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  Nola was looking at me strangely.

  “What?”

  She slowly shook her head. “You’re the expert, Mellie, so I’ll let you handle it. But I’m sure you’ll be able to find at least one house that meets all of his criteria. Just give me enough room so that Dad’s not breathing down my back every second.” She gave me a bright smile. “I’d like a bedroom on the first floor, or if it has to be on the second then maybe a room with a nearby tree or soft hedges beneath the window.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Oh, and I figured I should warn you that Dad’s researching Lamaze classes, too.”

  I took a bite out of the brownie and closed my eyes at the joy of actually eating something with taste, and not feeling the urge to vomit. At least this way I’d actually have something to throw up when I awoke in the morning.

  “I have absolutely no intention of going to Lamaze classes. Not to worry—I’ll set him straight.” I took another bite of my brownie and chewed slowly, studying the teenager across from me. Maybe it was her resemblance to her father, but I couldn’t help but think her visit had ulterior motives. I narrowed my eyes. “It’s not like I’m not happy to see you—I am—but I’m just wondering why you came here tonight. Is everything really all right?” I paused. “Is your mother back?”

  Nola’s mother, Bonnie, had killed herself in California, where they’d been living, precipitating Nola’s unexpected appearance in Charleston and her father’s life. But unfinished business had kept Bonnie at Nola’s side until my mother and I had been able to send her into the light.

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, not really. I always feel her with me. Here.” She pressed a fist against her heart and I felt the ever-present tears sting my eyes. “But I don’t see her anymore, and nobody’s moving my furniture or stuff. It’s just . . .”

  I waited for her to speak, holding my breath.

  She took a deep breath. “Remember when Julia Manigault died?”

  Julia’s dead father’s spirit had tried to kill me. It wasn’t something one easily forgot. “Yes,” I said slowly, trying not to hold my breath.

  “She left me her piano.”

  Relief pricked at my skin. “Oh. That’s wonderful. One of the last things she said to me was to make sure you kept practicing. This will make it so much easier for you.”

  She smiled, but she still seemed tense, as if she had more to say.

  I leaned forward. “And . . . ?”

  “There isn’t any room in Dad’s condo for a grand piano.”

  She continued to smile at me, and I wondered whether we were both thinking of the front room in my house. I had recently donated all the furniture—including the grand piano—that I’d inherited with the house to the Charleston Museum, with the dream of making the room into my new home office. I’d even already started working with Amelia Trenholm on the design and had asked her to start looking for furniture.

  I was shaking my head when a brief tapping sounded on the glass of the kitchen door. We turned to see Jack standing on the back stoop, the porch light making his dark hair gleam.

  “I’ll get it,” Nola said, sliding back her chair before unlatching the door to let Jack inside. General Lee, who’d followed us into the kitchen, gave an enthusiastic yip and threw himself at Jack with the same gusto he’d shown for Nola.

  Jack bent down to scratch the dog on the tummy that General Lee had graciously rolled over to reveal. “At least one member of this family knows how to greet me.”

  I stayed where I was, stealthily sliding my napkin to hide the crumbs on my plate. “I’m surprised you didn’t just use your key and barge in like you usually do.”

  Without being asked, he moved to the kitchen table and took a seat. “For some reason my key didn’t fit in the lock on the front door.”

  I was confused for a moment before I remembered that in a fit of spite after the first week of his not calling me I’d changed all the locks. I took a sip of my milk so I wouldn’t have to respond.

  “I’m not going to ask why you’re here, because I’m too happy to see Nola to question who brought her. But you could have waited out in the car. Spent some time working on your smile in the rearview mirror.”

  Ignoring me, he turned to his daughter. “Did you ask her yet?”

  “About the piano? Not yet, but I could see where she was heading,” I said. “I’m, um, not so sure—”

  Nola interrupted. “It wouldn’t be for long—just until you find a house for Dad and me. I really want to have a piano I can play anytime I want, and I don’t want to go to the Montagu Street house because it creeps me out. And who knows who the new owners are going to be? They might even say that the piano belongs to the house and won’t let me take it.” Her expression of woe and destitution was an Oscar-worthy performance.

  I quickly switched my gaze to Jack, not able to look at Nola’s pathetic face anymore.

  “And you’ve heard Nola play,” Jack interjected. “She’s really good, so it wouldn’t be a hardship listening to her practice. You can give her a key to the house so she can come and go without bothering you.”

  I eyed the brownies, wishing I could have one more. “I just got rid of a good piano. Nobody played it, and the museum wanted it. And I really need a home office. It’s very hard to work in the parlor without a desk. If I spread out my papers on the sofa and chairs, General Lee ends up either sleeping on them or using them for a snack.”

  I looked at them, expecting to see sympathy. Instead, all I saw were two sets of matching blue eyes and dimples. It was a look guaranteed to coerce, and multiplied by two, it made it nearly impossible to say no.

  “Maybe I can think about it?” I asked hopefully.

  Their expressions didn’t change.

  I stared at them for a long moment, weighing the pros and cons in my mind. It would be good to see Nola on a regular basis, and the sound of music in the house would be nice. When she’d lived with my mother and me at my mother’s house for the first few months after she arrived in Charleston, she’d entertained us with her guitar and singing—although not intentionally. When she’d moved back in with Jack, I’d at first reveled in the peace and quiet, and the way I didn’t have to shout to be heard over her stereo. But I’d missed the sound of her voice and guitar.

  Quietly, Nola said, “I’m working on a new song, and Jimmy Gordon is very excited about it and wants to hear the whole thing as soon as I’m done.” Her basset-hound face reappeared. “But I’ll never get it done without easy access to a piano.”

  Nola and her mother had written a song together, “My Daughter’s Eyes,” that had been sold to pop star Jimmy Gordon for his latest album and was now being played on every radio station. It was the sort of success that Bonnie had dreamed of when she’d moved out to California, yet never managed to realize.

  I sat up straighter. “How do you know Julia left you the piano? I know she left something for me, too, but I haven’t heard a word from the executors of the estate.”

  Jack’s smile brightened. “I happen to have an ‘in’ with Dee Davenport—Miss Julia’s house manager. She’s the one who’s been so generous with the Manigault family papers for my book.”

  I frowned. “The large blond lady who makes the Santa Clauses? That Dee Davenport?”

  His smile didn’t dim. “The very same. She likes me.”

  I looked up at the ceiling, praying once more that I was going to have a daughter. I couldn’t imagine raising a mini Jack who was able to woo women of all ages, shapes, and hair color.

  He continued. “Dee found the new will behind the hall mirror, along with Miss Julia’s instructions to allow me access to the family papers for my book. She told me about the piano.”

  “Did she mention what Miss Julia left for me?”

  Jack and Nola shared a look. After a brief pause, Jack said, “A cradle. One that’s been in her family for generations.”

  “A cradle? But how would she have known . . .” I stopped, my eyes widening as I realized that she would have known about the pregnancy the same supernatural way I had known about the will behind the hall mirror to tell Dee. But a phone call from the dead wasn’t something I liked talking about. I shivered, remembering the last thing Miss Julia said to me before the line had gone silent. You are stronger than you think. You’ll have cause soon to remember that.

  I leaned back in my chair, grateful the bequest was just a cradle and not the whole dilapidated house. I couldn’t help but think that it would look much better as a parking garage. And be more useful, too. “That’s too bad. I already have a cradle—I saw it in the attic when I was up there with the animal-control guy about the pigeons. It’s practically buried under furniture and old clothes, and is probably filthy, but it’s there if I should want an antique cradle—which I doubt. What about the house? What poor soul has to deal with that albatross?”

  Nola piped up. “She left it to Ashley Hall—but it’s up to them to decide whether they’re going to sell it or use it for some school purpose. It’s pretty far from campus, so who knows? Which is why I want to make sure that my piano is safe with me.”

  They were both looking at me again, aware that I’d tried to steer the conversation away from the piano issue. As if reading my mind, Jack took a brownie out of the Tupperware and placed it on my plate before sliding it closer to me. “It would just be until you found us a house, which I’m sure you’ve already started working on.”

  I took a bite out of the brownie and pretended to think while I chewed, but it was probably already as apparent to them as it was to me that I wouldn’t be able to say no. I washed it down with soy milk before I spoke. “All right. I suppose my home office can wait a little bit longer. Just let me know when you schedule the movers so I can put it on the calendar.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Actually, they’re delivering it here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Nola slid her chair back and glanced at her empty wrist, where I’d never seen a watch. “Wow, look at the time. I’d better get to my English homework.”

  Jack stretched and faked a yawn. “And I’m exhausted. I’ve been writing all day and it just makes my brain fuzzy.”

  Always the gentleman, Jack bent down and kissed my cheek. “Don’t bother standing. We’ll let ourselves out. See you at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

  As they began to beat a hasty retreat toward the kitchen door, Nola said, “Don’t forget to rearrange the brownies so Mrs. Houlihan doesn’t notice any are missing.”

  I opened my mouth to retort but was stopped by the sound of a loud crash from somewhere upstairs. General Lee whimpered and ran to his dog bed, where he promptly hid his snout in the soft cushion.

  “Stay here,” Jack commanded Nola and me, but he’d barely made it through the kitchen door before both of us were following him through the foyer and up the stairs. We all stopped in the upstairs hallway at the sight of the attic door gaping open like a yawning mouth. I always kept it locked, and it couldn’t be unlocked from the inside.

  We looked at one another, seeing our frosty breaths as if we were standing outside on a January morning instead of inside the house at the end of summer. Together we inched forward to peer up the attic stairs.

  We stopped, and I blinked several times to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. At the top of the steps, somehow pulled out from under a heap of old furniture and junk, was an ancient cradle, outlined in the fading light of early evening from the window behind it.

  “Cool,” Nola whispered, her deep blue eyes showing no fear.

  Then from somewhere behind us came the sound of a baby crying, the mewling echoing against the plaster walls and tall ceilings of the old house, and sending a chill deep down into my womb, where my own baby lay, protected.

  Jack reached out and put a hand on my abdomen, touching our child for the first time. Our eyes met in a mixture of fear and anticipation, as if we were both realizing that we were in this together, and that we were up against more than we’d bargained for.

  CHAPTER 5

  I opened my eyes as soon as I felt the car stop. My mother’s slow and erratic driving was too hard to take with both eyes open. I would have gladly driven myself or walked to Hominy Grill to meet Sophie for lunch, but my mother, having missed most of my childhood and growing-up years, had begun to treat me like a glass doll incapable of doing anything on her own.

  “I wonder if they have valet,” my mother said, idling the engine. She’d found curbside parking on a side street only two blocks away from the restaurant on Rutledge Avenue.

  “I’m sure I can walk without breaking.”

  Reluctantly, she turned off the ignition. “You really shouldn’t be walking anywhere in heels in your condition. You know, your ankles wouldn’t be so swollen if you didn’t insist on wearing those shoes in this heat. And I found that bag of potato chips buried in the kitchen garbage can. All that sodium isn’t helping, either.”

  I unbuckled my seat belt. “I only have small windows of not feeling nauseous, and I refuse to waste them on foods that taste like tree bark.” I opened my door and climbed out so I wouldn’t have to hear her response.

  My mother caught up to me on the sidewalk. “And I think that General Lee is having a sympathy pregnancy. He’s looking a little portly.”

  “He is not. He’s just fluffy. And big boned. But if he has gained a few it’s because I haven’t been able to walk him—it’s way too hot. And my feet hurt all the time.”

  She looked pointedly at my shoes but self-preservation made her keep quiet.

  We had just reached the front entrance of the iconic red clapboard barbershop-turned-restaurant when I heard my name called.

  I turned to see my best friend rushing toward me with both arms outstretched. Regardless of how many times I’d seen Dr. Sophie Wallen, her outfits never ceased to make me pause and wonder how she could be my best friend. Her dark hair was unbraided for a change, the curls bouncing around her face and shoulders, with wide light brown sun streaks framing her cheeks. She wore head-to-toe tie-dye, including leggings, but excluding the plaid scarf she’d draped around her neck like a necklace. Her ubiquitous Birkenstocks graced her feet, where I was happy to see that at least her toenails were tie-dye-free.

  “Melanie!” she screeched, catching me up in a bear hug that suddenly made me feel much, much better, reminding me once again why Sophie and I were the very best of friends.

  She held me at arm’s length, looking at me closely, her smile fading as she narrowed her eyes at me. “You don’t look so great. Are you feeling all right?”

  My mother stepped forward. “She has horrible morning sickness, and she’s retaining water like a watermelon.” Sophie released me so my mother could kiss her on both cheeks. “And her skin is breaking out like a teenager’s.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” I said, glaring at my mother and now ex–best friend.

  They both turned to look at me with matching expressions of pity. Ignoring them, I opened the door to the restaurant. “I’m hungry,” I called over my shoulder, not caring whether they followed me.

  We were seated quickly at a wooden table in the front window, the bottom half of which was covered in a lace curtain. I was starving, but not because I hadn’t eaten breakfast. After I’d swallowed enough saltines so I could raise my head from the pillow, I’d actually felt hungry and had allowed Mrs. Houlihan to heat up one of the broccoli muffins for me with about a drop of butter on it. It had lasted in my stomach for almost three minutes.

  I studied the menu with the hunger of an Olympic swimmer, and after ordering the sweet tea, she-crab soup, the fried chicken small plate, a side of corn bread, and the low-country purloo, I had to explain to the stunned waiter that I wasn’t ordering for the whole table. Sophie ordered the vegetable plate—all locally grown—and a large glass of water with lemon. My mother ordered the soup and salad, and neither one would return my belligerent gaze.

  Eager to divert the subject from my dietary habits, I turned to Sophie. “So, how’s married life? How was the honeymoon? I hope you brought pictures.”

  Sophie shyly tucked her hair behind her ear, ignoring how it sprang back immediately. “The honeymoon was pretty awesome, and I highly recommend married life.” She blushed a little and I looked at her closely, wondering what, besides the sun-streaked hair, seemed so different. Her eyes sparkled, and her skin practically glowed. If it had been anybody but Sophie Wallen, I would have suspected that she’d just had a chemical peel and facial—two things I knew with all certainty that she had never subjected her skin to.

  “You look absolutely beautiful,” my mother said, echoing my thoughts and obviously overlooking the outfit. “Married life definitely agrees with you.” She sent a pointed glance in my direction.

  “Seriously,” I said. “What are you using on your skin these days? I’ve seen babies with skin that doesn’t look that good.”

  My mother sat up straighter and, with a small gasp, pressed her hands against her mouth.

  Obviously not catching on, I looked from Sophie to my mother, then back again. “What is it? What am I missing?”

  “I’m pregnant!” Sophie almost shouted.

  “You’re pregnant?” I shouted back, making other diners turn their heads in our direction.

  She nodded, her skin glowing pink like a ripened peach.

  “But how . . . ?” I gestured with my hands to indicate her radiant face, narrow waist, and trim ankles.

  “The usual way, I suspect, Mellie,” my mother said, frowning.

  “I meant how can you look like . . . that, and be pregnant?”

  Their smiles dimmed slightly as they contemplated me, strategically keeping their gazes on my eyes and not my blotchy face, my cankles, or my skirt that was stretched uncomfortably across my lap.

  My mother placed her hand on top of mine. “All pregnancies are different, Mellie. I was sicker than a dog throughout my entire pregnancy with you, which meant that I didn’t gain much weight. But I looked green most of the time and my bustline was simply unmanageable. But a few years later, when Amelia was pregnant with Jack, she looked fabulous—she simply glowed, and you could only tell she was pregnant by a little baby bump in front.”