The House on Tradd Street Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Novels of Karen White

  The Memory of Water

  “The enduring ties between two estranged sisters drive the darkly engaging latest from White….Careful plotting, richly flawed characters, and a surprising conclusion mark this absorbing melodrama.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “In this moving novel, White explores the bond between sisters, the link between artistic genius and mental illness, and the keen hold a place can have on a person. She vividly describes the Lowcountry and the pull of the sea. A chilling revelation, a love story, and a bittersweet ending add to this gripping tale.” —Booklist

  “This story is as rich as its South Carolina Lowcountry setting and filled with sympathetic, endearing characters that resonate. It’s an engaging, deeply moving story.” —Romantic Times (4½ stars)

  “Beautifully written and as lyrical as the tides. The Memory of Water speaks directly to the heart and will linger in yours long after you’ve read the final page. I loved this book!”

  —Susan Crandall, author of Pitch Black

  “Karen White delivers a powerfully emotional blend of family secrets, Lowcountry lore, and love in The Memory of Water—who could ask for more?”—Barbara Bretton, author of Just Desserts

  Learning to Breathe

  “White creates a heartfelt story full of vibrant characters and emotion that leaves the reader satisfied yet hungry for more from this talented author.” —Booklist

  “A can’t-put-it-down book by Georgia novelist Karen White.”

  —Southern Lady

  “One of those stories where you savor every single word ... a perfect 10.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Another one of Karen White’s emotional books! A joy to read!”

  —The Best Reviews

  Pieces of the Heart

  “Heartwarming and intense ... a tale that resonates with the meaning of unconditional love.” —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “A terrific, insightful character study.” —Midwest Book Review

  The Color of Light

  “[White’s] prose is lyrical, and she weaves in elements of mysticism and romance without being heavy-handed. An accomplished novel . . .”

  —Booklist

  “A story as rich as a coastal summer ... dark secrets, heartache, a magnificent South Carolina setting, and a great love story.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith

  “As lush as the Lowcountry, where the characters’ wounded souls come home to mend in unexpected and magical ways.”

  —Patti Callahan Henry, author of Between the Tides

  More Praise

  for Karen White

  “The fresh voice of Karen White intrigues and delights.”

  —Sandra Chastain, contributor to At Home in Mossy Creek

  “Warmly Southern and deeply moving.”—Deborah Smith

  “Karen White writes with passion and poignancy.”

  —Deb Stover, award-winning author of Mulligan Magic

  “[A] sweet book…highly recommended.” —Booklist

  “Karen White is one author you won’t forget. . . . This is a masterpiece in the study of relationships. Brava!”—Reader to Reader Reviews

  “This is not only romance at its best—this is a fully realized view of life at its fullest.”—Readers & Writers, Ink

  “After the Rain is an elegantly enchanting Southern novel.... Fans will recognize the beauty of White’s evocative prose.”—WordWeaving.com

  “In the tradition of Catherine Anderson and Deborah Smith, Karen White’s After the Rain is an incredibly poignant contemporary bursting with Southern charm.”

  —Patricia Rouse, Rouse’s Romance Readers Groups

  “Don’t miss this book!” —Rendezvous

  New American Library Titles by Karen White

  The Color of Light

  Pieces of the Heart

  Learning to Breathe

  The Memory of Water

  New American Library

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2008

  Copyright © Harley House Books, LLC, 2008

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  White, Karen (Karen S.)

  The House on Tradd Street/Karen White.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-60243-6

  1. Real estate agents—Fiction. 2. Single women—Fiction. 3. Haunted houses—Fiction.

  4. Historic buildings—South Carolina—Charleston—Fiction. 5. Charleston (S.C.)—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3623.H5776H68 2008

  813’.6—dc22 2008025926

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and
punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Theresa White,

  my wonderful mother-in-law and ardent supporter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, thanks to the usual suspects: Tim, Connor and Meghan for your cheerleading and your acceptance of an empty kitchen and pizza for dinner. To my editor, Cindy Hwang, and my agent, Karen Solem, for working tirelessly to help me create the best books possible, and to the rest of the well-oiled machine at Penguin, who do such a fabulous job of creating gorgeous covers and getting my books in stores everywhere.

  Thank you to Pam Mantovani and Dianna Love for the initial brainstorming for the idea behind this book and for your enthusiasm that encouraged me to write it.

  Thanks also to my critique partner, Wendy Wax, whose wisdom and support I simply couldn’t do without. To Nancy Flaherty, my lasting gratitude for her unflagging support and her graciousness in allowing me to use her name and golf habits. And a huge thanks to Robin Hillyer Miles, a Charleston native and tour guide extraordinaire who was kind enough to read this manuscript and point out facts that I didn’t have “quite right.” Any errors regarding the city of Charleston and its geography are entirely my own!

  And no acknowledgment would be complete without thanking my readers. You make worthwhile every moment I spend in the solitude of writing.

  CHAPTER 1

  Pewter reflections of scarlet hibiscus colored the dirt-smudged windows of the old house, like happy memories of youth trapped inside the shell of an old man. The broken pediments over the windows gave the house a permanent frown, yet the leaf-filtered sun against the chipped Tower-of-the-Winds columns lining the side piazzas painted the house with hope. It was almost, I thought, as if the house were merely waiting for a miracle.

  I studied the house, my Realtor’s mind trying to see past the wreckage. It was a characteristic Charleston single house, turned perpendicular to the street so that its short side abutted the sidewalk. The entry door, with an ornate cornice and Italianate filigree brackets, opened onto the garden-facing piazza, where I knew I would find the main entryway into the house. I wrinkled my nose, already smelling the inevitable decay I would encounter once I’d entered the house. Despite the enviable south of Broad location, any potential buyer for this property would have to be blind or incredibly stupid. In my vast experience at selling historic real estate in the city, I would bank on the latter.

  The rhythmic pulse of rope against tree trunk punctuated the muggy Charleston morning air, catching my attention and drawing me to the peeling wrought iron fence to peer into the side garden. I wasn’t sure if it was curiosity that made me stop or just reluctance to continue. I hated old houses. Which was odd, really, since they were my specialty in the realty business. Then again, maybe not so odd, considering the origins of my dislike. Regardless, old houses gave me plenty of reasons to dislike them. For one thing, they smelled of lemon oil and beeswax mixed with mothballs. And always seemed to accompany the slow gait of an elderly person too old to keep up the house yet too stubborn to let it go. Like the owner had exhausted all hope of finding something in the future that would ever be as good as the past. Depressing, really. It was all just lumber and plaster in the end.

  Seeing nothing, I pushed open the stubborn gate covered with climbing Confederate jasmine, the rusted hinges reluctantly giving up ground. I picked my way carefully over the cracked walkway of what must have once been a prized patterned garden, my high-heeled pumps avoiding cracks and tall weeds with prickers that would tear at my stockings and silk suit with little provocation.

  A fall of shadow from the rear of the garden caught my attention. Ignoring the drops of perspiration running down the front of my blouse, I gingerly stepped across the weeds to get a better look.

  An overgrown flower bed encircled a fountain where a cherub in the middle sat suspended in the perpetual motion of blowing nonexistent water from stone lips. Thick weeds as tall as my hips crept into the fountain, grasping at the cherub’s ankles. A gecko darted out from the chipped cement edging the fountain and ran along the side. Clutching my leather portfolio, I followed it to the back side of the statue, not completely sure why. Sweat trickled down my nape, and I raised a hand to wipe it away. My fingers felt icy against my skin, a sort of warning sign I had begun to recognize when I was still very small. I concentrated on ignoring the pinpricks that raced up my spine and made me listen to things I didn’t want to hear and that other people couldn’t.

  I was eager to leave, but I stopped at the sight of a splash of red while my beautiful and expensive Italian leather heels sank into thick mulch. A small kidney-shaped area had been cleared of weeds and there, sprouting from fresh cedar clippings, grew four fat bushes containing the most vibrant red roses I had ever seen. They were like brightly dressed young girls sitting in the back pew of a crumbling church, and even their scent seemed out of place in the forlorn garden. I turned away, feeling an abiding sorrow that seemed to saturate the air in this part of the yard.

  The heat that pressed down on me seemed to have a cold center to it, and I felt out of breath, as if I’d run a long distance. Jerkily, I stumbled to the shade under a live oak tree. I leaned against the tree trunk and looked up, searching for my breath in a garden that seemed to be soaking up air and even time itself. Spanish moss draped shawllike on the ancient limbs of the tree, its massive branches testifying to its years on this earth, its roots reaching out toward the house. The sound of the swing continued to reverberate throughout the overgrown garden, and when I turned my head, I again caught a movement of shadow from the corner of my eye. For a moment, I thought I could see a woman wearing an old-fashioned dress pushing an empty board swing suspended by rope from the oak tree. The image was hazy, the edges of it dim and fading.

  The pinpricks invaded the back of my neck again, and I abruptly turned toward the piazza and marched across the garden, unconcerned now about my panty hose or anything else except getting my errand over with.

  I crossed the marble-paved piazza, then pressed hard on the front doorbell and then again as I willed somebody to answer it quickly. It took forever before the slow, shuffling steps could be heard behind the closed door. I saw movement through the beveled-glass window in the door, etched in the pattern of climbing roses, the pattern deflecting light and color and separating the person on the other side of the door into a thousand fragments.

  I sighed, knowing that it would take another five minutes for the old man to unlock all the dead bolts and another twenty for him to allow me to get to the point of our meeting just as surely as I knew that if I turned around to face the sound of the swing, I would see nothing at all.

  The door swung open, and I took a surprised step backward as I found myself staring up into large brown eyes magnified by what looked like the bottoms of Coke bottles stuffed into wire eyeglass frames. The man had to be at least six foot three, even with the hunched shoulders beneath the starched white oxford cloth shirt and dark jacket, and he wore a linen handkerchief neatly tucked into the coat pocket.

  I whipped out one of my business cards and held it out toward the old man. “Mr. Vanderhorst? I’m Melanie Middleton with Henderson House Realty. We spoke on the phone yesterday.” The man hadn’t made a move to take my card and was still staring at me through his thick glasses. “We made an appointment for today so that we might discuss your house.”

  He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “I saw you in the garden.”

  He continued to stare and I rubbed my hands up and down my arms, feeling as if it were thirty degrees outside instead of ninety-eight. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to get a good look at the lot.”

  I turned to face the garden as if to illustrate my point and realized that the sound of the swing had stopped the moment the door opened. The lot itself was large by historic
district standards, and I couldn’t help but think of the wasted space the house was occupying and how much more useful it would be as a parking lot for the nearby shops and restaurants.

  “Did you see her?”

  His voice startled me. It was deep and very soft, as if it didn’t get much use, and he was unaware of how much breath he needed for each word.

  “See who?”

  “The lady pushing the swing.”

  He had my full attention now. I looked into his magnified eyes. “No. There was nobody there. Were you expecting somebody?”

  Instead of answering, he stepped back, opening the door farther, and made a courtly sweep of his hand. “Won’t you come in? Let’s sit in the drawing room and I’ll get us coffee.”

  “Thank you, but that’s really not necessa . . .”

  But he had already turned away from me and was shuffling through a keystone arch that separated the front hall from the stair hall. A faded yellow Chinese paper covered the walls, and I had the fleeting impression of elegant beauty before I looked closer and saw the buckling and the peeling and did a mental calculation of the cost of restoring handpainted wallpaper.

  I stepped through a pedimented doorway into the room Mr. Vanderhorst had indicated and found myself standing in a large front drawing room with tall ornamented ceilings capped with elaborate cornices circling the room. A dusty crystal chandelier dominated the room, its remaining crystals seemingly held in place by thick cobwebs. An intricate plaster medallion on the ceiling above the chandelier finalized my initial impression of the room as a wedding cake that had been left out in a warm room too long.