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  Irene spoke first. “If you ever answered your phone or returned any phone calls, you’d know. We don’t mean to ambush you, but you left us with few options. We were hoping that the newspaper reporter would have given you a copy of her article before it appeared in this Sunday’s paper so you’d be prepared, but even she’s had a difficult time reaching you.”

  “The reporter?” I vaguely recalled Rebecca telling me about some reporter who was doing a story about Mr. Vanderhorst. “What does the reporter or the article have to do with me?”

  My mother tightened her hold on my shoulder. “It’s a little complicated, Mellie; why don’t we all go sit down in the parlor. . . .”

  “No. I think we’ve waited long enough.” Irene squared her shoulders. “My husband is the only living legitimate descendant of John Vanderhorst, Nevin Vanderhorst’s great-grandfather. That means that Nevin Vanderhorst’s estate is rightfully ours, and we’re here to contest his will.”

  My ears started ringing as I realized why Sophie had suddenly developed a split personality. She’d been trying to defend me. They want my house. The thought scared and enraged me, two strong emotions I wasn’t used to feeling at the same time. The last time it had happened I’d been in a cemetery with an evil spirit who’d been trying to kill me.

  I stared at the woman with her jeans and sneakers and thick New York accent, and then over to her husband, and knew they couldn’t have been genetically farther from Nevin Vanderhorst than if they’d been another species.

  I was shaking my head before I’d begun to speak. “No. That’s not possible. Mr. Vanderhorst made it clear that he had no living relatives.”

  George moved to stand next to his wife. “He was mistaken. We have proof of our claim.”

  “What proof?” I asked. Spots had begun to form in front of my eyes, and I realized that what little I’d eaten at breakfast had been left in the van’s cup holder. I blinked hard, needing to keep focused.

  We watched as Irene Gilbert opened her large purse and pulled out something wrapped in tissue. Very gently, as if holding a baby, she reached inside and pulled out a yellowed linen bonnet. The kind of bonnet that was usually worn with a matching christening gown.

  I heard Sophie’s intake of air as we both recognized the embroidery along the edges of the visor. I hadn’t yet shown the gown to my mother, but she could tell from our reaction that the bonnet was something important.

  Very slowly, I reached over and took the bonnet from Irene and flipped it inside out. And there, in carefully stitched letters, was the name Susan Bivens.

  My mother reached for the bonnet, her bare fingers touching it just as I closed my hand over hers to stop her. Frigid air pushed at us in viscous waves as an unseen hand pressed against my throat, choking the air from my lungs. I called for Jack, but the words died, fading like the light. Just as everything went dark, I saw an angry woman standing next to two empty cradles, while invisible fingers played the same three notes over and over on the piano.

  CHAPTER 11

  I blinked several times, registering only a dimly lit room, soft sheets, and a warm hand holding mine. Then something fuzzy and wet nuzzled my neck, making me press my face into a vaguely familiar scent. “Jack?” I murmured.

  “Actually, no. I’m over here.”

  Both eyes jerked open and I found myself staring into a pair of soft brown eyes and a very black, wet nose. General Lee barked once in greeting before Jack lifted him off the bed and set him on the floor. “That’s enough of that. Who would have thought that my competition would have more hair on his chest than I do?”

  My smile faded as I remembered the angry woman and the fingers pressed against my throat. I quickly sat up, and then just as quickly regretted my decision as my head tried to spin off my shoulders.

  “Slow down, Mellie. You’ve been through a lot today and you need to take it easy. For all three of you.” He grinned, but I saw the worry in his eyes. “Luckily, Mrs. Gilbert is a registered nurse and was able to reassure us that you’d only fainted and that your vitals were all strong. She suspected you might be a little dehydrated, which is probably right, since I had firsthand knowledge that your stomach had been recently emptied and I hadn’t seen you drink anything to replenish your fluids. Just in case, I called Dr. Wise, and she thought it would be a good idea to bring you in. But I left out this part, because I didn’t think she could help with that.” He lifted the hair off of my neck.

  Raw welts rippled under my fingers when I touched where the icy hand had been. I swallowed, my throat feeling thick and bruised. “I’m fine. Really. I allowed myself to be vulnerable and unprepared. I won’t be next time.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Next time? If you think there’s a good chance of a ‘next time,’ then maybe I should move in, just to be sure.”

  Right. Like that would help me sleep at night. “No, Jack. I can handle this. I know how. And if I need help, I’ll call my mother.” I frowned, having a vague memory of her screaming as the lights went out. I straightened, all grogginess gone. “How’s my mother? She touched the bonnet without her gloves.”

  Jack released my hand and rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “She’s fine. Your father came and took her home. Quite the spectacle to see both of you fainting at the same time. If that didn’t freak out the Gilberts, then hopefully Sophie’s tales of doom and gloom and unending battles with mildew will make them run screaming all the way back to New York.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  He paused, considering. “No.” He sat down on the edge of the bed again, and I held myself still, straining against my body’s need to curl up against him. “Remember what Mr. Vanderhorst said to you? About this house being more than bricks and mortar, but a piece of history you can hold in your hand? I think the Gilberts get that. I don’t think they’re here for the money. I think they’re here because it’s Mr. Gilbert’s birthright, his connection to a family he never knew existed.”

  “But all they have is a bonnet. How can that be proof?”

  “That’s all they showed us. They didn’t have time to tell us any more, because you fainted. But I think the article in this Sunday’s paper might be illuminating. I don’t think Mr. Drayton would be with them if he didn’t think they had enough evidence to make a case.”

  I glared at him. “So you’re taking their side?”

  His eyes darkened. “I’m always on your side, Mellie, and I wish you didn’t make me jump through hoops to show it.” He held up his hand to stem the flow of words threatening to tumble from my mouth. “But if we can push aside all the emotions, I’m sure you’ll have to agree that we need to find the truth. Obviously the bonnet and christening gown are connected. We’ll go visit Yvonne and see what we can discover and then go from there. I don’t know what the Gilberts have in their arsenal, but I don’t think it’ll be long before we find out. And I think you should get a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer? Can’t we just get to the bottom of this and find out that they’re wrong, and then they’ll go away?”

  “But what if they’re not wrong?”

  I regarded him steadily as worry and fear spread up from my feet like a vine, winding themselves around my heart before squeezing tightly. “Then I could lose my house.”

  “‘My house,’ Mellie? So it’s no longer ‘that pile of termite-infested lumber’? Or the ‘goiter’ on your neck?”

  He was right, of course. My eyes burned with anger, tears, or frustration—maybe all three. Or maybe I could blame it on the pregnancy hormones. They had become a good catchall for everything that seemed to be ailing me.

  Softening his voice, Jack said, “Have you considered that the discovery of the bones in the foundation happened now for a reason? That somebody thought that the house was ready to give up its last secret?”

  My eyes met his as I struggled to find my voice. “That’s what’s worrying me. That it’s not just the Gilberts who think I have no claim to this house.”

  I couldn’t
find the strength to hold back my tears and they fell down my cheeks, wetting my blouse. Jack pulled me into his arms, which released even more tears, as if a plug had been pulled on a drain that had been blocked for a very long time.

  “I-it’s the hormones,” I managed to stutter, my words muffled by his warm, solid chest.

  “I know, Mellie. I know,” he said as he patted my back.

  I continued to cry, hounded by my grandmother’s words about finding out what I wanted and being ready to fight for it. But what if there were two its? And what if I’d already lost both because I’d been too stupid to know what I had when they were mine?

  I dragged myself through the door of Henderson House Realty the following morning, sweating more than the early-morning temperature warranted. I felt as if I’d already run a marathon instead of having simply gone through the effort of putting on panty hose while nibbling saltines to stem the tide of nausea.

  I paused at the front desk as Nancy Flaherty and her receptionist-in-training, Joyce Challis, looked up at me.

  “Wow,” said Nancy.

  “Wow?” I repeated.

  Nancy and Joyce exchanged a look before Nancy turned back to me. “Were you planning on doing your hair and makeup once you got here?”

  I raised my hand to my hair, and then my lips, then stared back at Nancy in horror. I’d been so proud of getting myself showered and dressed and making it out the door without throwing up that I’d simply forgotten to brush my hair or put on makeup.

  Nancy stood, clutching a sizable cosmetics bag in a green argyle pattern with a large embroidered golf ball on the side. “Not to worry—I always come prepared.”

  As she walked out from behind the desk I noticed that they’d both been knitting again. I looked down at the little half-finished knitted golf visors—one in blue and one in pink. “You finished with the blankets?”

  Nancy nodded. “I already promised Jack that I’d teach the baby how to golf, so I figured he or she should be prepared.”

  I hoped, at least for Nancy’s sake, that the twins would be one of each. Otherwise she’d have more knitting to do. “It’s twins,” I said, my voice cracking. We hadn’t even told our parents yet—not after the fiasco of the day before with the Gilberts’ visit.

  They both smiled. “Twins! How exciting!” they said in unison.

  My own smile wobbled. “Yes, it is. It’s just taking some getting used to, that’s all.”

  “Any pregnancy will do that,” said Nancy, taking my arm.

  I paused. “Before I forget.” I pulled out the memo pad I always kept in my purse along with my oral care items. “Please take note of the names of people I do not wish to speak with. Anybody with the last name of Gilbert, Rebecca Edgerton, or Suzy Dorf. If Mr. Drayton calls, or one of my parents, I’ll take it. Same goes for Detective Riley with the Charleston PD.”

  Joyce busily scribbled down the names. “What about Mr. Trenholm? Which list is he on this week?”

  I shot a glance at Nancy, who shrugged. “I’m teaching her everything I know.”

  With as much dignity as I could manage, I said, “He has my cell number, but if he calls the office, I’ll take the call.”

  “But ask again tomorrow,” Nancy threw over her shoulder as she led me back to my office.

  After fifteen minutes with Nancy and her makeup bag, I was looking almost human again. She gave me a thumbs-up, then left to go back to knitting, working on her chip shot, and occasionally answering the phone.

  I turned on my computer and stared desultorily at my mostly empty calendar. I’d been studiously avoiding the leaderboard posted outside Mr. Henderson’s office, because I knew I was no longer number one. I had a feeling that I wasn’t even in the top ten. Even though the knowledge didn’t ignite a fire in me the way it used to, I still found it mildly irritating.

  I had a prospect list and a few phone messages to return. I flipped through them several times and was about to stick them on the corner of my desk to deal with later when I heard Dr. Wise’s words echoing in my head, reminding me why it was important that I actually earn money. Congratulations. You’re having twins. If I was planning on being a single mother and supporting my children, I needed to get busy.

  With as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I made my phone calls, and even managed to put a few appointments on my calendar to view a house, show a house, and list a house. It wasn’t my usual amount of activity, but I felt better knowing that I was diving back into the world of earning an income. I might have to buy a house to live in, in the not-so-distant future; moving in with my mother was not an option I wanted to seriously consider. Being single, pregnant, and over forty was hard enough to deal with. Living with my mother would send me over the cliff into the world of patheticness. It was gratifying to know that after everything that had happened, I at least still had my pride.

  When I was finished, I returned to my computer to search out new listings for houses to show Jack. Finding the perfect house had proven to be a lot harder than I’d anticipated, his checklist of wants impossible to find in a single house. If the house was old enough, it didn’t have the space. If the house had the right amount of yard space and garden, it wasn’t old enough.

  I was jotting down notes about possibilities when Nancy’s voice came over the intercom. “There’s a Detective Riley here to see you, Miss Middleton. He says it’s business.”

  I sat up, ridiculously glad that I’d allowed Nancy to fix my hair and makeup. “Please send him back.”

  I stood and walked around to the front of my desk, smoothing my hair and feeling relieved that I hadn’t worn the same suit with the recently replaced button that I’d worn the first time I’d met Thomas. Instead I was wearing the red maternity dress my mother had picked out for me. Despite my reluctance to buy it, I knew it was a good color for me and didn’t cling to my new bumps and bulges, giving an illusion of my old slim figure.

  I leaned against my desk, wanting to appear casual, then wondered whether that made it look like I was trying too hard. I straightened, thinking I should be on my phone and looking busy instead of just standing around waiting. I picked up my iPhone from my desk and immediately dropped it on the floor. By the time Nancy had escorted Detective Riley back to my office, I was on my hands and knees under my desk.

  “Need some help?” he asked, humor in his voice.

  Not wanting anybody besides General Lee to witness me rolling to a stand—the easiest way I’d found to go from prone to standing—I nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Despite being so large, he was surprisingly gentle, placing his hands beneath my arms and pulling me to my feet. With delicate precision, he removed several strands of my hair stuck to my lipstick, then bent to pick up my errant phone.

  I immediately held it to my face and spoke into it. “I’ll call you back later.”

  I placed it on my desk, realizing too late that it was faceup with the locked screen plainly visible. Jack would have made a comment to let me know I’d been caught, but Thomas was too much of a gentleman. I felt a flicker of disappointment and then it was gone.

  As gracefully as I could, I moved to my desk chair, indicating one of the chairs opposite. “It’s good to see you, Thomas. What can I do for you?”

  He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his hands clasped. “This is actually a courtesy call. There have been a few developments.”

  “Developments? As in you have the final lab reports on the remains?”

  “Not exactly.” I expected him to rub his chin like Jack, but instead his hands remained folded and still. “It’s going to take some time. But I wanted to give you a heads-up on what could be a related matter.”

  I arched one eyebrow, then quickly lowered it, remembering how it had left a crease on Rebecca’s forehead.

  “I’m sure you’ve already read the article on Mr. Vanderhorst.”

  I looked up at the ceiling. “I’m beginning to think that I might be the only one in Charleston who ha
sn’t. I, uh, missed a few phone calls from the reporter, so I guess I’ll have to wait until Sunday to read it.”

  “Luckily I have an ‘in’ at the paper.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an iPhone. “Hang on a second and I’ll forward it to you. What’s your e-mail address?”

  I almost gave him my personal e-mail address—ABBA#1FAN—but thought better of it and gave him my business one instead. My phone beeped and I picked it up, thumbed over to my e-mails, and opened it.

  I stared at it for a long moment, blinking several times and wondering whether there would be a way to sneak my reading glasses out of my desk drawer without him seeing me, then distract him long enough so he wouldn’t notice me putting them on.

  “Do you need to borrow my reading glasses?” He was already reaching into his pocket.

  “No, that’s all right. I think I might have some here.” I opened the drawer and pretended to root around for a moment. “Oh, here they are.”

  The article must have been copied and pasted into the e-mail, since there wasn’t any formatting except for paragraphs. But the headline was big and bold, just as I imagined it would appear in Sunday’s paper:

  The Vanderhorsts of Tradd Street

  The last in the family line, or secret interloper? New evidence demands a verdict.

  My eyes stung as if I’d been peeling onions, but I couldn’t stop. I read the opening lines:

  Nevin Vanderhorst lived in his ancestral family home at 55 Tradd Street his entire life, and when he died without heirs, he was the last in a long line of an old Charleston family. With no known relatives, he bequeathed his venerable house to Realtor Melanie Middleton, whom Mr. Vanderhorst had met only once in his life just a few days before he died.

  Enter New Yorkers Irene and George Gilbert. Spurred on by the inheritance of an old steamer trunk following the death of Mr. Gilbert’s father, Irene began dissecting her husband’s family tree, and what a tangled vine it has turned out to be.