Sophie continued. “I’m not sure if that locket goes with them, though. It sort of looks out of place.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s just that . . .” I paused, trying to put into words the odd sensation I had that the locket belonged with the sapphires, and how hesitant I became whenever I tried to take it off. “I think it works. Besides, you’re the last person in the world I want to take fashion advice from.”
Sophie just blinked at me as if she didn’t understand what I was talking about.
I turned around and met her gaze. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?”
“Because photographers from
Charleston
magazine, the
Post & Courier
, and
Southern Living
will be on the tour tonight, so that your face, name, and business information will be splashed all over the place, giving you more exposure than you ever dreamed of. You’re also doing it because it will bring in money for the historical society, which furthers the cause dearest to our hearts: historic restoration in our favorite city.”
I approached the bed and turned around to sit, stopping midway as I learned that it wasn’t as simple as it should have been. I tried flipping the hoop forward, then backward, and ended up lifting it up to my waist and exposing myself before I managed a half-sitting, half-standing position.
Sophie’s face was expressionless. “Perhaps you shouldn’t do that in public.”
“Why am I the only one in costume? Even Rebecca gets to wear normal clothes.”
“That’s because Rebecca doesn’t have a claim to two fabulous houses in the historic district and you do. I think it irks her, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Little comments here and there. Like how you don’t know how lucky you are, how some people would kill to be in your position, and how you’re completely unappreciative of what’s been handed to you on a silver platter. Makes me think the green-eyed monster of jealousy is sitting on her shoulder and sticking a tongue out at you.”
I grimaced. “I’ve definitely got to assign that girl to some heavy-duty paint stripping and introduce her to some of my bills, show her my fingernails, even. That might bring her down to my reality.”
Sophie turned to me, her hands on her narrow hips. “Are you really so oblivious, Melanie? Have I not taught you anything regarding the real reasons behind historical preservation?”
I stared back at her. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
She frowned. “I hope you understand how all the work you’ve done has been for the entire global community. If we tear down everything old to make room for newer, more impersonal structures, we’ve lost a part of our past, a thing of beauty and meaning. Gone forever.”
I slid off the bed and began rearranging my skirts. “Just like my plaster-free hair, manicures, and investment portfolio.” I turned toward the mirror before she could see the smile that would tell her I knew exactly what she was talking about. I was just afraid to say it in front of Sophie because then I was likely to end up restoring yet another house.
There was a brief knock on the door and then Mrs. Houlihan stuck her head around the corner. She winked at me when she saw me in the dress. “You look gorgeous, Miss Melanie. Fit for a barbecue at Twelve Oaks.”
I rolled my eyes, then tried to hitch up my bodice a little further to cover up a bit more of the vast expanse of exposed skin. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Just wanted to let you know that I’ve placed the punch and glasses on a tray in the front parlor. And Mr. Jack is here and I was wondering where you’d like me to put him.”
I opened my mouth to give a few suggestions but Sophie interrupted me. “Tell him we’ll be right down. The tour is scheduled to start in ten minutes.”
“And don’t you worry about General Lee. I’ve got him a nice soup bone to keep him happy.” Mrs. Houlihan winked at me again, then disappeared behind the door. We listened as her heavy tread disappeared down the hallway. Sophie moved toward the door. “I’m going to go check on your mother. She’s in charge of herding so that you don’t have to worry about the stray tourist who heads in the wrong direction.”
“What about Rebecca? I thought she was supposed to be here, too.”
Sophie smirked. “I pulled some strings and had her reassigned to the Old City Jail over on the corner of Magazine and Franklin. She gets to direct people to the toilet facilities. Although she did threaten to stop by later on.”
“How did you pull that off ? I thought she was in charge of the whole thing tonight.”
Sophie clasped her hands behind her back, attempting to look innocent. “Oh, when she asked for my help in getting volunteer tour guides from the college, the axis of power shifted in my direction.”
I put my hand up and high-fived her. “One last question: What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
She wrinkled her nose as she pretended to consider the question for a moment. “Do your best to hold it. If that fails, ask Mrs. Houlihan for a pot.”
“Gee, thanks. You know, I liked you better when you weren’t pining for a guy. You were a lot nicer then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Soph. You and Chad. You’re like Raggedy Ann and Andy, practically stitched together with the same thread. You’ve used the stupidest excuse in the book—what was it, incompatible astrology signs?—to keep him away from you because of some misplaced sense of feminism and independence. But you’re practically attached at the hip and living together, for crying out loud. Would you just admit that you’re both crazy about each other so we can all move on and you can start being nice again?”
She stared at me for a long moment, her face completely expressionless. One could never tell how Sophie felt because her emotions were so even-keeled. But I could see her exposed toes in her Birkenstocks, and watched as she curled them tightly.
“How about we reach a compromise? I’ll start taking your relationship advice when you start taking my fashion advice. Because from where I’m standing, neither one of is really qualified on either subject. And if you really want to analyze a weird relationship, yours and Jack’s would be better suited to put under a microscope. You’re both so hot for each other the temperature rises about twenty degrees whenever you’re in the same room together. But you’re both either too stubborn, ignorant, or mentally challenged to figure out what to do about it.” She drew a deep breath. “So when you’ve worked out whatever it is that’s between you and Jack, then come talk to me about Chad.”
I looked at her, dumbfounded. The last time I’d seen her so agitated was when I told her I was knocking out a wall to extend the master suite in the Tradd Street house. “Ouch,” was all I managed to say, but I wasn’t even sure if she was right or wrong about Jack and me.
She turned to leave the room. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
After a few deep breaths, I shook my dress in place, then managed to squeeze myself through the doorway and make it to the top of the stairs without tripping or knocking anything over. It was a very good thing that most of the house was empty, with only fabric and paint swatches displayed on easels in the main rooms of the house for the anticipated visitors.
The house smelled of narcissus and citrus, courtesy of my father’s decorating prowess. Lined up on the stairs were potted narcissus, swaddled in burlap and tied with red twine, their sweet aroma floating in the hall like a cloud. The nine fireplace mantels—minus the one in the kitchen that was currently being stored in the attic—were covered in pine swags my father had gathered himself and artfully arranged with pinecones and various citrus fruits of all colors and sizes. In all of my years growing up with him, it had never occurred to me to think that inside my rough-hewn military officer father lay an inner Martha Stewart.
A loud wolf whistle brought my attention to the bottom of the stairs. I spotted Jack, in full Confederate uniform complete with plumed hat and gleaming saber, leaning on the newel post and doing a pretty good impersonation of his estimable ancestor George Trenholm, Southern blockade runner and model for the literary character of Rhett Butler. Having grown up in a military family where I saw uniforms every day, I’d never thought much about the supposed attraction of men in uniform. But the sight of Jack Trenholm in Confederate gray was certainly more than enough to make me change my mind.
“Nice dress,” he said. His gaze traveled over the gown, then rested on the sapphires around my neck before settling on my face.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Just something I found in my closet.”
His grin broadened as he spread out his arms. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Doing my best to pretend to ignore him, I clutched the banister and carefully made my way to the bottom step. I eyed the three yellow stripes on his sleeve. “Only a sergeant, Jack? I thought you’d at least be a general.”
He swept his hat from his head, took my hand, and then kissed the back of it, sending a small hot flash up my arm. “Didn’t want to appear too farb.”
“Farb?”
“It’s a term we use in reenacting: far be it from reality. It’s a derogatory term aimed at anybody whose costuming is less than authentic or ridiculously inappropriate.”
“You’re a reenactor?”
“Yes, ma’am. The First South Carolina Cavalry. And, yes, along with my pickup truck, I’m also a card-carrying member of the NRA. You know, Mellie, considering what close friends we are, I’m hurt that you seem to know so little about me.”
“Close?” I asked, extricating my hand from his grasp.
“Well, we could be closer if you’d ever let me past the worksheets and the BlackBerry. Closest I ever came was when you were three sheets to the wind, but that’s not how I’d recommend getting to know each other better. Although your attempts were admirable, even a bit amusing.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I thought you said . . .”
I was interrupted by Sophie and my mother emerging from my mother’s room. As they came down the staircase, Jack bowed, then took turns kissing their hands. “Ladies,” he drawled. “How fortunate I am to be surrounded by such loveliness.”
Sophie snorted, then continued on into the front parlor. My mother, looking elegant and half her age in a black velvet sheath dress, tapped him on the arm with a gloved hand. “Now, Jack.” I was surprised to see that her face was serious. “I need you to stay with Mellie at all times. Do you understand?”
“Mother, I really don’t think that’s necessary . . .”
She turned to me, her eyes straying to the locket nestled among the sapphires. “I thought you were going to return that.”
I nodded. “I plan to. I just—haven’t done it yet.”
Her eyes met mine for just a moment before facing Jack again. “I’ll be greeting people at the door and showing them where the refreshments are, so I’ll feel better knowing that you’re with her.”
Jack’s serious expression matched my mother’s, and I had the horrifying thought that the two of them had been talking about me in my absence. “I will.”
“Mother, the house will be filled with people. Surely . . .” My words trailed away as I caught the scent of gunpowder.
“Good. He’s here. I feel better now.”
I felt him behind me, but I didn’t turn around. Something felt different, though, his presence more solid. And I had the impression that if I turned around and looked in his face, he’d still be there.
“Who?” asked Jack, his gaze wandering the empty foyer.
“An old friend,” my mother said.
We looked at each other and I found it oddly satisfying not to have to explain myself—to look into somebody else’s eyes and know that not only did they already understand, but that what I could see and hear was as normal as breathing.
The door knocker sounded on the front door and Sophie emerged from the parlor. “Okay, everybody, get into your positions. The first tour is here, so let’s make it worth their ticket price.”
My mother joined Sophie; then Jack lifted his arm and I placed my hand on it, still aware of the soldier behind me—and of another presence, too, that was neither warm nor welcoming. Jack began to lead me away from the staircase, but I hesitated, the need to turn around too strong. I turned my head, looking straight at the apparition, and he remained solid. He appeared to be real, until I realized that I was staring at the zebra rug through him.
He lifted his hat to me and cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen, as if asking me to follow, then slowly walked down the remaining steps and into the hallway. He stopped once and looked behind him to see if I was following, then continued on his way, disappearing into the kitchen, the saloon doors swinging in his wake, followed shortly by the sound of General Lee barking.
Jack followed my gaze, watching the saloon doors swing. Slowly, my eyes met his. “You sure know how to add to an evening’s entertainment, Mellie.” He frowned. “Should I be scared?”
“No.” I shivered, feeling another set of eyes on us. “Not of him, anyway.”
The front door opened and a group of about twenty people poured into the foyer, their voices echoing off the floor and empty walls. Jack and I smiled and stepped forward to greet them, and all the time I was aware of somebody watching me, as if waiting for her chance to catch me alone again. Jack squeezed my hand and I looked up into his blue eyes, making me wonder not for the first time just which one might be the most dangerous.
The evening seemed interminable. Although I did find people’s reactions to the current color palette of the house amusing, and took some pride and satisfaction in showing them our plans for the restoration, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched the entire time—and that a battle was brewing somewhere in the depths of the great house. I imagined during lulls of conversation that I could hear the house breathe—a soft pulse that emanated from the very walls and reverberated under my skin.
The kitchen hadn’t been included in the tour since, with the exception of resurrecting the fireplace and mantel, it had not only already been restored and modernized, but didn’t resemble a painting accident. Still, every time we’d walked near it, I’d glanced back at the closed doors and felt that the soldier was still inside, waiting for me.
The last guest had just left and I was sliding my grateful feet out of my shoes when the front door opened again. I was about to tell whoever it was that the tour was over but closed my mouth when I recognized Rebecca. She didn’t look as perky as she usually did, probably as a result of explaining where the ladies’ room was once too often, but she dimpled when she spotted Jack.
She approached him and gave him a kiss on his cheek before greeting everyone else with a perfunctory glance. “I’m sorry to stop by so late but I knew you’d all still be here. I wanted to thank everybody for participating and to let you know that it looks like we raised almost double what we raised last year.” She beamed, as if all the success firmly rested on her petite shoulders. “I also wanted to tell everyone that I’ve made a little progress on finding the origins of the window in the drawing room.” She paused for effect. “I ran into Sophie at the College of Charleston library, and I didn’t want to spoil the surprise before I had anything conclusive.”
Sophie and I exchanged a glance.
Rebecca gripped her hands together. “I discovered that the window was designed by an apprentice of Louis Tiffany’s, an Irishman by the name of John Nolan, who set up shop here in Charleston in 1880. His shop is long gone, but there’s a chance that his business records might have survived in archives somewhere. I figured we could ask Yvonne for help in finding . . .”
Her voice trailed away and I realized that she was staring at me. Although she’d only given me a cursory glance when she walked in, she must have just noticed the dress and jewelry.
Slowly, she walked toward me. “Your . . . jewelry. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said warily. “My mother let me wear them.”
“Yes. I believe I once showed you a photo of your mother wearing them.” She faced my mother. “They’re heirlooms, I believe.”
My mother nodded, then moved to stand next to me. For some reason, I found comfort in that.
Rebecca continued. “Do you know the history behind them?”
My mother shook her head. “All I know is that they were my mother’s, and that her mother gave them to her. I have no idea where they came from originally.”
“And the locket?” Rebecca asked. “Is that a family heirloom, too?”
I’d forgotten I was wearing it, and my hand went to my neck where I grasped the cold metal heart. “No. It was found on the
Rose
when they were salvaging it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry. I, it’s going back. I just . . . haven’t returned it yet. But I will.” I added the last part to convince myself more than anything.
“It’s just like the lockets in the portrait, isn’t it?” Rebecca stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the mint she must have popped into her mouth before she entered the house—and something else that was vaguely familiar. With a start, I realized that we both used the same shampoo.
My hoop skirt prevented her from getting closer, and I relaxed a little. “It does seem that way.”
Rebecca’s eyes seemed transfixed on the locket. “Do you mind if I examine it more closely?”
I only paused for a moment. “Sure.” Jack stepped up behind me and unclasped the chain from around my neck, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary, at least long enough to change the temperature in the room.
He surprised me by holding on to the chain while Rebecca looked at the locket, as if he weren’t willing to let it go. Rebecca flipped it over in her palm and I found myself studying her hands again, wondering why they seemed so familiar.
Slowly, she looked up, her gaze focusing on the sapphires around my neck and hanging from my ears before she met my eyes. “Any idea who this belonged to?”
I shook my head. “It has an
M
just like the one in the portrait. Mother has started sifting through things in the attic to see if we can find a jewelry box or really anything where the
R
locket might be, but we haven’t found anything so far. In the meantime, I’ve made an appointment at the historical society library for next week to see what Yvonne and I can find hanging on my family tree.” I spoke lightly, trying to dispel Rebecca’s sudden seriousness. It made me nervous, as if she knew a cliff loomed behind me but was allowing me to remain ignorant of impending danger.
“Let me know what you find out,” she said. “I’d suggest meeting with Yvonne together, but my schedule is just so crazy, tons of research for my ‘fa vorite Charlestonians’ series. I have an appointment with Yvonne next Monday, but it’s only for half an hour. Hardly enough time as it is.” She flipped the locket over one more time. “I assume you’ve already opened it.”
I nodded. “It’s empty.”
Rebecca tugged on the locket, but Jack didn’t relinquish his hold on the chain. Pursing her lips, she let go, and Jack quickly pooled the chain and locket in his own hand. “Before you return this, Mellie, I’d like to have an old family friend take a look at it. He’s done some work for my parents. He’s a jeweler who specializes in estate jewelry. He can clean it up, see if there’s anything we might have missed. The corrosion is caused by other metals used with the gold, and it could be hiding finer engravings.” He looked up at me with a wry smile. “Or, since this is Mellie’s family we’re probably talking about, some secret code or puzzle.”
Rebecca’s lips pursed tighter. Then she seemed to forcibly relax them and mold them into a smile. “That’s a great idea, Jack. Maybe I can go with you.”
“Maybe,” Jack said, and I wondered if he was being purposefully noncommittal. I caught my mother’s eye and she raised her eyebrows in silent agreement. I felt myself smiling and turned away.
Jack closed his fist over the necklace. “I brought a change of clothes, so if you ladies will excuse me for a moment . . .” He gave us a mock bow and a smile that would have done Rhett Butler proud, then headed toward the staircase, all three of us turning to watch him walk away. I faced my mother, giving her an accusatory stare as she began to fumble with her gloves.
“I suppose we should start cleaning up the parlor, and bringing the dirty glasses to the kitchen.” She led the way to the parlor, with Rebecca and Sophie following.
“I’ll be right with you,” I said, hoping they’d assume I was heading toward a bathroom. I waited until they disappeared into the drawing room, then moved to the kitchen. I paused outside the darkened room, wondering why Mrs. Houlihan would have turned out the lights when she left.
Gingerly, I pushed open one of the doors to stick my hand inside, then jumped back with a cry held in my throat as General Lee threw himself through the open space, then ran faster than I’d ever seen him move to the foyer and up the stairs, the sound of his paws frantically searching for purchase on the zebra-striped runner.
I stuck my hand inside the door again, found the light switch, and flipped it to the ON position, but nothing happened. I swallowed, recalling all the cheap horror films I’d seen in my life—the ones where the stupid girl enters the dark room anyway—and hesitated.
Melanie.
My soldier was there, as I’d known he would be, but he wasn’t in solid form. Instead, I sensed a darkening shadow against the fireplace wall, a wavering of air, and I wondered what had made him change again.
Come here.
I sensed a tone of desperation in his voice that was new to me. I tried the light switch again. “No.”
Within the waves, hide all our guilt. The answer is over here, Melanie.
I tried the switch one more time, but the room remained dark.
You know you are safe with me.
I turned back toward the hallway, hearing my mother’s voice and Rebecca’s laugh. It irked me that she’d been able to figure out so much already, and I’d done nothing but make an appointment to study my own family tree. I turned back to the kitchen, blocked out the inner moviegoer voice that shouted,
Don’t go into the dark room, stupid,
and pushed through the doors, feeling the chilly air as it hit the bare skin on my shoulders.
As before, I walked slowly and carefully toward the wall with the longhorn cow mural, noting with some relief that the door to the back stairs was closed. The silk of my gown swished like little whispers in the dark, and I was acutely aware of how the fabric felt against my skin. I saw that he was leaning against the invisible mantel again, his hat tucked under his arm.
“What do you want with me in the dark?” I asked, avoiding looking at his face.
I heard an unfamiliar sound and realized he was chuckling. My face flamed with the realization that men over the ages hadn’t really evolved that much.
“I’m leaving.” I faced the door.
Stay. I can help you if you will allow me.
Turning back around, I said, “Then tell me what I need to know. What’s behind the wall?”
What you seek.
I held back a scream of frustration. “Can’t you tell me? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
So impatient, Melanie. You were not like that as a child. What made you change?
I was so surprised by his words that I barely noticed that his hands were touching my face again, the odd icy-hot feeling tiptoeing along my skin.
I tried to step away, but the fireplace wall pressed against my back. “Who are you?” I closed my eyes to resist the temptation to look him in the face. I didn’t want him to leave, at least not before I had some questions answered.
I told you before. A friend.
“Then tell me your name. We can’t be friends if you know my name but I don’t know yours.”
It is dangerous for you to know.
I almost opened my eyes then. My mother had told me the same thing, years ago. To know a spirit’s name gave them power over you, but only if you deliberately summoned them, calling them by name. A medium had to be fairly sure she was strong enough—and in control—before beckoning a spirit from whatever place he’d been lingering.
His fingers slid behind my neck, then through my hair, loosening the pins and pulling out the chignon that Sophie had worked on for an hour. I fought hard to find my voice, wondering in the remaining sane part of my brain how his touch could feel so good.The idea that he was purposefully distracting me from my questions flitted past my jumbled thoughts. “And you’re a protector, too. But you’ve been a protector before, haven’t you? To my mother, and the girl who wrote the diary. Who was she?” I forced out, aware suddenly that he was pulling my face forward.
You look like her.
“Who? The girl who wrote the journal?”
No. My love.
I wanted to ask him who she was, but soft lips feathered a kiss against mine, shocking me into silence as I gave in to the sensation of ice melting into warm syrup. I opened my lips slightly in a halfhearted protest and he pressed against me harder. I tasted ocean breezes and hot sand. I felt drunk with feeling, remembering the last time I’d felt that way. In a house fire on Tradd Street I’d been almost dead from smoke inhalation, and Jack had placed his mouth against mine and brought me back to life with his own breath. That light-headedness and sense of reawakening coursed through me now, and thinking of Jack made me melt into this stranger’s kiss, opening my mouth and pressing harder against his.
He pulled away and I realized that he must have heard the approaching footsteps, too.
My name is Wilhelm.
Surprised, I opened my eyes and looked at him directly. And in the moment before he vanished completely, I saw his blue eyes cloud with fear and a blast of unease flooded my senses. I had inadvertently sent him away, and I knew from experience he would have to build up his strength before he could reappear. My eyes were fully adjusted to the dark now, and I slowly moved my gaze around the room, stopping abruptly at the door to the back stairs that was now gaping wide open.
The smell of rotting fish hit me right before the icy air, freezing my voice in my throat.
Melanie.
The voice was the same one I’d heard my mother speaking, and that I’d heard at the McGowans’ plantation house. I frantically searched the room to find the source of the voice, but all I saw was blackness dappled with outside shadows projected on the walls from the streetlamps.
I began sidestepping along the wall, knowing I’d eventually reach the door—and just hoping I could move fast enough.
Melanie.
The word was spoken against my ear, and I stopped, my feet unwilling or unable to move.
Give it back.
The words seemed to grow louder instead of fading, my eardrums aching from the sound of them. Cold fingers fumbled at my neck, and I felt the clasp snap as the locket was snatched away from me.
It is mine!
the voice screeched. I slid down the wall to a squat, pressing my hands against my ringing ears.
The icy fingers were at my neck again, but this time they were pressing against the flesh there, squeezing the breath out of me. I struck out at empty air and tried to shout for help, but the word came out as a gasp of air. Spots danced in front of me as the fingers dug into my neck, my throat burning, my eyes blinded with light. I tried to call out one more time, realizing as I began to slip into unconsciousness that the word I was trying to say was
Jack.