The Guests on South Battery (20 page)

I
looked out the front window to see if anybody had arrived yet for the predance party, then held up a tray of canapés to Jack. He shook his head, taking a sip from his glass of Coke instead, making the ice cubes clink. I turned my back and quickly shoved a Brie and prosciutto wrap in my mouth, taking my time replacing the tray and rearranging the other appetizers on the sideboard. I glanced up, noticing that the grandfather clock had once again stopped at ten minutes past four, and the food stuck in my throat.

I took a sip of wine to make sure the food was all washed down before speaking. “Jack—didn't you have this clock fixed?”

He turned to it with a frown. “It wasn't broken. I just wound it and set the time and it seemed fine. Has it stopped again?”

“Yes. At the same time as the clock at the Pinckney house and in the kitchen. I'm thinking that can't be a coincidence.”

He sent me a knowing look, then took another sip of his Coke, and I knew he was wishing it were Scotch.

“Really, Jack, it's just a dance. And we know Cooper is a very nice young man. Besides, they're just going as friends. His sister will be there, as well as their friend Lindsey, with a couple of Cooper's friends.
Yes, there's the age difference, but nobody's on a date here—it's just a group thing.”

“He's nineteen years old, Mellie. I remember what being a nineteen-year-old boy is like. Very little brain matter and a lot of hormones.” He drained his glass and walked over to the bar to pour another one.

“Cooper is not you, Jack. I'm not saying he doesn't have a roaring libido, but he's a Citadel cadet. Surely they teach them how to restrain certain urges. Besides, you know how Nola feels about alcohol. She's already told Cooper that if she sees anything that might resemble underage drinking, she's calling you. Same goes for any of what you refer to as ‘hanky-panky.' That should put the fear of God in them. They're even renting a limo so they will all be together the entire time, and leave together, so no backseat shenanigans—to use your word, not mine.”

“Should I wait on the front porch cleaning my rifle just to send the right message?”

I started to laugh but then realized he might actually be serious. “No, please don't. I don't know what the other parents might think.”

“Daddy?” Nola appeared in the doorway looking beautiful and stunning and completely like her father's daughter. I'd helped her select her dress, a pretty purple satin swing dress that was very retro but not too mini, so it wouldn't make Jack's blood pressure hit alarmingly high levels. I'd helped her with her hair—a small bouffant ponytail worn over the full length of her thick, dark hair that was flipped out at the ends.

Jack smiled, his worry erased from his face as he looked at his older daughter. Of all the things I loved about Jack, I thought it was his love for his children that I treasured the most, and that made my heart squeeze. Even when he was acting like a caveman.

He embraced her carefully, not wanting to mess up her hair or makeup, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “You look lovely,” he said. His smile slowly morphed into a thoughtful frown. “Did you put that Mace I gave you in your pocketbook?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Dad. And nobody calls it a pocketbook anymore, either. Unless you're old.”

The doorbell rang. Jack put down his drink and smoothed his tie. “I'll get it. And if I don't like the looks of any of those boys, I'm sending them home with a warning.”

“Daddy!” Nola called out with alarm.

“He's only kidding,” I said to reassure her, although I wasn't quite certain that was true.

The three young men with their uniforms and short-cropped hair looked exceptionally handsome. They were tall, and fit, and had perfect manners. The more I liked them, the more I saw Jack's brow lower.

We already knew Alston and her parents, Cecily and Cal Ravenel, and Cooper, and introductions were made for Lindsey's father, Michael Farrell. I knew Veronica, of course, and had met her again at my mother's house but hadn't spoken to her since Thomas gave me her sister's necklace. I introduced them to Jack, who was friendly and polite, but it was clear his attention was on his daughter and Cooper.

Mrs. Houlihan had stayed to help with the little party, and was busy passing around the trays of food and napkins while Jack tended the bar, making a point of giving the boys glasses of ice water even if they asked for a Coke or lemonade, as if caffeine and sugar might affect their judgment.

Nola had forbidden me from taking photos, but this would have been unnecessary anyway, judging by the number of cell phone photos and selfies that were being snapped. I'd ask Nola to curate hers and forward them on to me. When I'd realized that she didn't have any baby or early childhood photos, it had become my mission to document every moment of her life since she'd come to live with us, as if that could make up for all her early years. I was hoping to give her a scrapbook album as part of her high school graduation gift. It was my little secret, which was hard to keep when Jack and Nola both teased me for my excessive photo taking at every family and school event.

I found myself standing alone with Michael, Lindsey's father. He didn't strike me as being overly shy, but I saw that he kept to himself, smiling and nodding while in a group, then slowly extricating himself with an excuse for food or drink. He never rejoined the people he'd
been speaking with, preferring instead to stand by himself, wearing what I would almost call a look of smug satisfaction. He seemed to have an excessive fascination with the furniture and artwork in the room. He'd paused by the grandfather clock when I joined him.

“These old clocks never work, do they?” he said dismissively.

“Actually, this clock has been keeping perfect time for almost two centuries. It's only recently that we've begun to have issues with it.” I wanted to tell him that it also had an ingenious hidden compartment where Confederate diamonds had once been hidden, but I had the perverse need to deprive him of the knowledge.

He looked doubtful, as if I were lying to him. “I can hear it ticking, and the pendulum is moving, but the hands are stuck. Seems like a permanent disability to me.”

“It's not,” I said, smiling, wondering why this man seemed to rub me the wrong way.

As if sensing this, he smiled back. “Look, I'm sorry. Antiques are my wife's thing. I was raised in a small town by a hairdresser and a mechanic. We didn't live in a trailer home, but our house wasn't much bigger or sturdier. And we couldn't drive it anywhere.” He laughed a little and I joined in to be polite.

“Anyway, let's just say the only antique we had was a sofa my mother got at a garage sale that looked awful and smelled even worse. So when I married into Veronica's family . . .” He shrugged as if that explained everything.

And in a way, it did. They lived in a big, beautiful Victorian mansion on Queen Street, and I imagined it had been in Veronica's family for a while. “So you don't like antiques?”

“Hate them. Who wants stuff that other people have touched and used before? I swear the house is more like a shrine to dead family members than a house for those of us still living.”

Despite my earlier impression, I was starting to like this man. “Some people say that these old houses and the things that remain inside are our touchstones to the past. A way of keeping history alive.”

He snorted. “More like living in the past so we have an excuse not to
move forward. We've only lived there a year—we moved her parents to an assisted-living facility last Christmas and Veronica inherited it—and I'm just amazed at what people are willing to adjust to so they can live in a historic house. I mean, we freeze to death in the winter because to add a whole new HVAC system to the house would ruin its historical integrity. And to get it done ‘the right way'”—he said these last three words using air quotes—“according to Veronica, which would mean getting an architect involved as well as somebody who knows something about historic preservation, would cost a fortune. I say just do it the cheapest way so that we're not wearing our winter coats inside three months out of the year, and to hell with the Board of Architectural Review.”

In the not-so-distant past, I probably would have high-fived Michael. But I'd suddenly had a vision of what my house might look like now without Sophie's careful attention to its historical integrity, and it made me a little sad. Not as sad as when I imagined how healthy my bank account would look if I
didn't
listen to her, but sad nonetheless.

“True,” I said. “But they do serve a purpose, even if they are annoying. The BAR makes sure that our historic district is preserved and not stripped of all its character. Then we'd just be another Atlanta.”

“Is that so bad?” he asked, using his index finger to flick a tassel that hung from the casement key on the clock.

I would
not
tell Sophie that I'd actually uttered words from my own mouth that I'd heard her say time and time again to me. These were usually accepted by me with great derision followed by remarks of how if we became another Atlanta we wouldn't have to deal with the throngs of tourists. Or cruise ships. “I'm not sure,” I hedged. “I think one could make an argument for both sides.”

I smiled, eager to change the subject before I really dug myself into a hole. I was intrigued by something he'd said about his wife's home. “Speaking of your wife's family, I met your late sister-in-law once, so when you mentioned that your house had become a shrine, is that who you were referring to?”

His demeanor shifted to the way he'd been when I first spotted him
at the clock, aloof and dismissive. “Partly. There are oil paintings and old photos of pretty much every family member who ever had their likeness captured. It's ridiculous; it makes those of us who married into the family feel like permanent outsiders. But Adrienne's room . . .”

He almost seemed angry and I was ready to change the subject again, but he didn't seem to want to. “They haven't changed a thing. Even her makeup is still on the dressing table along with her hairbrush that still has her hair in it. Can you imagine? Her clothes are hanging in her closet, and her rain boots are still in the mudroom. I mean, to lose a child is horrible, but it's like living with a dead person.”

You have no idea
. “I can imagine how difficult that might be for you. But surely you and Veronica will want to redecorate now that you're living in her family home.”

Michael blew out a puff of air. “You'd think. And actually, that's what we'd started doing when we discovered Adrienne's college trunk in the attic. Ever since, Veronica refuses to let anything be changed in case we disturb any lingering evidence. Like there would be after twenty years! I'm getting close to fed up, I guess, which is sort of feeding my dislike of antiques.” He shook his head. “Sorry—it's just a raw spot for me right now. Didn't mean to drag you into it.” His smile was ingratiating again, and I found myself warming to him, wondering if we had more in common than he thought.

Veronica approached and tucked her hand into the crook of Michael's arm and I wondered if I'd imagined him stiffening at her touch. Of course, if there was a long-term argument regarding their current living situation simmering between them, I couldn't blame him.

“I hope you're not monopolizing our hostess,” she said, squeezing his arm in either affection or warning, I wasn't sure.

“Not at all,” I said. “We were just discussing the merits of history and old houses and their places in our lives. Not to mention the costs associated with renovating a historic house. Trust me, I could write a book, but it would have to be shelved with the horror novels.” I'd said it as a joke, but neither one of them laughed.

“Melanie has agreed to help us with Adrienne's case.”

Michael pulled away. “I thought you said you were consulting a psychic medium.” He looked at me suspiciously.

I sent Veronica a look of warning. “Actually, she consulted with my mother. I happened to be there at the time.”

“Yes, well, just for the record, I don't believe in that mumbo jumbo. If you don't mind, the less said about it in front of my daughter would be greatly appreciated.”

“You are certainly not alone in that assessment,” I said, thinking of my own father. “And I have no intention of dragging Lindsey into any sort of paranormal investigation my mother may be doing.”

Veronica frowned at me but didn't say anything.

“Please tell me you don't believe in that stuff, too?” he asked, his voice wavering with a tinge of belligerence.

“Let's just say I prefer to keep an open mind.”

He shook his head. “Even if by coincidence something did turn up because of what a psychic medium said, that stuff's not admissible in a court of law, right?”

“I'm not sure how it works in the legal system, but evidence is still evidence.”

“But there
isn't
any,” he said through gritted teeth, and I stepped back, wondering when the conversation had gotten so out of hand.

Veronica must have thought the same thing, because she pulled on his arm. “I'm sure Melanie has heard more than enough of our issues, Michael. Let's allow her to mingle with her other guests.”

I watched them walk away and saw Veronica shoot me a questioning glance over her shoulder.

I joined Jack in a group with Cooper and his parents. I was relieved that the conversation wasn't about blood-alcohol levels or the importance of safe sex—not that Jack would be a role model for either topic—but on the much safer subject of golf. Apparently, both Cecily and Cal were avid golfers, as were their children. When Cal suggested I make up a foursome on Sunday, I saw the horror in Jack's eyes. I had the coordination and athletic grace of a bear and had nearly permanently
blinded and crippled Jack on our first—and only—visit to the driving range.