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  “I’m sure,” she said before taking off the pair of gardening gloves she’d been wearing.

  I took out my cell phone and placed it on the table. In answer to my mother’s questioning look, I explained, “In case I need to call nine-one-one.”

  “That won’t be necessary. . . .”

  “Humor me, okay?”

  She nodded, then focused her attention on the gown lying on the pillowcase in the middle of the garden table. She moved her head to the side. “Do you smell that?”

  “Smell what?” I asked slowly.

  “Roses. So strong it’s like I’m at a wedding. Or a funeral.”

  I drew in a deep breath through my nose, smelling only the boxwoods and the scent of old newspapers that still clung to the linen of the christening gown. I took another deep breath just to be sure before shaking my head once. “No. I don’t smell roses at all.” Before she could ask her next question, I added, “And I don’t see anyone, either.”

  “I think it’s Louisa Vanderhorst.”

  “But she went away after we discovered her remains beneath the fountain and solved the mystery of her disappearance. Why would she be back?”

  “Perhaps to return a favor—from one mother to another.”

  We looked at each other in silent understanding, and I imagined a cool hand brushed my cheek.

  My mother returned her attention to the christening gown and, after a deep breath, leaned forward before placing both hands palm-down on the yellowed linen.

  I kept my phone in one hand as I watched my mother’s body go rigid, her chest rising and falling. Her hands shook but she did not lift them off of the gown. Her lips moved, forming words I could not hear; nor were they meant for me. I watched in horror and fascination as the gown beneath her fingers began to writhe, as if a living child were inside of it, the two small sleeves reaching up toward her.

  The metal of my chair and the table beneath my hands pricked at my skin as if covered with frost, but I was too transfixed by what was happening in front of me to move. My mother’s eyes opened abruptly, two blackened charcoal eyes that I did not recognize gazing back at me. I tried to push back my chair, to create a distance between us, but something—someone—held me back.

  Those unrecognizable eyes stared at me with rage and hatred. This wasn’t my mother. This wasn’t anybody I knew. I could only sit and stare, transfixed, and pray for my mother to return.

  The table began to shake beneath her hands, the gown twitching and twisting, the chairs rattling. An unearthly groan oozed between my mother’s slightly open lips, and my own mouth dropped open in surprise and abject fear. She jerked to her feet and leaned across the table, her face close, and I smelled damp, dark earth.

  I wanted to shut my eyes, but something was holding them open, making me watch.

  Her mouth opened wide, and with a loud howling wind that brought with it the scent of moist dirt and rotting leaves, the word formed around me: Mine.

  My mother slept on the couch in the front parlor, the old stained-glass window behind her covering her with a blanket of colors. I sat in the chair next to her, still trembling and watching, listening to her breathe.

  As soon as that one word had rolled from my mother’s lips, she’d collapsed into her chair; whatever had possessed her had gone along with the smell of death. She hadn’t fainted, but she’d been too fatigued to do anything but allow me to walk her to the sofa and help her lie down. She’d been asleep before I’d taken off her shoes.

  I heard the key turn in the latch of the front door, followed by the sound of someone whistling the tune to the song “Fever,” and heavy footsteps that moved into the middle of the foyer and then stopped.

  “Ginny? It’s your stud muffin. Where are you?”

  Too stunned to say anything, I remained silent.

  “Are you in bed? That certainly makes things easier.”

  Footsteps approached the stairs, but as they crossed the entry to the parlor, I called out. “Dad?”

  His footsteps stopped, then retraced themselves. “Melanie?”

  I wasn’t sure who was more embarrassed, but I would have bet that the scarlet shade of his cheeks probably matched my own.

  He held a bouquet of red amaryllis, and I could smell a light scent of lemon cologne. Stud muffin? I felt the morning’s nausea return.

  “Hello, Melanie. I didn’t expect to see you here. . . .” His voice died as he spotted my mother on the sofa. He walked quickly across the room and knelt by her side. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so.” Knowing how my father felt about my mother’s gift in particular, and the paranormal in general, I wasn’t sure how much I could tell him. “She was very tired and needed to lie down. I had a few questions to ask her, so I thought I’d wait until she woke up.”

  He looked at me oddly, realizing there was a lot I was leaving out, but knowing better than to ask. After placing the flowers on the coffee table, he pulled up the blanket I’d placed over my mother, then sat down next to me.

  With a lowered voice, he said, “How are you? You look . . .” Not one who was comfortable with lying, he stopped.

  “Pregnant? I know. Hopefully this is only a first-trimester thing.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Your mother bounced back right after you were born, so I wouldn’t worry.” He beamed a glance at my mother, whose breathing was still deep and even. “And look at her now.”

  If only I could get past the fact that they were my parents, I might have actually thought this whole senior love affair was cute.

  I looked at him for a moment, trying to remember something I kept forgetting to ask. And then I recalled my conversation with Rich Kobylt in the garden, about the bill that he’d submitted but that hadn’t yet been paid. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, sweetie. Anything.”

  “Is there any money left in the trust to continue to fund the restoration of my house?”

  His eyes shifted away from mine for a moment and I felt something curdle in the place where my heart was. “Sure, we have money. We did have a lot more invested at one time, but I had to liquefy some of the assets to pay for more immediate needs, like the roof and foundation repairs. Those couldn’t wait for another commission check, if you remember.” He reached over and patted my leg like he used to when I was little and asked him whether he was going to stop drinking. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I had a conversation with Rich Kobylt about a bill he submitted for the foundation repair. He said he hadn’t received a payment, which was unusual, because you always pay his bills on time.”

  He scratched his chin. “I’ll look into it. I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Probably got lost in the mail or something. Don’t you worry about it.” He smiled, but it failed to reassure me.

  My mother moaned, and we turned to see her opening her eyes. Her gaze rested on my father before traveling to my face. “Are you all right?” she asked with concern.

  “I’m fine, Mother. How are you feeling? You almost passed out again.”

  “What?” my father demanded.

  I picked up the amaryllis from the coffee table and handed them to him. “Dad, why don’t you go find a vase in the kitchen to put these in?”

  With a reassuring nod from my mother, he left the room, looking back only twice.

  I helped her sit up, rearranging the blanket over her shoulders. It was warm in the room, but I could see the chill bumps on her arms, as if whatever she’d experienced hadn’t completely left her.

  “What happened?” I asked. “What did you see?”

  Her eyes were haunted as she looked back at me. “I saw the woman again, and the two cradles.”

  “Were they both empty?”

  She nodded. “And the cradles matched—they were black, and they had these unusual rockers in the shapes of egrets.”

  Tiny feet pricked their way up the back of my neck at her description, which matched not only the cradle in my attic, but also the one in the Charleston Museum that Sophie had seen. The Vanderhorst cradle.

  “Who is she?” I asked, my throat suddenly parched.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get more helpful information. But I had the strangest feeling. . . .”

  She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure.” She dropped her hands and her eyes met mine. “I don’t know her name, or who she is, but I got the distinct impression that she is the wronged party.”

  “The wronged party?”

  Her long fingers began plucking at the blanket. “She’s angry because the cradles are empty, and they shouldn’t be.” She swallowed heavily. “She’s looking for her babies, because she doesn’t know where they are.”

  I stared at her in silence for a moment, trying to make sense of what she’d just told me. “You said a word before you collapsed—you said, ‘Mine.’ That’s the same thing I heard when the piano keys were playing by themselves. I’m thinking she must be the same woman who tried to drop the light fixture on me and tried to choke me when we were standing in the foyer with the Gilberts.” My gaze held my mother’s. “She obviously doesn’t like me, but what does she think I have that belongs to her?”

  I watched as my mother’s eyes traveled down to my belly and then back to my face. Instinctively I placed my hands on my abdomen, as if that would protect the babies from something even I didn’t understand.

  “We’re stronger than she is. Remember that. We’ll figure out who she is and what she wants and send her on her way.”

  We heard my father’s whistling as he walked toward us from the kitchen.

  With a sense of growing panic, I said, “But what if I don’t want to give her what she wants?” I stood abruptly, feeling as if I needed to run as far away as I could.

  “Then we will find another way.” Her gaze was fierce, like that of a mama alligator guarding her nest.

  “There’s my girls,” my father said as he appeared in the doorway holding a vase with the flowers, unaware of the dark currents flooding the room.

  I forced a smile, still thinking of my mother’s words, desperate to believe she was right, but deathly afraid that she was not.

  CHAPTER 13

  Late Monday morning, as I passed the front desk on my way to meet Jack for our appointment with Yvonne Craig, Nancy Flaherty handed me a thick stack of pink message slips. I’d been on the phone all morning with prospective clients, and apparently there were even more waiting to speak with me.

  “Really?” I asked, hesitating before I took the pink bundle. “One stupid article in the paper and the phone starts ringing. I’d say it was better than paid advertising, but apparently there are a lot of wackos out there wanting to waste my time.”

  Out of the twelve phone calls I’d already taken, ten had turned out to be people just wanting advice on how to convince their own elderly relatives to include them in their wills. By the seventh call, I’d run out of patience trying to explain that my job as a Realtor had nothing to do with coercing the elderly, and I’d simply hung up. The only upside was that I’d had two solid prospects, both home owners who’d known Nevin Vanderhorst and figured that if he trusted me enough to leave his entire estate to me (one of them simply mentioned the dog), then that was the only reference they needed. I had appointments with both in the upcoming week.

  Jack was just pulling up outside as I left the building. His hair was still a little wet from a recent shower, the collar of his striped oxford-cloth shirt slightly damp, looking nothing less than gorgeous. As he stood with the door open, grinning at me, I couldn’t help but think how much he still resembled the little boy sitting in the middle of my sand castle, in more ways than just the grin. Some things never change.

  “You don’t always have to be so early, Mellie. Try being a few minutes late for a change. With two babies to feed and dress in the near future, you might want to start practicing now.”

  I gave him a disdainful look. “My children will be on a strict schedule, so that there will be enough time for feeding and dressing before we have to be anywhere.” I buckled my seat belt, waiting for him to close the door. But when I looked up at him, he appeared to be vastly amused.

  “Babies don’t always listen to logic or reason, Mellie. I’m not quite sure a spreadsheet or schedule will work in this case.”

  Luckily, he closed the door before I’d had the chance to tell him that I’d already started making one of each.

  We headed toward the Fireproof Building on Meeting Street, where the library for the South Carolina Historical Society was located. I was happy to notice that the cup holder in the van had been cleaned and was now filled with a new bottle of water.

  Jack saw me eyeing the bottle. “That’s for you. I’ve been doing a lot of reading and I learned that you should be drinking lots of water. You need to keep extra hydrated, especially now, when it’s so hot. It will help with the swelling, too.”

  I pulled my ankles back from view. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, too. Sophie gave me a book about child birthing around the world.”

  He sent me a wary look. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Did you know there’s a tribe somewhere in West Africa where, when a woman is in labor, they have the man lie down next to her on the floor, and they tie a string around his balls so that whenever she has a labor pain she can pull on the string? That way they both can share the experience of labor.”

  His face visibly paled. “Wow. Can’t wait to read the rest. But I still think you should drink more water.”

  I knew he was right—I’d read the same thing in the pregnancy book he’d bought me. I just wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of drinking it in front of him. Wanting to change the subject, I said, “Did you hear that Rebecca and Marc Longo are getting married?”

  He sent me a sidelong glance. “Yeah. I heard.”

  I kept looking at him. “Are you upset?”

  He made a choking sound in the back of his throat before shaking his head. “I can’t believe that you asked. No. I’m not upset. Rebecca was only a . . .”

  “Distraction?” I prompted.

  “A substitution.”

  I squirmed in my seat, pleased and dismayed at the same time.

  “What about you?” Jack asked. “Sad that Marc is now taken?”

  “Me? No. Of course not.” I almost told him that Marc had also probably been a substitution, too, but I wasn’t going to toss another match onto that particular fire. We rode the rest of the way without talking, the air heavy with all the things that were best left unsaid.

  If I’d been driving, I would have circled the vicinity for more than half an hour before finding a spot to park. Jack found a space within thirty seconds, only a block from the Fireproof Building, on cobblestoned Chalmers Street. He helped me out, then kept his hand at my elbow as we climbed the flight of stairs to the front door of the beautiful Palladian-style building with its graceful Doric columns, and then again as we climbed a circular set of stairs to get to the reading room, where Yvonne waited for us. I wanted to protest, but I enjoyed his touch too much to ask him to stop, or at least inform him that I was only two and a half years older than he and not yet an invalid.

  Yvonne walked toward us, her low-heeled pumps clicking across the long room. Her white hair was pulled back from her face in a low bun, accentuating her high cheekbones that wore just a hint of blush. Rhinestone clip earrings sparkled on her ears, and a matching brooch decorated the lapel of her navy blue suit. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she put extra thought into getting dressed on the days she saw Jack. It would have been nice to know that I wasn’t the only one.

  Jack enveloped her in a bear hug, then kissed both of her cheeks with a loud smack, making Yvonne giggle like a young girl. She swatted at his sleeve. “Jack Trenholm, how dare you manhandle me that way? What will people say?”

  “That I’m one lucky man,” Jack said with a wink that made Yvonne’s cheeks turn even pinker.

  I gave her a more sedate kiss on her cheek. “It’s so good to see you again, Yvonne. You look wonderful, as always. I really need to find out what kinds of vitamins you’re taking.”

  Yvonne was looking at me oddly, her arms crossed over her chest as she studied me. “There’s something different about you. Something . . .”

  “Pregnant?” I interjected.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “So you two finally figured out you were crazy about each other and got married! I hope it was an elopement, or else I’ll be upset that I didn’t get an invitation to the wedding.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Almost,” Jack said at the same time, his grin still strong.

  I sent him a look of exasperation before turning back to Yvonne to try to explain. “We’re not married. Nor do we have any plans to be.”

  Yvonne kept her expression carefully neutral. “So, you married someone else?”

  I looked around me, grateful there were only two other people in the room and they were sitting at a far table, their attention on the books they were reading. “I’m, uh, not married.”

  Yvonne blinked once, and then again as her gaze moved from me and then to Jack and back again. “Is Jack the father?”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “I hope so,” Jack said simultaneously

  Yvonne turned on him. “And you won’t marry her? Jack Trenholm. I’m surprised at you. I realize that this is the twenty-first century and things are done a little differently now than when I was younger, but I happen to know that you were raised better than that.”

  Jack’s voice held no humor. “I asked. And she said no.” His blue eyes bored into mine with the same intensity they’d had right after he’d asked me to marry him. It was a rare glimpse into Jack’s real feelings, an ocean’s depth of feelings he usually kept carefully hidden behind a beguiling smile and easy quips. They belonged to the Jack I’d fallen in love with.

  Yvonne was waiting for me to respond, her eyes kind and sympathetic. I took a deep breath to give me a moment to think. “It’s complicated. That’s all I can say. But I know that we’ll both do our best to be the parents we can be for the children.”