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  “I’m not a quitter,” I hissed.

  “Really? You could have fooled me.”

  I wanted to ask him what he meant, but we both looked up as my mother came forward and handed me a small yellow gift bag with yellow and green tissue paper billowing from the top. My hands shook with anger as I dug into the bag and pulled out two pairs of yellow knitted booties from Nancy and Joyce. I made myself smile, the fact that I was having twins at the age of forty now firmly in the realm of the least of my worries.

  “We’re having twins,” I said as I held up the two pairs of booties, my gaze sliding to my mother to make sure her feigned surprise was real enough.

  There were screeches from Amelia, Alston, and Nola, and then a belated one from my mother as all four women approached me with a hug and the men patted Jack on the back, as if twins were some evidence of masculinity. As if he were doing all the heavy lifting.

  Irene surprised me with a warm and genuine smile. “Congratulations. Two is better than one, in my opinion. They’ll always have a friend.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling very awkward. If she had her way, my twins would never play in this garden, or learn to walk on the old wood floors that still bore the marks of those who’d trodden on them for more than one hundred and fifty years.

  “Congratulations again, Melanie.”

  I looked up at the masculine voice and spotted Detective Riley. He greeted my parents, then kissed me on both cheeks. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know you were having a party. I rang the doorbell, but when nobody answered I figured I’d check out back here.”

  “The doorbell doesn’t always work,” I said stupidly, feeling Jack’s gaze burning a hole in the middle of my back.

  He nodded. “Twins are great. My oldest sister has a set—both boys. They’re thirteen now—both football players. When she was pregnant, we could tell that they would probably be linebackers—she got as big as a monster truck and was always hungry. And they haven’t stopped eating since the moment they were born.”

  He stopped talking when he noticed my smile dipping. “Maybe you’ll have girls,” he said with a look of encouragement.

  Jack approached, and the two men shook hands, each regarding the other with a wariness usually reserved for a gazelle at a jungle watering hole. “Good to see you, Tommy. I’m hoping you have breaking news in the case to make it worth interrupting our little party.”

  I glared at Jack, but Thomas didn’t seem to be bothered by Jack’s posturing.

  “Actually, Jack, Tommy’s my dad. Friends and family call me Thomas. Everybody else calls me Detective or sir.”

  The two men were of similar builds and height, which would have made them excellent sparring partners in a boxing ring. Or in a back garden. I stepped between them. “You’re always welcome, Thomas, so I’m glad you’re here, whether it’s a social call or not.” Tugging on his elbow, I turned him to face the Gilberts and introduced them and Mr. Drayton as the lawyer joined us. The older man pressed his handkerchief against his forehead and cheeks, doing little to stop the constant drip of perspiration. I wanted to suggest that he take off his jacket, but I didn’t want him to be too comfortable.

  Thomas seemed surprised to see the Gilberts, but I didn’t try to explain, because even I was no longer sure why I’d invited them. “Well, I guess it’s good you’re all here, as it will save me some time. I just learned that there’s been a delay in the exhumation order. A lawyer representing Mr. Vanderhorst’s heir has filed paperwork to deny the order.”

  All eyes were on me again. I nodded. “Yes, I hired a lawyer, but not only because of what you’re all thinking. I knew Mr. Vanderhorst. Granted, I only met him once, but I think I can say that I knew him well enough to know that he deserves to rest in peace unless there’s a very good reason to disturb him. All you have is a bonnet and, according to a newspaper article, a deathbed confession by a Bridget Monahan Gilbert. I don’t know yet who she is, but she died in 1898—before Mr. Vanderhorst was even born. My lawyer simply needs more information.”

  The Gilberts looked at each other before Irene—apparently the spokesperson for the couple—turned to me. “You can wait for this Sunday’s installment in the paper, or I could show you now. Either way, your lawyer will have to agree it’s worth investigating.”

  Without waiting for my reply, she reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of white paper that had been folded into quarters. I opened it to find a photocopied letter in a beautiful script, with elegant flourishes of the letters at the beginning of each sentence. With both Jack and Thomas looking on behind either shoulder, I began to read.

  October 10, 1898

  The following is inscribed by Elizabeth Ferguson at the request of Bridget Monahan Gilbert, who is too ill to put pen to paper, and whose own writing abilities, by her own admission, are limited. With only grammatical corrections, these words are not mine, but hers.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I am near my time to be called to meet my Maker, where I will have to face my sins. But I know I will not rest unless the truth is known here on earth, where old wrongs might still be put right.

  I swear on the holy Bible that the following is what actually happened on the 22nd day of March, 1860.

  I was then employed as a housemaid at a house in Charleston, South Carolina, on Tradd Street by Mr. and Mrs. John Vanderhorst. On that day, Mrs. Vanderhorst gave birth to twin sons. The birth was attended to by a doctor and his nurse, with Mr. Vanderhorst waiting outside the door. I know this, as I was the one sent to fetch water and towels and anything else they might need by the doctor and his nurse.

  The first child, whom they called William, was born into this world fat and with a lusty cry, and we were all relieved that Mrs. Vanderhorst had been delivered of a healthy son. But that was until Mrs. Vanderhorst began having more birthing pains and delivered William’s brother twenty minutes later. He was blue, and still, and we all thought he was dead.

  The doctor gave him a sound slap to his backside so that he sucked in a breath and began to cry, but it was soon believed by Mr. Vanderhorst and the doctor that the child should have been left to sleep, and to return to the good Lord. His cries were louder than his brother’s, but his limbs on one side of his body were horribly deformed. I overheard Mr. Vanderhorst saying he would only be good for a circus show.

  After some discussion, which I did not hear, the doctor’s daughter, acting as his nurse, wrapped the child in a blanket before handing him to me. She said it was a blessing that his mother had fainted from the pain and was not awake to see the horror. She then instructed me to take the child somewhere far away, and leave it on a church doorstep, where he could not bring shame on the family. Mr. Vanderhorst gave me a lot of money for my trouble and for my silence, and enough to get me started in a new life. I was poor, with no immediate family of my own, and so I took the money and left with the baby.

  I went north, where I had distant relations, intending to leave the child somewhere in between Charleston and New York. But the baby had the most beautiful face, and was so sweet that I had fallen in love with him before we had even reached Virginia. He became my own flesh and blood on that train, and I could not leave him. It was then that I decided to call him Cornelius, as his father had given him to me without naming him.

  When I arrived at the home of cousins, I told them that I was a widow and Cornelius was mine, and they accepted us without question. Despite his physical deformities, my son was strong and smart, and he grew up to know nothing but love. For that, I am not sorry for what I did.

  I married Thaddeus Gilbert, who adopted Cornelius and gave him his name. Yet even when Cornelius married and had a child of his own, I kept our secret. Although we had never been rich, we have shared an abundance of love, and I have never desired to ruin the happiness that Cornelius has found so far from the family who threw him out like trash. I do not think he wishes for another life, but maybe it will be different for his children or children’s children
.

  So now, at the end of my life, I must try to set things right. Cornelius was given to me with a christening gown and bonnet by the nurse who helped bring him into the world. I am keeping the bonnet with this letter, but I am mailing the gown to the Vanderhorsts’ home in Charleston as a reminder to them that their loss has been my gain, and that a child they believed worth nothing is alive and well, shining his special light in the dark corners of this world. And that if they wish to set right a wrong, they will come forward with open arms.

  God forgive me, but God forgive those who read this and do not seek justice for the sins of the past.

  The signature at the end of the letter sprawled across the page, as if the signer were in a hurry to get it in ink. Bridget Monahan Gilbert.

  I looked at the people crowded around me, seeing only the christening gown that had been left at my front door, the writing on the outside faded with age. A package that had been mailed nearly one hundred years before, in 1898. The same year Bridget Monahan Gilbert had written her deathbed confession and mailed a package containing a baby’s gown.

  “Thank you for showing this to me,” I said, handing it back to Irene, my fingers eager to release the paper and the words that seemed to weigh it down. “William was Nevin Vanderhorst’s grandfather. I saw the family tree yesterday in the historical archives. William was listed as an only child.”

  Irene nodded. “Which makes sense, since his twin brother was taken from the house before anybody knew of his existence. Including his mother. It’s all in the letter.”

  “But it’s not proof,” Jack added gently.

  Irene regarded him calmly. “No, I suppose it’s not. But Mr. Drayton believes it’s enough to get the exhumation.”

  Mr. Drayton cleared his throat and stared at us somberly. Irene settled her purse on her shoulder as her husband took her hand in his. “Thank you so much for the food—it was all very wonderful. We’ll be heading back to New York tomorrow, but we’re prepared to wait as long as it takes. Your lawyer is stalling things, but he can’t stall forever. And I think we both want to know the truth.”

  Jack stood behind me, not touching, but near enough that it felt as if he were. I just nodded, my throat too tight for me to speak.

  The wind picked up, blowing rose petals around the Gilberts’ feet as we watched them walk down the path with Mr. Drayton, George stomping his feet and clapping loudly every few steps.

  The familiar feeling of hot and cold on the back of my neck alerted me that I was being watched, but when I lifted my head to the windows at the rear of the house, I saw only darkened glass and a bruised foundation where a baby’s remains had been found.

  I felt dizzy, the many pieces of the puzzle spinning around my head like debris in a hurricane. I turned back to the pile of rubble where the remains of a baby and a christening gown and bonnet had been found, trying to make sense of Bridget Gilbert’s letter and the package that had ended up on my doorstep more than one hundred years after it had been mailed. Glancing up, I saw Jack and Thomas watching me intently.

  “Are you all right?” Thomas asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  The fried chicken I’d consumed only twenty minutes before decided at that moment to make a return visit. I began running toward the kitchen, Jack close behind, as eager to throw up in private as I was to hide the hysterical laughter that was threatening to spill out and never, ever stop.

  CHAPTER 16

  I stood in front of the reception desk at the Charleston Place hotel, looking out the glass doors at the parking horseshoe, where Sophie was locking up her bike. Her flowing dress had been knotted around her legs with what appeared to be twist ties, and her hair—never the tamest part of her—was sticking up in all directions from under the protection of a tie-dyed bike helmet. As she reached up to remove the helmet, I headed toward the door, ready to tell her that it was probably better if she left it on, but I stopped. In all the years I had known her, she had yet to take any of my fashion advice.

  Leaving the helmet dangling on the handlebars, she shouldered her backpack and headed toward the doors, where a uniformed doorman greeted her with a smile and didn’t even glance at her outfit. She hugged me with her usual enthusiasm, as if she hadn’t seen me in years, instead of just days ago at the barbecue. Holding me at arm’s length, she regarded me carefully. “Are you getting enough sleep, Melanie? You look tired.”

  Before I could respond, she began untying the wire ties that held her dress up above her knees. “I think it kind of looks cute this way, but I don’t want to hear you complaining.”

  “I wouldn’t complain. . . .”

  Her look silenced me. “Come on; let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving. The steamed edamame I had as a snack an hour ago didn’t keep both of us satisfied for long.” She smiled and rubbed her belly as we moved in front of the hostess stand at the hotel’s Palmetto Cafe.

  “Neither did the stale glazed doughnut I found in the back of my pantry,” I said.

  “Really, Melanie?”

  “But I washed it down with a banana and a glass of vanilla soy milk,” I said indignantly. “Did you know a bunch of those organic bananas you made me buy are almost twice as much as the regular kind?”

  She looked at me and took a deep breath. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re resistant to change?”

  “Maybe.” I crossed my arms and waited as the hostess approached us.

  After we were seated outside in the courtyard surrounded by greenery and a burbling fountain, I was able to examine my friend more closely. Her skin still glowed as if lit from within, and although there seemed to be a little softening around her middle, she looked like just a better version of her old self. Except for her clothes. Gone were my hopes that she’d soon get too big to wear any of her old things and I’d force her to go maternity-clothes shopping with me.

  We placed our orders, and I ordered the same menu items as Sophie—lean grilled chicken, salad, and fruit—but only because I hoped it meant she’d let me order dessert when we were finished.

  She looked at me suspiciously as the waiter left with our orders. I just smoothed my napkin in my lap and looked at her eagerly. “Well? You said you had news.”

  “I do. I’m just not sure where it all fits.” She shifted in her seat, as if trying to get her thoughts in a more comfortable order. “I’ve done a lot of research into the history of your house over the years—even before you owned it. It’s such a great specimen of Charleston architecture that has been owned by the same family since it was built. So when you told me that a baby’s remains were discovered in the house’s foundation, it rang a bell. I remembered reading about something being changed, something that altered the original footprint of the house at some point in the home’s history. But my brain’s so foggy these days that I couldn’t pinpoint an approximate time period to go back and dig into the archives.”

  The waiter returned with our glasses of water and fresh lemon. I was on the verge of asking for a sweet tea but caught Sophie’s “teacher eye”—what I called her expression that looked like she’d just caught a pair of students passing notes in class. For such a small and unassuming woman, she could sure pack a lot of punch in just one look. It would probably make her a very good mother.

  “And?” I said after the waiter left.

  “It wasn’t until I was chatting with Detective Riley at the barbecue and he started asking me about some of the house’s history that I remembered what it was. We’d spoken before, but it was his interest in the provenance of some of the house’s furniture that made me remember. Did you know he likes to collect antiques?”

  “No, I didn’t. But go on. What is it that you’re thinking I should know even though you haven’t yet told me?”

  With an exasperated sigh, she said, “I remembered the dining table.” She leaned back in her chair, a smug expression on her face.

  “The dining table?”

  “Yes. John and his wife—Nevin’s grea
t-grandparents—bought a new dining table in Italy during their yearlong honeymoon in Europe. The problem was that it was six feet longer than the dining room table that was originally in the room, and which the room was designed around.”

  I still wasn’t getting it. Granted, the pregnancy hormones had slowed my brain down to the speed of giant sea turtles racing in wet sand, but I still didn’t think that there could be a logical connection between a dining room table and a body buried in a house’s foundation.

  After a look of exasperation, she continued. “So it didn’t fit in the dining room! But they’d already had the table shipped all the way over from Italy and paid a small fortune for it.” She spoke slowly, just like Nola did when she was trying to explain something to me.

  My eyes widened with understanding, and with relief that I’d figured it out without being told. “So they had to enlarge the dining room at the back of the house so it would fit.”

  “Bingo!” she said, loudly enough that our fellow diners looked over in our direction. “But that’s not all. Guess when they enlarged the dining room?”

  I frowned, wondering when her questions were going to get easier. “Well, if they got the table on their honeymoon, that should be easy to figure out. When were they married?”

  “September 1858. And they were on their honeymoon for a year.”

  She nodded, her eyes expectant.

  I slapped my hands on the table, making the glasses and silverware rattle and the couple at the next table glance in our direction again. “Which would have brought them back to Charleston sometime in the fall of 1859.”

  Sophie was nodding. “Exactly. And just in time to give birth the following March.”

  “And that would have been March 1860.” I was silent for a moment, thinking, as the waiter placed our food in front of us. After he’d left, I leaned across the table. “So it’s possible that work on the house—which included extending the foundation—could have been going on when William and Cornelius were born.”