The Strangers On Montagu Street Part 5

"Does Nola have a diary?"

Warily, I said, "I have no idea. Why?"

"I'm just thinking that if she won't open up to us, maybe we should try to find her diary to see in her own words what's going on in her head. There might even be stuff in there about Bonnie."

I started shaking my head before he'd even finished speaking. "No way. Uh-uh. Even if she does have a diary, it's off-limits to you, or to me, or anybody but Nola." I thought of my own teenage diary and how humiliated I would have been for anybody to have read it, but not for the reasons one might imagine. My diary during those awkward teenage years (and even beyond, if I wanted to be honest) consisted solely of lists of what I'd worn each day, to make sure I wouldn't repeat an outfit in a certain period of time. I was so hopeless and pathetic there wasn't even one remark about a crush on a particular boy or hating my parents.

He at least had the decency to look abashed. "Yeah, you're right. I'm a guy, you know? I don't always consider all angles before I speak."

I cleared my throat. "You know, Jack, for someone with such a long track record with women as you claim to have, you're a little clueless about the younger versions."

A wicked grin spread across his face. "Tell that to Mary Beth May-bank, who sat in front of me in math cla.s.s in seventh grade."

I raised an eyebrow and Jack shrugged. "She was an early developer. I could unhook her bra through her sweater in five seconds flat. Made me a hero with the other guys when she had to get up to go to the girls' room to fix it."

"That's different. This is your daughter. Imagine some teenage boy doing that to Nola."

His face changed immediately and I have to admit to being a little scared. "I'd kill him."

"Exactly. This is uncharted territory for you, Jack. For both of us, really. But at least I have faint memories of actually being a teenage girl once upon a time so that maybe I can relate a little. From what I remember about my own thought processes back then, I think the only choice you have is to be patient and to keep trying to get through to her. And not be too upset at the repeated rejections. She'll come around as soon as she realizes that she's safe here and that she's got a family who loves her, bad fas.h.i.+on sense and all." I kept to myself how Jack's concern for his daughter was a completely unexpected-and totally appealing-quality. Maybe a little too appealing.

"Still," he said, straightening, "I'm going to try to find out as much about Bonnie as possible. Maybe there's something that can help me bond with Nola. I've got nothing else, so I might as well start there."

I was about to tell him that being a concerned and present father was the best place to start-something I did happen to know about-and that he'd already covered that, but my phone rang. I slid it out of my pocket and looked at the number.

"It's my mother," I said to Jack, then held the phone to my ear. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Your father's sleeping, so I thought now would be a good time to speak to you about that dollhouse."

My father, a lifelong disbeliever in all things that went b.u.mp in the night, had recently seen his first ghost, the long-dead Hessian soldier who'd resided in my mother's ancestral home for a couple of centuries. Although he still denied their existence, explaining what he'd seen as a trick of the light or my own projected imagination, his resistance wasn't nearly as adamant as it had once been.

"What about it? You said all you could see was a bright white light."

She was silent for a moment. "At first, yes. But . . ."

"But what?" I prodded.

"There was something behind the light. Something . . . bad. But somebody, something, was preventing me from seeing it. To protect me or them, I don't know. Whatever you do, don't put it in Nola's room until we can find out for sure what it's all about."

I frowned into the phone. "It's a little late for that." I glanced at Jack and he was frowning, too.

I listened to my mother breathe into the phone. "Then be very, very careful. Keep an eye on Nola and her behavior. Let me know if you see her acting strangely, or becoming overly negative."

"Really, Mother? Like how could I tell the difference?"

"Never mind. You'll be moving here within the week, so I'll be able to keep an eye on her, too. Maybe even suggest she keep the thing downstairs."

"Good luck with that. She's very pigheaded about what she wants. She gets it from her father." I glanced at Jack to see him scowling at me.

"Be that as it may, keep a close eye on her, and let me know when I can expect you."

"It might be another week. Amelia and I are still trying to coordinate where all the big pieces of furniture are going. I don't suppose I need to be here for that. And I-"

My words were cut off by a m.u.f.fled scream from inside the house. Before I could tell my mother I'd call her back, Jack was already inside and sprinting up the stairs. I reached Nola's room right behind him and had to stop for a moment to register what I was seeing.

General Lee, a dog more closely resembling a teddy bear than a wolf, had his teeth bared and he was snarling in the direction of the dollhouse, where Nola stood glowering at him. I was sure that if she could curl her lips above her teeth, she'd be snarling, too.

"What happened?" Jack demanded, his voice a lot calmer than how I knew we both felt.

Nola's hair was soaking wet and dripping on the rug and wood floors, but I didn't think it was a good time to point it out. "I went to take a shower and when I got back the dog must have been messing with my dollhouse, because all the people are moved. And look-the head's broken." She held out a shaking hand where the figure of the boy, its head at an awkward angle, lay.

General Lee whimpered, so I bent down to scoop him up. But when I took a step toward the dollhouse, he wiggled out of my arms and ran as fast as he could out of the room. My eyes met Jack's for a moment before we both turned to get a closer look at the dollhouse.

The entire dollhouse family, except for the boy and dog, was crowded in the high turret window as if trying to see something outside. I swallowed thickly. "Where's the dog?" I asked.

"Right here." She tapped a spot on the floor in front of the dollhouse with a black-painted toenail.

The head of the dog figure was cracked in half, the body almost hidden under the bed, as if it had been thrown with a good deal of force.

"And where was the boy?"

"Same place." Nola's face reddened. "I want you to keep that d.a.m.ned dog out of my room, okay? He's just going to wreck everything."

I was sure that General Lee would ignore any kind of restraining order, just as I was sure that he'd had nothing to do with rearranging the dollhouse figures-and not just because he didn't possess the opposable thumbs required to do that kind of manipulation. Luckily, Nola was either unaware of dog anatomy or was too upset about the broken figures to really care.

"Look," I said, trying to force a calm reason I wasn't feeling, "I've got some superglue downstairs. I'm sure I won't have any problem making this look brand-new again, okay?" I held out my hand to Nola.

With a sniff, she dumped the boy into my hand. "Fine. But I'm keeping my door closed. I know this is your house and all, but I really don't like you and your dog messing with my stuff."

I glanced at the bed, noticing for the first time that Bonnie's guitar was propped up on the pillows. "I'll remember that," I said as I began backing out of the room.

"Are you going to be okay in here?" Jack asked. "You can always come back with me, you know."

Nola's voice dripped with an equal measure of angst and sarcasm. "Right. That would solve everything."

"Just checking. You have my number if you need me. Anytime."

I waited in the hallway for Jack to close Nola's door.

"What was that all about?" he asked quietly as we headed for the stairs.

"I'm not sure-and neither is my mother. And it might not even be about the house at all. All my life I've done a lot of reading on the subject of spirits and the like-just so that I'd know that I wasn't crazy and that other people had the same kind of experiences that I always have. Anyway, Nola's at that emotional, hormonal age where they sort of attract energies wherever they are." We reached the foyer and I stopped to face him. "But there's one more thing you can research while you're looking into Bonnie's past."

He raised his eyebrows.

"The dollhouse's provenance. Just in case."

"Just in case what?" he asked slowly.

"To find out exactly what came with the dollhouse besides just furniture and dolls."

His eyes met mine for a moment before I turned away and led him toward the front door.

"And if something did?" he asked.

I paused just for a moment. "We could give it away. To Rebecca."

Jack's head tilted. "Why Rebecca?"

"Because the spirits would take one look at the pink haven she calls her bedroom and they'd be tripping over themselves to get to the light."

I could tell he was trying very hard not to laugh. "Good night, Mellie."

"Good night, Jack."

I'd already closed the door behind him before I thought to remind him again not to call me Mellie.

CHAPTER 6.

For the second time in less than a year, I found myself on my mother's doorstep with stuffed suitcases, except this time I also came with a recalcitrant teenager. I was almost looking forward to the stay, if only so I'd have an ally in the war against the sullen surliness I was now experiencing on an almost hourly basis. I knew it was mostly because objects in Nola's room refused to stay put and she believed that I was responsible, but I somehow felt that it was easier accepting the blame than telling her the truth.

Nola looked up at the square, brick Georgian house with the two-tiered portico, her mouth open. Even the late-spring garden was opulent in its display of colors and scents, and a new trellis arbor-courtesy of my father-showed off its stunning crimson offering of b.u.t.terfly roses. My mother had grown up in this house, and I'd spent the first six years of my life visiting my grandmother here. I suppose that was why I never noticed the grandness of it or how imposing it might seem to a stranger who'd never experienced the love and warmth inside. Or its ghosts.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," she said.

I frowned at Nola, recalling something my mother had once said when I was still young enough to listen, after I'd repeated something my father had said when he thought I was out of hearing. I could still taste the Dial soap on my tongue. Speaking softly, I said, "Ladies don't use foul language. And if my mother hears any, she'll wash your mouth out with soap."

Nola's eyes widened with what I thought to be worry, so I took the opportunity to press on. "And I won't stop her, either."

Nola took a step back from me, making me feel as if my words had made an impression. But I was too horrified at realizing that I was becoming my mother to appreciate any victory. We both turned toward the door at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Mellie, Nola!" my mother sang as she flung open the door before ushering us into the foyer of her Legare Street home. She enveloped us in successive hugs scented with Chanel No. 5 and wrapped in silk. I had once hated that particular perfume, as it always reminded me of the mother who'd abandoned me when I was six, but it was beginning to grow on me again, just like my burgeoning interest in opera and sharing shoes. The whole "mother-daughter" thing was a lot like moving to another part of the world where n.o.body spoke your language, and with the addition of Nola to the mix, I had a feeling it was about to get a lot more interesting.

"h.e.l.lo, Mother. Thanks again for letting us stay."

"Don't be silly, Mellie. You're my daughter and I want you to think of my home as yours. And you, too, Nola. I've even had house keys made for both of you so you can come and go as you please. Mrs. Houlihan has already set herself up in the kitchen with General Lee, so it will be just like home."

Nola groaned. "Why does the dog have to come, too?"

Not that long ago, I would have agreed with her. Moving from military base to military base with my father, I wouldn't have been allowed to have a pet even if I'd wanted one. But then I'd inherited General Lee from the late Mr. Vanderhorst and I'd found myself a pet owner, if one could call me that. I was more like General Lee's companion and sleeping buddy, source of food and treats, and a warm lap. Not wanting to display weakness, I thought I'd done a pretty good job of hiding my growing fondness for the furry little guy.

I frowned at Nola-something I found myself doing a lot lately, and if I wasn't careful, it would give me wrinkles. "If you say one more mean thing about my dog, you're going back to your father's." I picked up my suitcases and headed past them toward the stairs. "I'm a.s.suming I have my old room?"

There was a brief silence as Nola and my mother contemplated each other as my last words sank in. "Yes, dear, and Nola has the room across from you. The bathroom, luckily, has been redone, but I'm afraid the bedroom hasn't been tackled yet. I've been too busy with the rest of the house and didn't antic.i.p.ate having a guest so soon." She began walking toward the stairs as she spoke to Nola. "Colonel Middleton will be here shortly and can carry the rest of your things if you just want to grab your backpack and guitar for now."

I staggered under the weight of my own suitcases, and wondered why she hadn't mentioned that to me.

She continued speaking to Nola. "But the mattress is new and the sheets are clean, so I'm sure you'll be comfortable."

"As long as there's room for my dollhouse, it should work."

I turned and met my mother's gaze. Jack and Chad were supposed to bring the dollhouse over later, and I'd hoped that by the time it showed up my mother and I would have had time to convince her to keep it anywhere other than her room.

I stumbled into my bedroom and dumped my suitcases before joining Nola and my mother. Like the rest of the rooms in the house, Nola's room was large and airy, with tall windows and ceilings, the requisite deep crown moldings and medallions. But what this room lacked was my mother's and Amelia's keen eye for interior design. The previous owners-sc.r.a.p-metal millionaires from Texas-had, unfortunately, left their mark on this room, making me think of that line from Macbeth about all of Neptune's ocean scrubbing something clean. As I examined the room's color palette, I doubted that an entire ocean would be enough.

Black foiled wallpaper with hand-painted and oversize neon orange daisies sprouted on all four walls from floor to ceiling in an apparent attempt to re-create a drug-induced alternate reality. A puce velour rug covered up the beautiful hardwood floors, but not enough to completely disguise the purple-dotted decals that were affixed to the wooden boards in a random pattern, like vomit from a similarly hued leopard. Long strings of miniature pom-poms in an a.s.sortment of colors even Crayola wouldn't claim hung from each window as some sort of s.p.a.ce-age curtain. My stomach heaved a little from staring at it.

"This is awesome!" Nola exclaimed as she dropped her guitar and backpack in a corner, the teddy bear's face poking out of the opened zipper. I felt sorry for his eyes that lacked lids to block out the horror. "I thought you said you hadn't had a chance to decorate it yet."

"Um, er, not exactly," stammered my mother. "The previous owners left it this way."

"Wow. You got lucky. You don't have to change a thing, huh?"

My mother and I traded glances again and I was sure her horrified expression matched my own. Swallowing heavily, I said, "We're thrilled you like it."

Walking to the far side of the room, my mother pushed open a door. "And you have your own private bathroom."

Nola stuck her head inside the newly remodeled s.p.a.ce, taking in the tasteful neutrals, the black-and-white marble, the delicate faux paint pattern on the wall. "Too bad they didn't fix the bathroom, too."

I stood in the middle of the room near the large tester bed that my mother had covered in a simple white chenille bedspread she'd found in the attic. I stared at the expanse of white like a person stares at the stationary horizon to quell carsickness. The room held only the bed, a dressing table, a dresser, and a low chest of drawers that my mother planned to convert into a TV table for the small flat-screen that would be arriving later. The furniture had been culled from the attic, my house, and Trenholm's Antiques, and I was just realizing that we should have crammed more furniture into the room. As we'd left it, there was plenty of room for one large dollhouse in any of the four corners.

"I love how airy you've made the room, Mother. Lots of good, empty s.p.a.ce. I wouldn't add a thing." I smiled hopefully at Nola as she emerged from her bathroom.

"Except for the dollhouse," she said as she stomped across the room in her military-style boots, something I wouldn't necessarily call a fas.h.i.+on accessory or wear in public with striped leggings and a short, ruffled skirt. "I think it would be perfect here," she said, indicating the corner to the left of the headboard. "Don't you think so, Mellie?"

I was too busy scrounging around for reasons why the dollhouse shouldn't go anywhere in a thirty-foot radius of her to correct her use of that dreaded nickname.

"Actually, Nola," my mother said, "we were thinking that the empty room down the hall would be the perfect spot for it. That way you can put it in the middle of the room and see it from all angles instead of against a wall. I could even find a large table to put it on so everything's more or less eye level. What do you think?"

Nola's lower jaw stuck out just enough to remind me of her father when he made up his mind. And if blood were indeed thicker than water, I knew that we had as much hope of persuading her to change her mind as we had of convincing the Architectural Board of Review to allow me to paint my Tradd Street house purple.

"I think it would be perfect in that corner." She moved to the bed and stepped up on the little stool beside it to plop down on the bedspread. "Maybe we can find another bedspread that goes with the room, something with a little more color. I mean, if it's not too expensive."

I tried to think of a tactful way to tell her that if she wanted to find something that matched the room's decor, she'd have to be prepared to Dumpster-dive behind Goodwill, where I'm sure they discarded those items that would never sell. As if reading my mind, my mother sent me a look of warning, so I kept my mouth shut.

The doorbell rang. Turning to Nola, my mother said, "That must be your grandmother. We'll leave you here to freshen up and get ready for lunch. We have to be at Alluette's Cafe at noon, so we'll need to leave in about half an hour."

A crease formed between Nola's eyebrows. "Why are we going again?"

"We wanted you to meet Alston Ravenel and her mother, Cecily. They're cousins of yours-third cousins, once removed on your grandmother's side." She began listing Nola's family tree, as all Charlestonians are wont to do, until Nola's eyes began to glaze over.

My mother noticed and stopped with the genealogy lesson. "Anyway, you and Alston are the same age and both entering the eighth grade. Alston is already enrolled at Ashley Hall, your grandmother's alma mater-and mine, too-so we thought this would be a good way to find out more about the school before your admission interview."