The Girl On Legare 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

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  Praise for the Novels of Karen White

  The House on Tradd Street

  “Engaging. . . .The supernatural elements are not played for scares, but instead refine and reveal Melanie’s true character. . . . A fun and satisfying read, this series kickoff should hook a wide audience.”—Publishers Weekly

  “The House on Tradd Street has it all: mystery, romance, and the paranormal including ghosts with quirky personalities. For me this is White’s best work and I am looking forward to the sequel.”—BookLoons

  “White delivers funny characters, a solid plot, and an interesting twist in this novel about the South and its antebellum history.”—Romantic Times

  “Has all the elements that have made Karen White’s books fan favorites: a Southern setting, a deeply emotional tale, and engaging characters. ”

  —A Romance Review

  “The key to this quirky charmer is the depth of the lead characters, especially the heroine and even some of the ghosts. Fans of paranormal romantic suspense will want to read this wonderful tale as Karen White provides a fine treasure hunt mystery with a nasty spirit inside a warm romance in which readers will say yes that they believe in ghosts and in love.”—Midwest Book Review

  “If you enjoy ghost stories with some mystery thrown into the mix, you are going to love this one.The sights and smells of the old house, along with excellent dialogue and good pacing, add up to a wonderful, mysterious, and ghostly tale.”—Romance Reviews Today

  “Brilliant and engrossing . . . a rare gem . . . exquisitely told, rich in descriptions, and filled with multifaceted characters.”—The Book Connection

  “Karen White is an extremely talented and colorful writer with tons of imagination. If you are not a believer of paranormal, you will be after reading this novel.”—Fresh Fiction

  The Memory of Water

  “Careful plotting, richly flawed characters and a surprising conclusion mark this absorbing melodrama.”—Publishers Weekly

  “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

  “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 the Novels of 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.”

  —New York Times bestselling author 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

  The House on Tradd Street

  The Lost Hours

  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 2009

  Copyright © Harley House Books, LLC, 2009

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  White, Karen (Karen S.)

  The girl on Legare Street/Karen White.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15564-6

  1.Women real estate agent
s—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction 3. Haunted houses—Fiction.

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

  PS3623.H5776G57 2009

  813’—dc22 2009024592

  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 Claire White Kobylt, who’s known me longer than just about everybody,

  and who likes me anyway. Thanks for your friendship.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my readers, whose letters and e-mails inspire me to continue writing. Although—in answer to your most frequently asked question—I can’t write any faster, I will continue to write books for as long as you will read them.

  Thanks again to Nancy Flaherty, for the use of your name as well as your golfing and knitting hobbies for shameless use in this book, and to my brother-in-law, Rich Kobylt, for your cameo performance as a plumber. I hope you both enjoy your character incarnations as much as I enjoyed creating them and as much as readers enjoy reading about them.

  To Klara Rehm and Joyce McDonnell, thank you for your time and expertise on the German language translation and for saving me from embassassment.

  Thanks also to my publisher, New American Library, for taking a chance on a “different” kind of book series and for all of your support and for giving my books fabulous covers as well as for getting them into as many readers’ hands as possible.

  And thanks to my critique partner and talented author, Wendy Wax, and to Tim, Meghan and Connor for your support, words of wisdom, and for not slapping me silly even when I deserved it.

  Last, but not least, thank you to the beautiful city of Charleston and its citizens, who welcome me warmly on each visit. I hope I have faithfully portrayed your “holy city.”

  CHAPTER 1

  The milky glow of winter sun behind a sky rubbed the color of an old nickel failed in its feeble attempt to warm the November morning. I shuddered in my wool coat, my Charleston blood unaccustomed to the infrequent blasts of frigid air that descend on the Holy City from time to time to send yet another reminder of why we choose to live in this beautiful city, whose inhabitants—both living and dead—coexist like light and shadow.

  I yanked open the door to the City Lights Coffee Bar, the wind behind me threatening to close it again before I’d gone through it. Glancing around, I spotted Jack at a table by the front window, a latte with extra whipped cream and a large cinnamon roll already sitting on the table across from him. Immediately suspicious, I approached the table with caution.

  “What do you want?” I asked, indicating the latte and cinnamon roll.

  He looked up at me with a pair of killer blue eyes that I’d spent the last six months of my life trying not to notice. His look of innocence would have made me smile and roll my eyes if I didn’t still have the lingering aura of dread that had dogged me all the way from my house on Tradd Street to Market. It had been a strong enough feeling to make me pause outside the café for a moment longer than necessary, hoping to identify whatever it was. I wanted to think it was my grogginess, caused by a phone call at two o’clock in the morning after which I’d been unable to fall asleep. That would have been an acceptable explanation, but in my world—where phone calls from people long dead weren’t as unusual an occurrence as most people would expect—I wasn’t satisfied.

  “Good morning, Melanie,” Jack said cheerfully. “Can’t a guy just want to buy breakfast for a beautiful woman without expecting anything in return?”

  I pretended to think for a moment. “No.” I unbuttoned my coat and folded it neatly on the back of my chair before sitting down, noticing that all of the women in the restaurant—including the gray-haired woman with a walker at a table by the bar—were staring at Jack and regarding me with narrowed eyes. Yes, Jack Trenholm was way too good-looking to be a writer, especially a writer of historical true-crime mysteries. He should have been bald with a gray beard, wearing thick turtlenecks that protruded over his paunch, his teeth tobacco stained from his ubiquitous pipe. Unfortunately, like so much about Jack, he didn’t even try to fit the stereotype.

  “So, what do you want?” I asked again as I took out the bottle of hand sanitizer from my purse and squirted a dollop on my palm. I offered the bottle to Jack, but he shook his head before taking a sip of his black coffee. Emptying two packets of sugar into my latte, I looked up at him again, then wished I hadn’t. His eyes were certainly bluer than they needed to be, their intensity not needing the help from the navy blue sweater he wore. But something flickered in his eyes as he regarded me—something I thought looked a lot like concern—and it made me squirm in my seat.

  “How’s General Lee?” he asked, ignoring my question and glancing out the front window, then down at his watch.

  I swallowed a bite of my cinnamon roll. “He’s fine,” I said, referring to the small black-and-white dog I’d reluctantly inherited along with my historic home on Tradd Street.

  “Are you still keeping him in the kitchen at night?”

  I avoided his gaze. “Um, no. Not exactly.”

  A wide grin spread over Jack’s face. “He sleeps in your room now, doesn’t he?”

  I took a huge bite of my roll to avoid answering, annoyed again at how astute Jack could be where I was concerned. After having failed to foist General Lee off on my best friend, Dr. Sophie Wallen—who’d turned out to be allergic—I’d sworn to all who would listen that I wasn’t a dog person and had no intention of actually keeping the animal.

  “He’s sleeping at the foot of your bed now, isn’t he?” Jack couldn’t keep the glee from his voice.

  I took a long sip of my latte, studiously avoiding looking at him.

  Jack crossed his arms over his chest and slid back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “He’s on the pillow next to you, too, right?”

  “Fine,” I said, slamming down my coffee mug. “He wouldn’t sleep anywhere else, okay? He’d cry if I left him in the kitchen, and when I brought him up to my room he’d sit next to the bed staring up at me all night until I brought him up there with me. Sleeping on my pillow was his idea.” I slid the mug away from me. “It’s not like I actually like him or anything. He just seemed . . . lonely.”

  Jack leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Maybe I should pretend I’m lonely and look up at you with sad puppy eyes and see what happens.”

  I stared at him for a moment, suppressing the unwanted trill of excitement that settled somewhere near my stomach. “You’d end up in a crate in the kitchen.” I pushed my empty plate away and signaled the waitress for another.

  Jack laughed, then shook his head. “You know, one day those calories are actually going to stick to you, and you’ll have to watch what you eat like the rest of us mortals.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t help it. It’s hereditary. My maternal grandmother was as slim as a reed until the day she died, a
nd she ate like a linebacker.”

  “Is your mother the same way?”

  My eyes met Jack’s and I saw he wasn’t smiling anymore. “I wouldn’t know, would I? I haven’t seen her in more than thirty years.” This wasn’t precisely the truth. I had accidentally spotted the famous soprano Ginnette Prioleau several times while surfing channels on the television, the remote control in my hand unable to flip quickly enough from the PBS station broadcasting a production of the Metropolitan Opera. The exact truth was that my mother was still as slender and as beautiful as she’d been when she abandoned her seven-year-old daughter without a backward glance.

  The darkness that had been hovering over me all morning now seemed to descend on our corner table, obscuring the light as if someone had hit a dimmer switch. I fought a wave of nausea as the hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I looked at Jack in panic to see if he’d noticed a change, too. But he was too busy staring past my shoulder to notice anything else.

  “You look a lot like her, you know.” Jack’s eyes slid back to mine and I saw his look of concern quickly switch to one of apology.

  “Oh God, Jack, you didn’t!” I made a move to stand but he placed a hand on my arm.

  “Melanie, she said it was a matter of life or death and that you wouldn’t see her or return her phone calls. I was her last resort.”

  I looked around blindly, searching for an exit other than the door through which I’d entered, and wondered if I could run through the kitchen before anybody noticed me. A small gloved hand gripped my shoulder as a bright light seemed to pop in front of me like a curtain being pulled back from the window to reveal a sunny day. The darkness dispelled as she squeezed my shoulder and dropped her hand, but the light remained, leaving me to wonder if the sigh and whisper I’d heard as the darkness dispelled had been only in my imagination.