The Strangers on Montagu Street Read online

  “Good morning,” they both said in unison, much the same way I would imagine an undertaker would greet his subject.

  “What’s wrong now?” I asked as I stopped in front of Sophie and followed her gaze to the rather large crack that wound its way through the brick from the ground to the first floor. “I already know about the cracked foundation. Please tell me it’s not more serious than that.”

  Rich and Sophie glanced at each other before the plumber turned back to me and spoke. “Actually, Miz Middleton, except for a hurricane, things don’t get much worse for an old house like this than a cracked foundation. And this one’s as bad as it gets.”

  I nodded slowly as I listened, hearing the familiar sound of a cash register ringing in my brain. “How bad is bad?”

  “Well.” He drew the word out. “Looks like your bond courses are broken. Don’t much know why, except the house is old. Maybe the roots of that old oak tree have stretched a little too far. It’s anybody’s guess, really. You’re in danger of a wall collapse, since this is a structural wall—”

  He’d lost me at “bond courses.” My eyes must have glazed over, because Sophie interrupted him.

  “What he’s trying to say, Melanie, is that it’s only going to get much, much worse if we don’t take care of this right away. It’s going to be pretty major—lifting the house from the existing foundation, then building a new one. It’s the only way to do it right.”

  I stood blinking in the bright morning sunlight, my dream of finally settling into my house and resuming my ordinary, quiet life suddenly as foreign to me as wearing one of Sophie’s outfits. I turned to Rich. “Aren’t you a plumber?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m also a certified technician in foundation repair, and co-own Hard Rock Foundations with my son, Brian. We offer a lifetime transferable warranty, and we’re listed in the BBB, too. Plus Dr. Wallen here has used me on many of her restoration projects and can speak for us.”

  Resignation filled just about every muscle fiber in my body. “How much will it cost?” I asked, then quickly held up my hand. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll call you later to discuss it in detail and after I’ve had a glass of wine.” Or two. “Just tell the workmen not to start before six o’clock in the morning, because I don’t want to be awakened before I have to.” I thought briefly of Nola and her weird sleep habits but didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t be staying with me long enough for it to matter. “Sophie, just let my dad know so he can write the checks.” My father was the trustee for the estate I’d inherited and in charge of all the expenses relating to the house’s restoration. I wondered briefly how much a detonator and TNT would cost.

  “Actually,” Sophie began as she and Rich exchanged another glance between them.

  “Well, see now, Miz Middleton, what Dr. Wallen’s trying to say is that the house won’t be livable while we’re workin’ on it. You’ll need to move out for a spell.”

  I considered throwing myself onto the grass and having a tantrum, complete with banging fists and kicking feet. But that would have taken much more energy than I had.

  “For how long?” I ventured, trying to keep my smile from turning into a feral grin. “I only just moved back in after having all the floors stripped and redone, for crying out loud. And I’ve just retrieved all of the furniture from storage.” I raised my hands, palms up. “And what will General Lee think, being thrown out of his house again?”

  Sophie looked hard at me for a long moment before responding. “I’m sure you and General Lee will cope just fine at your mother’s. And I’m thinking three months—tops. Depending on the weather, of course.”

  I opened and closed my mouth several times, feeling like a drowning fish. Giving up on words, I simply nodded, then turned on my muddy heel and nearly ran right into Nola. The first thing I noticed was that she was wearing the same clothes I’d seen her in the previous evening, and they looked like she’d slept in them. The second thing I noticed was that she didn’t look very happy.

  “What the hell?” she shouted at me, her fists on her hips. “Why would you open my window when it’s, like, a thousand degrees out here? And why was my guitar in the bed with me? What in the hell were you even doing in my room?”

  Before I could think of something to say, Sophie stepped forward. Sticking her hand out, she said, “You must be Nola. I’m Sophie Wallen, a friend of Melanie’s. And can I say I just love your nail polish—the black polish I use doesn’t have that kind of shine.”

  After a moment, Nola raised her hand and allowed Sophie to pump it a few times before letting go. Her gaze swept Sophie’s outfit from head to toe and I stiffened, prepared to defend my best friend, regardless of how much I might agree with Nola’s assessment.

  “Nice skirt,” she said, completely devoid of sarcasm. “My mom made me one just like it, but I had to leave it behind in California because it didn’t fit in my backpack.”

  I glanced over at the plumber/foundation repair specialist and assumed his horrified look matched my own.

  Nola crossed her arms over her chest. “How did you know who I was?”

  I waited for Sophie to answer, having been just about to ask the same question.

  Sophie beamed, an expression honed by years of teaching college students and coercing them to see her as a person of authority despite being half their size. “Oh, sugar,” she drawled, despite the fact that she’d been born and raised far north of the Mason-Dixon Line, “your daddy and I are good friends and we chat quite a bit. I was the one who suggested he bring you here when he mentioned you weren’t comfortable staying with him.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Sophie so she’d know that we’d be having a discussion later.

  “Not that here is any better,” Nola remarked, glaring at me. “I’m not used to getting up at the break of dawn. I mean, what the f—”

  Before she could say the final word, I tried to draw her back down the pathway to the kitchen. “I think I heard Mrs. Houlihan’s car. Why don’t we go get you some breakfast? I’m sure you’ll feel better about things once you’ve eaten.”

  Nola remained rigid. “Right. I already checked your kitchen. Just a lot of dead animal meat and a bunch of processed and high-gluten doughnuts. Ugh. Who eats that crap? I guess my dad just wanted me to starve to death.”

  With a warning glance at me not to say anything, Sophie took Nola’s arm. “I know what you mean. I can’t believe she eats that stuff, either. Why don’t you run upstairs and get changed and then I’ll take you to my favorite place to eat breakfast. They’ve got awesome tofu muffins and eggless eggs. You’ll love it.”

  I stifled a shudder as I watched Sophie lead Nola back into the house. “Drop her at my office when you’re done, all right?”

  Without turning back, Sophie shot me a thumbs-up. As they disappeared around the corner of the house, I heard Nola say, “But who opened my windows?”

  Sophie’s reply carried clearly to us in the back garden. “It’s an old house, sugar. Things happen here that wouldn’t ordinarily happen anywhere else.”

  I avoided looking at Rich, knowing he’d had several “experiences” while working on the house; I just wasn’t going to go there.

  Instead, I began walking down the path, raising my hand in farewell. “Thanks, Rich. Just let me know when you’re ready to start work so I can empty the house. Again. You know how to reach me.”

  I walked to my car, parked in the old carriage house in the back of the property that had been converted to a garage. After closing the door, I sat inside it for a long time before starting the engine, wondering yet again how my once-controlled life had spun off the tracks like a train in a hurricane without my having had to do a single thing.

  There was already a small crowd waiting at Fast & French on Broad Street when I walked up to the door at exactly five minutes past eight o’clock. I was punctual to a fault and considered myself late if I wasn’t at least ten minutes early. I hoped this wasn’t a harbinger for the rest of my day.

&n
bsp; I glanced through the crowd, not really expecting to see Jack, as he wasn’t the early-to-rise sort, and I figured he’d probably gone back to sleep after he’d left my house earlier that morning. And if he was here already, it must be because what he wanted to discuss was very important to him.

  My phone beeped, alerting me to a text message. It was from Jack, letting me know he was seated at the counter in the back room. Excusing myself as I moved by people to get through the door, I tried not to feel nervous as I made my way past the hostess and to my seat next to Jack, two menus already waiting on the counter.

  Fast & French, otherwise known as Gaulart et Maliclet to non-Charlestonians, was a personal favorite. I loved the artsy interior, with murals and other artwork displayed on just about every flat surface. I found the juxtaposition of the modern artwork set against the classical old-house woodwork of the fireplace and cornices charming. Not wanting to be accused of actually liking or appreciating old architecture, I kept that little observation to myself.

  “Good morning,” I said warily. “Have you been sleeping outside on the sidewalk since you left my house waiting for them to open?” He still had the five-o’clock shadow, but his clothes were cleaned and pressed and he smelled faintly of soap. Still, I couldn’t resist the dig. Except for this morning, I’d never seen Jack out of bed earlier than ten o’clock. Or in it, either, but that was yet another path I’d rather leave undiscovered.

  “Good morning,” he replied cheerily, his dimple showing through the scruff on his cheek. “And no, I didn’t sleep here. I just didn’t want to be late since I know how much that irritates you.” His dimple deepened.

  A young and perky waitress stood in front of us on the other side of the counter. “Are y’all ready to order?”

  Without looking at the menu, I said, “Two chocolate-filled croissants and a cappuccino with double cream, please.”

  “Will that be all for the two of you?” she asked, looking at Jack and giving him a big smile. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d written down her phone number and reached over to slide it in his pocket. It had happened more than once.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Actually, that’s all for her. I’m just having coffee. Black, please.”

  The girl raised her eyebrows as she wrote down our order and picked up our menus. I shrugged. Of all of the inherited traits from my mother’s Prioleau side of the family, a high metabolism was a bonus. I considered it a fair trade-off for the other, much more annoying trait of being able to talk with dead people.

  “One day you’re going to wake up fat, Mellie, and it will serve you right.”

  I’d always been taller and thinner than girls my age, and nothing had changed in the last thirty-nine years. Despite the lack of any bust to speak of, I did appreciate the ability to eat what I wanted and still fit into my pants.

  I snorted, taking a spoonful of cream off the top of the cappuccino that had been set in front of me. “You’ll be the first person I’ll tell when that happens, Jack,” I said as I closed my eyes, savoring the sweet taste on my tongue.

  “So, how did it go after I left?” Jack asked as the waitress poured coffee into his mug.

  “As well as could be expected, I guess. She’d just been dropped off at a stranger’s house by her father, after all. When I went up to her room after you left to see if she needed anything, she was crying pretty hard. I didn’t go in. I remember being that age, and knew that intruding wouldn’t have been the right thing to do.”

  Jack nodded contemplatively. “That’s why I figured leaving her with you was the right thing. I would have barged right in and asked what was wrong.”

  “Because you’re a guy.” I took a sip from my cup. “Still, I would think that all your experiences with women would have taught you how to handle it better.”

  “She’s only thirteen, Mellie. And my daughter. Believe me, when I was a thirteen-year-old boy, girls my age were from a different planet. Apparently, they still are.”

  I surreptitiously studied him as I took another sip, imagining that he’d been no less devastating at thirteen than he was now at thirty-five. “Have you sought any professional help?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. We went to see a child psychologist, who told me that Emmal . . . Nola is surprisingly well-adjusted, considering what she’s been through, and the best thing I can do right now is to integrate her into my life.” He snorted. “We can’t even live under the same roof, so I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” I said, patting him on the arm, my words more confident than I felt as I remembered the bewildered girl he’d dropped off on my doorstep.

  We waited while the waitress placed my croissants on the counter between us and added an extra fork. I slid the plate in front of me, along with both forks, then took my first bite. After chewing and swallowing, I said, “You’d better start from the beginning—like who Nola’s mother was, and why I’ve never heard of her or her daughter.”

  Jack began to trace circles with his finger on the counter as he spoke. “It’s not what you think, Mellie. I dated Bonnie Pettigrew—Nola’s mother—my senior year in college. She was from Columbus, Georgia—a real sweet Southern girl. I wouldn’t say she was the love of my life, but we had a good time together. We made each other laugh. I was the starting quarterback at South Carolina, but you probably already know that.”

  I kept a blank look on my face as I stood by my insistence that I had never Googled him. He regarded me steadily for a long moment to see if I’d crack, and when I didn’t, he continued. “Bonnie was a cheerleader, so we had that in common, too. It was almost sort of expected that we’d date, you know?”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t know. My four years in college had been more academic than social, and I could count on one hand the number of football games I’d attended while at South Carolina. And on three fingers the number of dates I’d had.

  Jack continued. “Bonnie was pretty musical, too. Used to write songs all the time and play them for me on her guitar. She was good. Real good. Wanted to write music and planned to head out to California just as soon as she graduated. Said it was a great place to be an artist, and the scenery would inspire her. It was pretty much understood that we would part ways then, and I was okay with that.”

  “And then there was that trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  “Yeah. There was that,” he said, his voice flat. “We had a good time. I wasn’t a raging alcoholic then, but definitely working on it. We partied a lot. Drank a lot.”

  “And apparently didn’t use protection.”

  Jack signaled for the waitress to bring him more coffee. “Apparently not. I was young and very stupid. Although I was probably too out of it to even realize, because it never occurred to me that Bonnie might have gotten pregnant. She never even said anything at all. I just remember that about a month before graduation she told me she decided it was time for her to go, that she didn’t need a degree to do what she wanted to do with her life, and that she was moving to California. She just forgot to mention that she was pregnant.”

  “And after she had the baby, she never contacted you?”

  He shook his head. “Not once. And I had no idea how to get in touch with her—not that we’d really ever planned to do that, anyway. I did write to her mother in Columbus once—her dad had died when she was a baby, and all she had was her mother. Bonnie had never been that close with her mom, and the only thing she could tell me was that Bonnie had made it to California and she hadn’t heard from her since or expected to. It was sad, really, but I figured Bonnie was doing what she wanted to do.”

  “So you forgot about her.”

  With a hard look at me he said, “I didn’t say that. I just moved on. But I never forgot her.”

  I pressed my fork into the remaining crumbs on my plate. “Why do you think she didn’t tell you about the baby?”

  He stared down at his cup for a
long moment. “Because she knew that I would have wanted us to get married, to raise the child together. And Bonnie would never have settled for that. She would have been miserable being stuck in South Carolina and forced to leave all of her dreams behind. She probably figured she could handle being a single mother if it meant she could pursue her dreams.”

  A surprising wave of relief swept over me. The Jack I knew, even though he wasn’t without faults, would never have knowingly abandoned his own child. I drained my cup, leaving it up to my face longer than necessary so that he couldn’t read my expression. He was too good already at reading my mind. Putting my cup down, I asked, “So what happened to Bonnie?”

  Jack motioned to the waitress for another refill and I did the same. “She killed herself.”

  I coughed on the final mouthful of crumbs. I hadn’t expected to hear that. “Intentionally?”

  “It appears so. It’s what’s on the coroner’s report, anyway. Drug overdose, although from what I’ve learned from the police detective assigned to the case, she wasn’t a stranger to OD’ing. She’d been rushed to the hospital at least three times in the last two years for taking various cocktails of prescription and street drugs.”

  “Poor Nola,” I said, remembering her expression when I’d met her, of loss and grief and something else that had been unnameable at the time. But now I understood what it was, because I’d seen it for so long in my own reflection: abandonment. “Who would take care of her when her mother was sick?”

  “No one, as far as I can figure out. Bonnie had had a long string of live-in boyfriends, and the latest one, Rick something-or-other, had been there for about two years. But I imagine Nola would have taken care of herself. She doesn’t seem the sort to want to have to ask for help.”