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  “Built in 1950.” Flip. “Condo.” Flip.

  I picked up the sheet off the discard pile. “Yes, it’s a condo,” I protested. “But read the rest. It’s got four bedrooms, five baths, a community pool—”

  He cut me off, taking the sheet and replacing it on the upside-down pile. “It’s a condo. I don’t want a condo, even if it’s the size of Buckingham Palace. I want my children to be raised in a house with a yard.”

  He continued. “Mount Pleasant.” Flip. “Johns Island.” Flip. “Beachfront.” He paused, holding that listing in midair. “Really, Mellie?”

  “Well, it’s not a pool, but the ocean and the best sandbox a kid could hope for are right there. . . .”

  Flip. “I’ll consider a small beach house when they’re a bit older, as a second home, but it’s not really the safest choice when they’re small. Plus there’s the issue of hurricanes. I wouldn’t want to lose all of their artwork that will be framed on the walls, or the photo albums. I don’t have any of that for Nola, so it will be that much more important for the twins.”

  Despite my best efforts for it not to, my heart went all mushy again.

  He picked up the last one, examining it for longer than all the rest combined. “This is a possibility,” he said slowly. “Is it South of Broad?”

  “No,” I said, then quickly added, “It’s just north—in Ansonborough. It’s a bit of a walk, but you can easily drive from my house to there fairly quickly.”

  He looked doubtful. “I suppose we can go look at it.” He stuck the single listing back in the folder before replacing it in my briefcase. Smiling again, he said, “I guess that means we have time to see Yvonne. Want to do that first?”

  With a wistful glance at the rejected listings that had taken me hours to compile, I said, “Whatevs.” I reached for my briefcase but Jack beat me to it, hoisting it off the desk.

  “Allow me.”

  We walked past Joyce and Nancy, their knitting needles clacking away, both of whom looked up only to say good-bye and stare dreamily at Jack.

  He winked at them, causing their knitting needles to pause momentarily.

  “You’re such a flirt,” I said as he helped me into the van.

  Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. “It’s my agent. Excuse me a moment while I take this.” He closed my door, then stood outside for a few minutes to finish the call.

  When he climbed in, he turned to me with an odd expression.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes. And no. The good part is that my agent says we have two strong offers on the table for my book, which has also garnered some interest from at least one other publisher. It will probably go to auction.”

  “That’s fabulous—congratulations,” I said, understanding how important it was to him that this book sold well after the fiasco of his previous book. Without thinking, I leaned over to kiss his cheek, but he turned his face at the last moment so that our lips brushed instead. The jolt was electric, and I pulled away quickly, but not before I saw the look in his eyes that told me that if he hadn’t done it on purpose, he was happy it had happened.

  I cleared my throat. “What about the not-so-good part?”

  “Marc Longo’s agent called mine asking if I would give a promotional blurb to use on the cover of his book.”

  “Wow. What did you say?”

  “Hell, no.” He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Sliding me a sidelong glance, he said, “You should have mentioned that Marc has bigger balls than I gave him credit for.”

  I refused to comment, and we rode the short distance in silence.

  As usual, Jack greeted Yvonne warmly and enthusiastically, leaving the older woman with sparkling eyes and a glow to her skin. She turned to me and accepted my kiss to her cheek.

  She took my hands and held them out, away from my body. “Well, my dear, you’re looking just like a pregnant woman should. Expectant mothers shouldn’t be skinny, and that’s just the truth. And remember, the bigger the babies, the sooner they’ll be sleeping through the night.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, glad the cooler fall weather had given me a reason to wear pants that covered my ankles. Even Yvonne would have had to agree that they belonged in a zoo and not on any woman, pregnant or otherwise.

  We followed her to our usual table, where a large metal file box rested next to a thick book filled with archived documents in plastic sleeves. Jack and I stood on either side of Yvonne as she removed a file folder from the box and placed it on the table in front of us.

  “I’ve been looking and looking for anything about Susan Bivens or her shop, or any of her shop’s records, and was getting quite frustrated that there seemed to be nothing that has survived. Considering that Susan Bivens Fine Linens and Embroidery was in business from 1800 until 1873, it’s a bit surprising. I did find out that her daughter and granddaughter took over the store at some point, but that wouldn’t help you. So on a hunch, I decided to look backward, starting with customers we knew purchased items from her shop and seeing if I could find an invoice or other paperwork that way.”

  She pulled out a thin piece of paper, securely placed inside a clear archival plastic folder. “And that’s how I found this.” She handed it to me, and I looked at what appeared to be a handwritten invoice dated March 1860. Written in an elegant script in the middle of the page were the words, 1 christening gown and bonnet, Belgian linen and lace, $10. Ordered by C. Vanderhorst.

  I held it up for Jack to see. He studied it for a moment before turning to Yvonne. “Where did you find this?”

  She smiled a smile that made me think of the Dalai Lama and what he’d look like when asked about the meaning of life. “Well, you’d told me that the Vanderhorsts had items purchased from the store. As I believe I’ve mentioned before, the family kept pretty much all of their papers, and so the public historical archives are rather sparse regarding the Vanderhorsts.” She tapped her temple with an index finger. “But I remember while doing research on something else, a listing of a donation of miscellaneous papers from a family member in the early twenties. And that’s where I found it—in a box of what most people would call junk—receipts, theater tickets, handbills—all apparently donated to some historical society by Louisa Vanderhorst in 1922. She must have been cleaning out the attic and decided to donate rather than discard. Even back then, Charlestonians realized the importance of preservation.”

  “Louisa?” I asked, startled at the mention of a familiar name. “L. Vanderhorst—that’s who donated the cradle to the museum.” I looked at Jack. “In that pregnancy book you gave me, there’s a whole section on nesting, and how so many expectant moms turn to spring cleaning before their babies are born. Nevin was born in 1922—I wonder if that was what Louisa was doing.”

  I felt giddy for some reason, as if the mental image of a pregnant Louisa had made her more real to me, more like a friend who understood what expecting a baby was like.

  “That’s certainly true,” Yvonne said. “When I was pregnant with each of mine, I painted the interior of the house with the first, and then redecorated the entire bottom floor with the second. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.” She smiled, apparently still unrepentant.

  I took the invoice back from Jack. “We know that two older christening sets exist. If Bridget Gilbert took one of the two original gowns and bonnets with Cornelius when she went to New York, and a second set was buried with the baby in the foundation, then why was this third set made? And where is it?”

  We looked at each other, our minds spinning. “Maybe there really were triplets, and Bridget just didn’t talk about the third baby in her deathbed confession,” Jack said, his voice lacking conviction.

  “I’d like to think that you’re right, but whoever put that package with the christening gown at my front door did it for a reason. And my sixth sense tells me that it’s more complicated than triplets.”

  Yvonne moved over to the folder with all of our photocopies inside and pulled out two sheets of paper. “I’m not sure if this will help you or confuse you more, but here’s the other interesting tidbit I discovered.” She slid the Vanderhorst family tree in front of us. “We already talked about Camille giving birth to William in 1860, and then dying the following year. And then her husband, John, married his second wife, Charlotte, in 1862. Again, not really the way we do things now, but back then it was expected for a child to be raised by two parents, and John would have wanted to find a mother for little William as soon as he could.”

  I tapped on the two women’s names. “Camille and Charlotte. Those are the names,” I said to Jack, emphasizing the word “names” so that he’d understand without my having to explain to Yvonne that they were the reason my two front parlor windows had blown themselves to smithereens.

  He nodded. “I see.” Turning back to Yvonne, he asked, “But what’s the extra tidbit you found?”

  Yvonne beamed like a star pupil about to impress her favorite teacher. “I found Camille’s death certificate.” She slid the other paper on top of the family tree. “She was young when she died—only twenty-one. But the really tragic part is where she died.”

  She tapped her finger on the paper. Before I could even squint, Yvonne handed her reading glasses to me, and I slipped them on my nose without comment. I followed the line where she indicated and read out loud. “‘Place of death, South Carolina State Hospital, Columbia.’”

  Jack took a quick breath. “That was a mental institution, wasn’t it?”

  Yvonne nodded. “At least, it was until the end of the Civil War, when they used it for a prisoner-of-war camp for Union officers. And then when that irritable redhead General Sherman came and burned Columbia, many of its residents took refuge there. But, yes, when Mrs. Camille Vanderhorst lived there, it was a lunatic asylum.”

  I turned back to the paper, my eyes scanning each line until I found what I was looking for. “‘Cause of death, psychosis.’” I looked up at Yvonne. “Did that mean the same thing then as it does today?”

  She shrugged. “Mental illness wasn’t well understood back then, and they tended to lump all sorts of disorders under the one word. It could have been anything from postpartum depression to bipolar disorder. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing.”

  “So she died at the age of twenty-one in a mental hospital, leaving behind a one-year-old son.” As an afterthought, I added, “That would certainly be a reason to come back.”

  Yvonne looked at me oddly. “Except she’d be dead.”

  I just nodded, then returned to examining the death certificate. I read quickly over all the facts I already knew, her age, her name, her place of residence, all the way to the bottom of the page, where a physician, a Dr. Robert Pringle, had signed it to verify he’d been present at the time of death.

  I slid the glasses off and handed them back before replacing the copy of the certificate in the folder. “Thanks so much, Yvonne. I know this will be useful; I’m just not sure how yet. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  We said our good-byes; then Jack and I left the building, both of us moving slowly, as if our brains were occupying all of our physical movements. A gust of cold wind tossed itself at us and Jack instinctively put his arm around my shoulders as we began our walk back to the van.

  “The longer this goes on, the more complicated it gets, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “Are we still talking about the mysteries in your house?”

  I stopped to look up at him, not sure what he was saying. “Of course. What else could I be discussing?”

  His arm fell from my shoulder. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began walking again. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”

  I had to jog to catch up to him, not an easy feat, considering. “I do? Did I say anything embarrassing?”

  He lifted an eyebrow, but kept walking.

  “Jack, come on! Don’t say something like that and not elaborate. What did I say?”

  We’d reached the van, so he had to stop and face me, his expression unreadable. “Do you really want to know?”

  I hesitated for only a moment. “Of course.”

  “You said two words over and over—which I’d heard you use together before, except for the one time I actually needed to hear them.”

  I knew what he was going to say before the words came out, the heat rising in my chest, neck, and face like a thermometer suddenly thrust into boiling water. “Don’t. . . .”

  “‘Yes, Jack. Yes.’”

  I stared at the door handle, willing the door to open on its own so it would force Jack backward and I could enter the van without actually looking at him.

  “You wanted to know,” he said quietly.

  I took a step forward to open the door, but stopped midstride as an odd sensation of muscle twitching erupted on one half of my belly. “Whoa,” I said, grasping my side.

  Jack’s hands were on my arms immediately, steadying me. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, holding still as the fluttering began again. “Yes. I’m fine. But I think one of the babies just kicked me.”

  Jack eyes went immediately to my middle. “Which one?”

  “This one,” I said, pointing to my right side.

  “Can I feel?”

  I unbuttoned my coat and pulled it aside. “He—or she—might not do it again, but put your hand here just in case.”

  I moved his flattened palm to where I’d felt the movement, then waited, my gaze finding Jack’s. Despite everything that was unsettled between us, these babies were the one thing on which we were in perfect accord. We’d agreed about not finding out the sexes of the children, and that the two of us would be the primary caregivers. And that Granitia might not be the best name for one of the babies if it was a girl. Or boy.

  When the movement came again, it was more like a tickle, as if somebody were running a finger down the inside of my skin. “Whoa!” Jack said, his hand jerking back before he quickly replaced it. “That was a baby?”

  “I sure hope so. Nothing else should be moving in there.”

  “Obviously a future USC linebacker,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “Then I hope that’s not a girl.” I moved his hand to the other side, where the second baby seemed to still be sleeping. “This one could be a girl. Probably reading a book.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, then moved both hands around to me so that I was forced to step closer to him. I kept my eyes open, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself again by beginning to imagine he would kiss me.

  “Thank you, Mellie.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything. For these babies. For the way you mother Nola. For the ways you make me laugh—intentionally and not.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead before releasing me and helping me into the van.

  He started the engine, then turned to me. “Do you want to eat lunch before we go see the house?”

  Yes. I fiddled with my seat belt and then my gloves—anything to distract me so that I wouldn’t have to look at his face. “That’s probably not a good idea. The house isn’t too far from here, so we should be done within the hour. Plenty of time for you to drop me back at the office and then go grab lunch. Separately,” I added hastily.

  Without a word, he pulled out onto the street and began driving, my head singing an accompaniment to the rhythm of the wheels against the pavement. Yes, Jack. Yes.

  CHAPTER 20

  Pewter skies spit out an icy drizzle as Detective Riley and I huddled together under a large black umbrella at Magnolia Cemetery, watching Nevin Vanderhorst’s remains being removed from the family mausoleum where his mother had only recently been reinterred.

  We’d already verified the marker inside the mausoleum identifying the final resting place for John’s twin brother, Henry. All that meant was that it wasn’t Henry bricked up in the foundation. Which raised the question, If it wasn’t him, then who?

  As much as I hated hospitals and museums, they could not compare to the torture of going right to the source of restless dead people. If Thomas had not been with me, I would have brought my iPod and stuck in the earbuds, hidden from the photographers by a warm knit cap. Instead, my ears were bare and nearly numb, and I was reduced to humming various ABBA tunes to drown out all the voices of the dead I could still hear, but could not see.

  “Is that ‘S.O.S.’ you’re humming?”

  I turned to Thomas with pleasant surprise. “You know ABBA?”

  He snorted. “Who doesn’t? You know they’ve sold more albums than the Beatles?”

  “I’ve heard that. But nobody believes me.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I saw Mamma Mia twice, and I bought the DVD for my mom so I could watch it without claiming ownership.”

  I laughed out loud, but the sound was quickly stifled by the growing whispers that were becoming clearer and louder. I can’t find my daughter. We were on the boat together, but now I don’t see her. Can you help me find her? She’s only four years old and she shouldn’t be alone. The voice came from behind me, close to my ear, high-pitched and carrying years of grief. I stepped forward, forcing Thomas to walk with me to keep the umbrella over us. I stopped when we reached one of the giant oaks with their drapes of moss that watched over the cemetery like sentinels, tall enough to see the sluggish Cooper River, whose banks created one of the cemetery’s borders.

  A small group of reporters and camera crews looked on, but were kept at a distance from the burial site by two police officers who’d arrived with Detective Riley. A truck from the Charleston County coroner’s office was parked near the mausoleum, its rear doors open like welcoming arms.

  “I think they’ve spotted you,” Thomas said, bringing my attention back to the group of media personnel.

  “Great,” I muttered, surreptitiously watching three of them: a photographer, an assistant whose job seemed to be to hold an umbrella over the camera, and a petite woman who looked like she had to be a reporter. She wore penny loafers with tassels, the brown leather turned black from the rain, a beige Burberry trench coat with a signature Burberry plaid scarf thrown around her neck. She was already smiling by the time she was ten yards away, looking a lot like the Cheshire cat. I thought about hiding, but besides ducking behind the large tree trunk, I had nowhere to go