The Strangers On Montagu Street Part 15

"Sophie, Nola, and me."

There was a heavy pause as her words sank in. Slowly, I said, "You took Sophie and Nola to help pick out a dress for me?" I looked at the bag in horror.

"Technically, no. I took Nola shopping-the poor girl needs clothes that fit in a desperate way-and brought Sophie along to help with that. Sophie knows all the young, hip stores and I don't."

I was having trouble trying to sort through what my mother was telling me. "So you let Sophie pick out clothes for Nola?" I looked around the room. "There's a hidden camera in here somewhere, isn't there?"

My mother turned to the tall armoire behind her and hooked the hanger on one of the doors before unrolling the plastic bag from the bottom. Gradually, something silky and deep, dark red began to appear. "Don't be ridiculous, Mellie. I said Sophie knows where to shop, not how to shop. Nola has a good sense of style. It might not be our style, but she makes it work for her. She knows how to put things together that give her that edgy California-artist look that suits her. Sophie just puts anything together so that she looks like a train wreck, but that somehow suits her, too."

She finished unwrapping the dress, blocking it from my view as if she wasn't ready to reveal it yet. "When I told the saleslady at Berlins what I was looking for, she brought me this dress and I knew this was the one." She stepped aside with a flourish of both arms. "What do you think?"

I stared at the red silk confection, thinking that it belonged more on a starlet on the red carpet than hanging in my bedroom. It was off-the-shoulder, with a plunging sweetheart neckline. The midsection was gathered in to accentuate the waist, then flared in a tango-style hem past the hips. It was . . . exquisite.

"I can't wear that," I said, my voice harsher than I'd intended.

"Why not?" She sounded hurt.

More gently, I said, "It's a very beautiful dress." My mouth opened and closed a few times as I searched for a reason, not completely sure I knew what it was. I continued. "But I can't wear it because for one I'd need a turtleneck to wear under it so n.o.body could see my navel. And for two because it's, well, it's . . . it's not me."

She crossed her arms and lowered her chin. "This dress is you. Or the you that you never allow anybody else to see. You're not all businesswoman, Mellie. You're also a very attractive woman who could use a dress like this to build up her confidence."

"I am confident! I couldn't be successful if I weren't."

"Yes, confident at work. But what about with men? You hide behind your power suits and pearls when you're working. But when you put on a dress like this, you have to rely on your other . . . a.s.sets."

I stared pointedly at the neckline. "I don't have any other . . . a.s.sets."

My mother threw back her head and laughed. "That's not what I was talking about, but not to worry. See the ruching here?" She pointed to the gathered silk that wrapped across the b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "It gives extra volume just where you need it."

I shook my head, trying to clear the image of me wearing that dress. And Jack walking toward me . . .

As if reading my mind, my mother said, "I think Jack will like it."

I stepped closer to the dress, pretending to study it more closely to hide my face. "Why do you care what Jack thinks?"

"Because you obviously do. I'm a.s.suming it was his voice I heard in here last night."

My cheeks heated. "It's not what you're thinking. He came by last night to check on Nola, since she was so upset when we left Julia Manigault's house. I wouldn't have let him in, but apparently he has a key." I looked pointedly at my mother. "What were you thinking, giving him a key?"

My mother feigned innocence. "His daughter is living here with me. I thought it made sense so he could come and go as he wanted." Fluffing out the bottom of the dress, she said, "There were some delectable shoes in the window at Bob Ellis, but you can do that on your own. They're carrying Ann Roth shoes there now-remember the tapestry ones I bought that you love so much? Anyway, Sophie and Nola had joined me by then, and I don't think that store has ever seen Birkenstocks cross their threshold. I didn't want anybody to get upset."

Facing the armoire, she slipped the plastic back over the dress. "Go ahead and try it on. It's your size and I know it will look fabulous on you, but I kept the receipt just in case you want to chicken out and buy something bland that a debutante would wear to the St. Cecilia ball."

I frowned as she kissed me good night on the cheek, wondering why I couldn't shake the image of Jack seeing me in that red dress, and why the thought didn't horrify me as much as it should.

I was in the kitchen making myself a cup of cocoa and finis.h.i.+ng off a box of doughnut holes before I went to bed when Jack brought Nola home. When Jack had said earlier that he was taking Nola out to dinner to get Julia Manigault to leave, I'd never expected it to really happen. I suppose that Jack's valiant defense of Nola in front of a roomful of people made her decide to lighten up a bit where he was concerned and actually agree to spend time alone with him.

I peered out of the kitchen in time to see Nola, with a deep scowl on her face, stomping up the stairs while Jack stood at the bottom frowning as he stared up at her.

"Good night, Nola," he called up to her.

She slammed the door in response.

"So dinner went well," I said, leaning against the doorjamb and taking a sip from my mug.

He saw me for the first time. "Better than a sharp stick in the eye, anyway." He spotted my mug. "What are you drinking?"

"Hot cocoa." I jerked my head in the direction of the kitchen. "Come on; I'll make you some."

"You do know it's summer, right?" he asked, following me into the kitchen.

"Yeah, but there's never a wrong time for hot cocoa."

"I was actually talking about what you're wearing."

I filled the kettle and set it on the stove. "We got the air conditioner fixed, so my mother feels like she needs to make up for lost time by cranking it down to subzero temperatures."

"It actually feels pretty good in here to me."

I dumped four teaspoons of cocoa into a large mug, then remembered it wasn't for me and returned two teaspoons back to the container. "I'm pretty cold-natured," I said, licking the spoon before remembering I needed it to stir in the water.

"I've heard that before," he said, smiling innocently at me as I dumped the spoon in the sink and took a clean one out of the drawer.

I waited for the kettle to whistle, then poured the hot water into the mug before handing it to Jack with the spoon. "Don't burn yourself."

"I've heard that before, too," he said quietly as he blew on his mug.

I took a long sip of cocoa, needing something to open my throat again. "So, where did you go to dinner?"

"Cru Cafe. I hadn't been there in a while but thought Nola might like it. They've got a great menu and a cool atmosphere."

"Yeah, but do they have vegan choices?"

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips on his mug. "Not exactly. They were very accommodating, however, and came up with a pasta-and-risotto dish that Nola seemed to like. She even ordered dessert, which surprised me."

"Good. So the dinner itself wasn't a disaster."

"It wasn't. The food was great, and I actually thought that we were getting along. We stayed away from sore subjects-like her mom, and why I wasn't there while she was growing up. We talked about things like her favorite bands, the differences between California and South Carolina, palmetto bugs." He flashed his award-winning grin at me. "Important things like that."

"So why was she so angry just now?"

"Because I made the mistake when I was standing out on the porch with her of telling her that I thought her mother would want her to pursue her musical talents." He shrugged. "She's obviously gifted-we all heard her, so it's not like I'm the only one who thinks so. And she told me something tonight that explained a lot about why she runs away every time somebody wants to tell her how musically gifted she is."

I leaned forward, my hands cupping the cooling mug. "She says it's because she hates music, but she's never without it-either singing it or listening to it. When she thinks I'm not around, she'll listen to the cla.s.sical music station. The one thing she won't do is pick up her mother's guitar. I've yet to hear her strum a note."

"That doesn't surprise me. That's sort of what I figured out tonight. Nola told me that music made her feel like the ugly stepsister. That's all she'd say on the subject, but it spoke volumes. I think Nola considered music to be her mother's favorite child. It was the one thing Bonnie sacrificed everything for-including her flesh-and-blood daughter. Nola didn't fail her; her music did. Bonnie always had dreams of driving along and hearing one of her songs on the radio. I guess after so many years of trying, she finally gave up, feeling the music had failed her. And that's when she killed herself. Nola must believe that she wasn't enough of a reason for her mother to stick around. That without the music, Bonnie didn't see anything else worth living for."

I regarded Jack silently for a long moment, watching as he drained his mug, then slid it away from him. "I didn't expect that from you."

He looked at me warily. "Expect what?"

"For you to be so astute. For a guy, that was pretty insightful"

His eyes met mine, making me nervous. "I've said this before, Mellie, but I think it bears repeating. There's a lot you don't know about me."

My leg started jiggling, a nervous habit I'd had since childhood, and I stood quickly so he wouldn't notice, then picked up both mugs. "For what it's worth, I think you might be right. Obviously, there were the drugs and alcohol that heavily influenced Bonnie's decision, but Nola's only thirteen. It would make sense that somebody that young who'd lived the life she did would reach that conclusion." I placed the mugs in the sink. "So what do we do now?"

"We?"

I paused, wondering why I'd said that inclusive word as well. And why it had come so naturally. I told myself it was because I liked Nola and I wasn't ready to let her start navigating her life without me, but even I wasn't so adept at lying to myself that I actually thought that was the only reason. Plastering a smile on my face, I turned and leaned against the counter, my arms crossed in front of me. "Jack, you have a teenage daughter. In the not-so-distant future she'll be dating boys. Boys like the boy you used to be. Do you really want to handle it alone?"

His face sobered. "I'm sure there are convents in Ireland where I can send her until she's ready to date. Around the age of thirty or so."

My own smile faltered as I considered something else. "Unless, of course, Rebecca wants to step in."

Jack slid back his chair and snorted. "Who do you think gave me the convent idea?"

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.

Embarra.s.sed, 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 s.e.xy, 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 s.e.xy 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 maitre 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 winegla.s.ses.

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. "h.e.l.lo, 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."