Return to Tradd Street Read online

  “Exactly what I was thinking.” Sophie took a sip from her water.

  I stared down at my plate, unable to focus on the food or to even feel the hunger pangs that had been dogging me since breakfast. I imagined instead that I was driving at night through fog, my headlights picking out only vague shapes in the distance. “But that doesn’t make sense. If twin boys were born—and one was given away and the other raised as an only child, then who is the baby buried in the foundation during the same year they were born?”

  Sophie was eating with relish, as if all this talk about history, old bones, and even older houses was fueling her appetite. “Well, there could have been triplets. But the one eyewitness report—Bridget Gilbert—states that there were only two babies. And if they were willing to go to the trouble of making one disappear because of physical deformities, then it wouldn’t make sense that they’d hide the death of another. Why not just bury the baby in a proper cemetery?” She shook her head. “I agree. None of this is making sense.”

  We ate in silence for a few moments before Sophie spoke again. “You know, there might be a way to figure some of this out, but you might not like it.”

  “Why am I afraid to hear this?”

  “Because you don’t like change. And what I’m suggesting could be a game changer.”

  I didn’t bother arguing. Instead, I placed my knife and fork on my plate and leaned back. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

  “Well, the police are examining the baby’s body for clues. Granted, it’s an old case, so they’re not trying to beat any land-speed records to get to the bottom of what really happened. I know like every other police department in this country they’re short-staffed and need to put their efforts on more current cases.”

  “But . . . ?” I prompted.

  “I was going to suggest that if they can pull any DNA from the bones of the baby’s remains, they should compare them to George Gilbert’s. I figure that if he’s willing to dig up Nevin Vanderhorst and compare his DNA, then why not compare it to the bones discovered in the foundation of the house he claims is rightfully his?”

  “But what would that prove?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “Maybe nothing, if there’s no match. But if there is, then it would mean that there’s a legitimate reason for exhuming Nevin.”

  I could feel the pulse in my temples, making it impossible to concentrate. “I’m not following. If the remains match George Gilbert’s, why would that give us a reason to dig up Nevin?”

  “Well, because no match between the remains and George could mean that one of the three isn’t related to the Vanderhorsts at all. And that’s when the real fun begins.”

  I stared down at my partially eaten lunch. “I think I’ll just wait to see what happens with the existing exhumation order. Sterling Zerbe, my lawyer, says it could take a while. Then we can figure out what to do next. Although I have a feeling that the Gilberts are probably going to figure out that it would be in their best interests if they compare George’s DNA with the remains. If I suggest it now, it might speed things up.”

  Sophie regarded me for a moment. “All right. But you do realize that ignoring something doesn’t make it go away, right? Kind of like a pregnancy.”

  I took a bite and chewed slowly, not tasting anything and having no idea what I’d just put in my mouth. “Yeah, I’m aware. But I’m not ignoring this. I just need more time to try to figure everything out.” I took a sip from my water as something else she’d said niggled at my brain. “So how did you know about the dining room table?”

  She practically beamed. “Remember—I’ve got the college’s fabulous archives to help me. When I was digging through old records from fifty-five Tradd, there was a cross-reference to a postcard written by Mrs. John Vanderhorst to her mother in Charleston while on her honeymoon in Florence. The letter was in the historical society archives, so I put a phone call in to your Yvonne Craig, who was happy to help once I explained that I was a friend of yours and Jack’s. She made a copy of it and stuck it in your file for the next time you visit the archives.”

  I stopped chewing and frowned.

  Sophie stopped eating, too, and stared back at me. “What? What’s wrong? Yvonne can be my friend, too, you know.”

  I almost laughed, which had probably been her intent. “It’s not that. It’s just how she ropes Jack and me together, as if we’re a couple.”

  “Well, you kind of are. I mean, you’re going to be parents together.” She leaned closer to me, clutching her fork, and I noticed her unvarnished and neatly trimmed nails, something I found oddly comforting. Sort of like tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on a cold day.

  She continued. “Melanie, I probably know you better than most, and I love you like a sister, which is the only reason I’m going to say this. But I know that you love Jack, and even though he hasn’t said anything to me, it’s obvious that he loves you. You both need to get over all the past hurts, forgive yourselves and each other, and decide to be happy.”

  I rolled my eyes upward, startled to find blue sky through the fronds of a palm tree. “If it were only that easy.”

  “Have you ever considered the thought that maybe it is?”

  I sat up as I watched the waiter approach with dessert menus. “You sound like Nola. Please stop. I have an aversion to having my heart steamrolled again. It hurt enough the first time.”

  The waiter stopped by our table, a Cheshire-cat grin on his face at the prospect of offering sweets to two pregnant women. “Can I interest you ladies in some dessert this afternoon?”

  My smile diminished when I turned to Sophie, who was already reaching into her purse and shaking her head. “Not today, thank you. Just the bill, please.”

  I allowed her to pay the bill, then walked outside with her in front of the hotel. “Do you want to take a pedicab to the museum or have them call us a taxi?”

  She looked at me as if I’d just suggested she should cut her hair or wear high heels. “We can walk. It’s less than a mile.”

  “But it’s hot out,” I complained. “And I’m wearing heels.”

  She reached into her large backpack and pulled out the lime green Birkenstocks she’d worn to the barbecue. “Wear these. We’re the same shoe size and they’re very comfortable to walk in.”

  I stared at them without comment, wondering what the best way was to end a friendship. But then I realized that I couldn’t possibly look any worse, and took them from her. “Whatevs,” I said, mimicking Nola. “But you’ll have to carry my heels in your backpack.”

  With a look of smug satisfaction, she stowed my heels, then led the way toward Meeting Street and the Charleston Museum. Sophie walked quickly, with a spritely gait, barely breaking a sweat. After just a block, I was panting beside her, so she adjusted her pace.

  “You should really be exercising, Melanie. You’ll have a much better delivery if you’re fit and your muscles are toned. I know you’ve never had to exercise before, but pregnancy is different. I’m taking this fabulous yoga class for expectant moms that you would just love. I’m doing a prenatal swim class, too. It’s to get me comfortable with water, just in case I decide to go for a water birth.”

  I stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. “A what?”

  “A water birth. It’s where you get into a large tub, or even a kiddie pool, and give birth underwater. We want a home birth, so we can set up the pool in the living room and have all of our friends around us, sharing the experience. You’re invited, of course.”

  I stared at her in horror, almost running into a lamppost, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  She continued. “Water births really make sense, if you think about it. The baby’s been swimming for nine months in amniotic fluid, so coming out into the world from the womb isn’t such a big shock if they’re expelled into warm water.”

  I shuddered. “Please don’t use the words ‘amniotic fluid’ so soon after I eat, okay? And I think I’ll skip the water yoga and water birthing. I
plan to be unconscious for the birth, and I don’t want to drown.”

  She sent me a sidelong glance. “Yes, well, you should still start exercising. It will help your stamina both during labor and afterward.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. My mother and Amelia power-walked three mornings a week and had been asking me to join them. As long as I didn’t have to wear ugly trainers or—even worse—Birkenstocks, I might agree for a trial run.

  “So,” she said in that tone of voice that warned me that I probably didn’t want to hear what followed.

  I kept silent, hoping her pregnancy had messed with her memory as much as mine had, and that she’d forget what she’d been about to say.

  “What’s with this Detective Riley? The way he was looking at you at the barbecue made me wonder if there was something up with that.”

  I was close to being out of breath, so I kept my answer short. “We’re . . . friends. For now. Keeping my options . . . open.”

  “Has he asked you out?”

  “Dinner. Breakfast.”

  She raised both eyebrows.

  “Late breakfast. He cooked.”

  Her eyebrows remained raised.

  “Picked me up at my office. Not . . . sleepover.”

  We were silent for a few moments, the sound of my heavy breathing filling the conversational lull. “Good,” she said eventually.

  “Good?”

  She nodded. “Good for you. And good for Jack. Maybe a third party will help you both come to your senses.”

  By the time we reached the Charleston Museum after walking for fifteen minutes, I was perspiring heavily, feeling my makeup pooling along my jawline, and my hair sticking to my scalp. Sophie had only a dewy glow about her face, her hair slightly more curled than usual. I wished I could hate her.

  I paused in front of the modern brick building, the back of my neck already prickling in response to all the sets of unseen eyes that sensed my presence. I hated museums like I hated hospitals; hated the way the volume of voices in my head always paralyzed me with fear. I began humming “Dancing Queen” in preparation.

  “I already got our tickets, so we don’t have to make your visit here any longer than it has to be—just long enough for you to look at the cradle to see if it’s the same one in your attic and read the label to see if it rings any bells. There’s an exhibit of the Charleston militia and the Civil War that we’ll have to pass to get to the permanent exhibit where the cradle is. I’ll just grab your elbow and propel you along and you can sing ABBA as loudly as you want. I don’t embarrass easily.”

  I studied her frizzy hair and plastic barrettes, her garish dress and Birkenstocks, and decided that she was probably right.

  The hum of voices began as soon as we pushed through the glass doors. Sophie showed our tickets, then grabbed my arm. She hurriedly tugged me through a textiles exhibit, where I heard the babble of women’s voices as if they were in the process of quilt making, and then past the Civil War militia exhibit, where, although I couldn’t smell the gunpowder or the tang of blood, I heard the shouts of men’s voices carrying over those of the women. But I could not see a single specter. It was more frightening, almost, to simply hear them surrounding me, to sense the cold air, but not see the eyes that bored into me like bullets seeking their target.

  We ended up in one of the larger exhibit rooms, where the permanent displays of Charleston’s history through the years were kept. Sophie led me past a collection of Edgefield pottery, with their faces of exaggerated mouths and eyes, then stopped in front of a wide glass case.

  “Is that it?” Sophie asked.

  She didn’t need to point to the item we’d come to see. The black ash-wood cradle, with its twisted spindles and egret-shaped rockers, sat empty behind the glass, and I wondered whether it was my imagination that saw it move. “Yes,” I whispered. The woman’s voice was loud in my ear, blocking out all other sounds. Mine.

  I stepped back, but Sophie held on to my arm. “Are you all right?”

  I didn’t answer as my eyes moved from the cradle to the plaque beside it. VANDERHORST FAMILY CRADLE. In smaller letters underneath were the words DONATED IN 1922 BY L. VANDERHORST. Something clawed at the back of my neck, and I jerked out of Sophie’s grasp and started running for the exit.

  She caught up with me outside, where I was gasping for breath on the sidewalk, my hands on my knees. “What happened?”

  I shook my head. “That woman—the spirit in my house that keeps saying the word ‘mine’—was in there. With the cradle. She scratched me.” I lifted my hair, where the salt from my sweat was making the skin sting.

  “Oh, Melanie—I’m so sorry I brought you. I didn’t think . . .”

  “Neither did I. But I’m glad I came. Because that woman is really starting to piss me off. Wronged party or not, she’s got to go.” I straightened, my anger feeding my indignation and bringing back a little of my former self.

  A small smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “And that’s good, right?”

  “It might be. I just need to figure out who she is so I can get her where it hurts.” I paused for a moment, catching my breath while my brain slowly chugged into action.

  “You know, Melanie, that might be the answer to all of your current problems.”

  I scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Figuring out what you want and then going for it. You’ll never get what you want until you admit to yourself what that is.”

  I pressed a clean tissue against the back of my neck, but I still felt the sting of Sophie’s words. Without responding, I said, “I’m taking a pedicab back to the office. I’d be happy to give you a lift to your bike.”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I think you’d rather be alone. I’ll call you later.” She dug in her backpack for my heels, and we exchanged shoes. Then, with a wave of her hand, she turned and began making her way back up Meeting Street.

  I snagged a pedicab waiting at the museum, then sat in silence as the driver pedaled me back to Broad Street as my grandmother’s words reverberated inside my skull. You need to decide sooner rather than later what you want. And then be ready to fight for it. When I’d first heard them, I’d thought that the hardest part would be the fighting. But I was quickly figuring out that it was not.

  CHAPTER 17

  By the middle of October, I was no closer to finding any of the answers I was seeking. The whole world seemed to be dragging its feet in sympathy: The exhumation request was still bogged down in paperwork, the final DNA results on the remains had not yet been completed, and the identity of my tormentor and the crying baby remained as elusive as ever.

  Even the regular newspaper serials about the Vanderhorst house and the “interloper” had paused, moving on to other venerable Charleston families and their homes, just with a lot less salacious stories to tell. I imagined the reporter Suzy Dorf waiting like an alligator on a creek bed for the next tidbit to be thrown her way so she could write the next installment.

  Nola remained with me, despite Jack’s best efforts to get her to reconsider, and I found myself enjoying the presence of a living, breathing person in the house—usually three, since Alston and Cooper Ravenel were frequent visitors. Nola saw Jack a lot, but true to his word, he avoided visiting her when I was home. Still, I’d taken him to see approximately one hundred and thirty houses in the Charleston area, as well as to my frequent doctor’s appointments. He was courteous and solicitous, but kept himself aloof and distant. Just as I’d asked.

  From Nola I’d learned that he was making good progress on the Manigault murder book, and had found a new literary agent, who had big hopes that Jack would have a contract soon. I told myself that this explained Jack’s preoccupation when he was with me. Just in case, I asked Nola, who confirmed that there was no new female in his life. Not that it mattered to me, of course.

  As I passed into my second trimester, my nausea subsided, as did most—although not all—of my skin woes. My hair became thick and shiny
for the first time in my life, and my appetite returned with a vengeance. I’d started power-walking with Amelia and my mother, but even that didn’t offset the alarming amount of weight I seemed to be gaining by simple osmosis. I’d begun to regard appointments with Dr. Wise as being sent to the principal’s office.

  The inertia of my earlier pregnancy also seemed to fade, spurring me into mommy nesting mode. It was as if my subconscious realized my earlier resolve to figure out what I wanted and fight for it had stagnated due to all the proverbial brick walls I kept hitting my head against. I needed to find something else to strategize, organize, and put on a spreadsheet. At least it would keep me too occupied to dwell on my complete failure to move forward in any aspect of my life.

  As I pushed open my front door, notes from the piano danced out onto the piazza. I quietly let myself in, placing my shopping bags—acquired on a trip with Amelia and my mother to accessorize the nursery—in the vestibule before easing my swollen feet out of my heels and tiptoeing across the hall to the music room.

  I’d heard a part of the melody before, but this version was richer, with fuller chords and detailed lyrics. I stayed in the entranceway listening to Nola, her voice and the music easing away all of the day’s tensions. She stopped abruptly, slamming her hands down on the keyboard and making me jerk upright.

  “Stop it!” she shouted. “You’re distracting me!”

  “I’m sorry, Nola. I didn’t think you knew I was here.”

  She looked startled to see me, then shook her head impatiently. “Not you. Her. Can’t you smell the roses?”

  I sniffed, smelling nothing but furniture polish and whatever vegan meal Mrs. Houlihan had in the oven. “No. But you can?”

  She nodded. “At least it’s the roses ghost. The other one is more annoying. She keeps making those same three notes stick.”

  I leaned against the doorway, trying to cross my arms, but giving up because my breasts were in the way. “I’m sorry they’re bothering you. I’d make them go away if I could. But it’s hard when I can’t communicate with them, and harder still when I have no idea who they are or why they’re here.”