be reached. I’d left a message with her, saying I’d be there, then proceeded to spend two hours in my closet trying to find the right outfit that would make me appear as neutral as Switzerland.
I locked the car door, then tried to wipe a finger smudge off the back window left by a client’s child. I made a mental note to get my car detailed later to not only remove all finger and nose smudges, but also the french fries embedded in my carpets and sticky drips from leaking juice boxes off the leather upholstery. It was part of doing business, and since the clients had purchased a nice single home on Rutledge, it took the edge off of the sugar-coated seats and smudgy doors.
I recognized Marc walking toward me on the sidewalk, both of us habitually early for any appointment. We hugged and gave double cheek kisses and then I waited as he held me at arm’s length.
“Always beautiful, Melanie, but tonight especially.”
I blushed, wondering whether the Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress leaned too far on the sexy side and whether I should have worn a camisole underneath so the V-neck wouldn’t have seemed so, well, “V”-shaped. “Thank you, Marc. And you look handsome and suave, as usual.”
We stood smiling at each other for a moment in mutual admiration until Marc looked behind me to frown at my car. “I wish you’d have allowed me to come pick you up.”
“I know, but I had a late appointment and didn’t know whether I’d have time to go home first,” I lied. I’m not sure why I wanted to have my own transportation other than the certainty that being desperate and lonely wasn’t a good combination when having dinner with a man I wasn’t sure I even liked.
Marc offered his arm and I took it as he led me toward the restaurant. The building was a restored double house with a sweet-smelling fountain filled with flowers dominating the small garden. As we walked up the steps to the front porch, I spotted a woman in period costume from the 1860s holding a baby. She was staring at me like she needed to ask me something. Turning to Marc, I said, “I love the costumed actors.”
He gave me a confused glance, causing me to look back at the woman, who was now walking toward me, close enough that I could see the courtyard fountain through her. Out of habit, I quickly turned away and walked through the front door, humming ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” and causing Marc to send me another look.
The maître d’ greeted Marc by name and escorted us to a cozy table for two by a window overlooking Queen Street. Despite the antique exterior of the home, the interior was done in a soothing contemporary style, with cool blue walls and floor-to-ceiling curtains done in a fabric of bright splotches of color that resembled flowers. The restaurant was crowded, the low hubbub of voices a soothing backdrop to the sounds of silverware on black skillet plates and the clinking of wineglasses.
I paused in front of our table, where a bottle of champagne sat chilling in an ice bucket, two flutes sitting next to it. A pang of panic hit me as my eyes darted around for a ring box. As far-flung as that conclusion seemed to be, I couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d have brought me here for a celebratory dinner. Besides, I’d never been proposed to before, so I had no frame of reference.
“Mellie? Matt? Is that you?”
We both whipped around to a neighboring table for two by the side window, where Jack was in the process of standing. Rebecca looked pretty in a bland Barbie-doll way, in a pink sundress with a bow on one of the straps, and looking less than thrilled to see us. I remembered what Sophie had said about my own expression when I saw Jack with Rebecca and forced my face to remain neutral.
Jack approached with his hand held out to Marc. “What a thrill to see you both here; isn’t it, Rebecca?”
Rebecca nodded, her enthusiasm tepid. She stood, too, and I wasn’t sure whether it was to embrace me—which she did, including a kiss on each cheek, or to show off her adorable pink linen peep-toe platform pumps. “Hello, cousin,” she said, following my gaze. “Aren’t they great? They’re from the Ann Roth summer collection. I got them at Bob Ellis.”
“My mother mentioned I needed to stop by the store—I guess I’ll have to.”
She sent me an odd look, as if just remembering something.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing, really. Just when you mentioned your mother it reminded me of a dream I had the other night.”
I raised both eyebrows. Rebecca’s psychic inheritance had been the gift of prophetic dreams. But, as with communicating with ghosts, her visions usually lacked clarity but were more like puzzle pieces given upside down and out of order. “About my mother?”
“Yes.” She gave a little laugh. “She was holding a baby. Of course, the baby could be symbolic—like the start of something new for her. Or even about her relationship with you, her only child. Obviously, your mother is past menopause, so it’s doubtful the dream has a literal interpretation, although there are certain scientific breakthroughs that would allow . . .”
I held up my hand. “That’s enough, thank you. I’ll let her know. Maybe she’ll have an idea what it’s about.”
We turned back to the men, who were waiting with restrained impatience. I noticed that both Jack and Rebecca were surreptitiously eyeing the champagne and flutes. Marc noticed and stepped back to give them a better view. “Yes, Melanie and I are about to celebrate some very exciting news.”
When he offered nothing more, Rebecca and Jack turned to me. I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m in the dark, too, I’m afraid.”
Marc continued. “And I’d invite you both to share in the celebration, but we only have room for two, and it’s a full house tonight.”
Jack had already turned and begun to drag his table next to ours, ignoring the glowers of the maître d’, the other diners, and Marc. “Problem solved,” he said, straightening the silverware before retrieving their chairs.
Our waiter appeared, his smile trying to hide his annoyance at having to weave through the crowded aisle to reach us. “Two more champagne flutes?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Marc said, his tone and his expression holding a hint of restraint and something else, something that reminded me of a smoldering fire that was about to have a revitalizing puff of air bring it to life.
“And a bottle of sparkling apple cider for me, please,” Jack said to the waiter.
Marc held out a chair for Rebecca to sit, then took the chair next to hers, leaving Jack and me on the opposite side, with me facing Marc. We proceeded to engage in innocuous small talk that said nothing while the glances shooting among the four of us spoke volumes. Rebecca’s attention was divided almost equally between Marc and Jack, while I preferred to concentrate more on the excellent menu. I was starving and I saw no reason to embroil myself in the undercurrent of whatever was flowing between Jack and Marc. And Rebecca and Jack. And Marc and Rebecca. It was exhausting, and I really, really needed to eat before I drank a glass of champagne.
We ordered a first course of salads and locally harvested oysters while the sommelier appeared with two more glasses and Jack’s sparkling cider.
“So, what are we celebrating tonight?” Jack asked, his jovial question edged with something hard and sharp. I watched as his gaze slid to my empty left ring finger before his eyes met mine with a look of . . . relief?
“Yes,” Rebecca said, turning to Marc. “I’ve been dying to know since I saw the champagne bottle.” Long lashes swept over her crystal-blue eyes, and I wanted to tell her she looked more like a talking baby doll than the sexy woman I was sure she was trying to be. I almost expected her to say, “Change me,” next.
We sat with our glasses in our hands, each of us with an unreadable expression. Raising his glass, Marc said, “To my book. It’s been scheduled for a December first release, and the publisher is going to be pushing it big-time in all the stores for a huge Christmas sellout. My print run is already through the roof, and the preorders are beyond even my expectations. They’re not promising anything, but my publisher’s saying he’s expecting it to be top ten on all the major lists. And . . .” He paused for emphasis. “Sony Pictures has just purchased the film rights, and they’re already talking to Ben Affleck about playing the lead.”
Rebecca, Marc, and I took long sips, while I noticed Jack just pretended to hold the glass to his lips. Rebecca put her glass down and clapped her hands. “Tell us more! I’m sure I’ll be able to get you some front-page coverage in the paper, since you’re local. And I’m still doing some freelance work for
Charleston
magazine, too, so maybe we can set up an interview and see what happens.”
Charleston
magazine, too, so maybe we can set up an interview and see what happens.”
“Yes,” Jack said slowly. “Tell us more. We’re all dying to hear.” His eyebrows knitted. “I thought you were self-publishing your book for a few friends and family.”
Marc sent him a withering look. “Actually, it’s being published by Bigglesmann House in New York. It’s one of the largest publishers.”
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