Return to Tradd Street Page 9

  I studied my mother, still the beautiful woman I remembered from my childhood, and knew we were both recalling the thirty-three years she’d been absent from my life. My hand fell to my abdomen, my heart seeming to expand and contract as I thought about my baby being separated from me. Was this what motherhood felt like? Like having a part of you walking around outside of your body? I was no longer sure I wanted to find out.

  I looked away. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to be able to walk into an antique store and not be greeted by a crowd of dead people, or to be able to look into a mirror without wondering who’s standing behind me. Or to answer the phone and know for sure that it’s a living, breathing person on the other end.”

  She moved to a table where various items of lingerie were displayed and began looking through them, her brow furrowed, and I knew she wasn’t finished. Without turning around, she said, “Have you made any decision about staying in your house? You know you’re always welcome to move in with me on Legare Street. It’s a big enough house that we’d each have our own privacy.” She blushed and I thought of the clandestine visits my father made that they didn’t think I knew about.

  “Are you sure you haven’t been talking with Rebecca? Because she just asked me the same thing. As I told her, I don’t think there’s any rush. I’ll figure it out—eventually.”

  She raised her eyes to meet mine. “I haven’t seen Rebecca. It was your grandmother. She wanted you to know that you need to decide sooner rather than later what you want. And then be ready to fight for it.”

  I felt a small tremor in the pit of my stomach. “Fight for the house?”

  “If that’s what you decide you want.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her that I hated old houses, that I had since the moment I’d found out that she’d sold our family home after telling me for years that it would one day be mine. And I hated them because they always came with spirits who wanted my help. But I couldn’t say it. Because, I was beginning to admit, it might no longer be true.

  She put down what looked like a pair of enormous granny panties and forced a large smile onto her face. “You do need new bras. Let’s try these dresses on and then we can go over to Bits of Lace and get you fitted properly for a bra in your new size. You’ll want to be prepared the next time a button decides to fly off your jacket.”

  I wanted to make a retort, but she’d already turned her back to me and was heading toward the fitting rooms. You need to decide sooner rather than later what you want. And then be ready to fight for it. I stared after her and shivered, wondering what it was my grandmother thought I needed to fight for, too afraid to think about all the things I didn’t want to lose.

  My mother dropped me off in front of my house despite her offer to help me inside with my packages. I’d declined. I was bone tired and could think only of dumping all the packages in the front vestibule before passing out on the first sofa I found.

  I pushed open the door to the piazza and paused. Sophie sat in a lotus position in the middle of the piazza floor, her eyes closed, the middle fingers and thumbs of each hand forming a circle. She wore a flowing muumuu-like top—not dissimilar to the ones my mother had just bought for me—but hers was filled with psychedelic colors in a tie-dyed pattern that almost brought up my lunch. Her Birkenstocks were parked under one of the rocking chairs, her bare feet tucked under her purple-legging-covered knees. There was no purple in the tie-dye—thank goodness—but at least they matched the purple elastic bands that pulled Sophie’s hair back from her face in about a dozen places around her head.

  Her eyes popped open before she moved lithely to a standing position, making it easier for me to see her outfit. It was the first time I realized that Sophie could probably continue wearing her same wardrobe throughout her pregnancy. The thought did not cheer me.

  “Sorry! Mrs. Houlihan said you’d be home soon, so I asked her if I could meditate out here while I waited.”

  She must have seen my shoulders sag, because she walked toward me and took some of the shopping bags. “You’ve been shopping—good for you. You must be exhausted.”

  “You have no idea,” I said, sticking my key in the front door lock. “It’s not that I’m not happy to see you—but did we have plans? My memory is so fuzzy lately.”

  Sophie moved into the foyer and stacked the bags at the foot of the staircase. “No. But I’ve been doing some research on Mr. Vanderhorst’s family and I found something really interesting that I wanted to tell you in person.” She straightened. “Oh, and there was a package at your front door—I put it in the rocking chair. Hang on a minute.”

  She returned wearing her Birkenstocks and carrying a brown paper-wrapped package. The paper looked soft and had small creases radiating across the surface like a topographical map. It appeared to have gotten wet or was very old. Or both. The package was crisscrossed with knotted twine, the way packages used to be wrapped before modern shipping machines made the practice obsolete.

  I kicked off my heels, leaving them in the middle of the floor along with the shopping bags I’d been holding, and reached for the package. “Who’s it from?”

  “It doesn’t say. It only has the address—fifty-five Tradd Street, Charleston. No zip code or name—like it was hand-delivered. I have to say, though, that this looks really old. Like it was sent in the last century, before zip codes and parcel post delivery, then stuck in a time warp for a hundred years before being dropped here. Or . . .” She paused, holding her chin, which she did when in heavy thought and her hair was pulled back so she couldn’t twist it.

  “Or what?”

  “Or somebody decided this is something you needed to see now.”

  Our eyes met in silent understanding that in my life, what she suggested was entirely possible.

  I stared at the front of the package, at the elegant cursive—the careful penmanship so different from the way people wrote today—and felt a familiar tingle at the base of my neck. I wished my mother were there to touch it, to let me know whether I should open it. But I couldn’t ask her, regardless of how much I wanted to be warned.

  I forced a brightness to my voice that I didn’t feel. “I’ve been receiving random gifts ever since my mother found out I was pregnant. She mentioned it to her former agent and I guess the news spread. I’ve got all the loot in a room upstairs, and you’re welcome to go shop through the piles. I have no idea what half of the stuff is.” I began to walk toward the back of the house, where I heard Mrs. Houlihan singing in the kitchen to General Lee. “Come on. I need some caffeine, if I can find any—just a smidge; I promise—and I’m sure Nola’s left some of her flavorless green tea in there somewhere that you can have. We’ll open the package and you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”

  I didn’t need to turn around to see Sophie’s frown of disapproval at my mention of caffeine.

  Mrs. Houlihan, with her purse over her arm, was on her way out the back door when we entered. She poked her head back into the room. “Hello, Miss Melanie. I’ve got a meatless multigrain pot pie—from that cookbook on prenatal nutrition Miss Sophie gave me—warming in the oven, and a salad in the refrigerator for your supper. And there was something else.” She paused to think for a moment. “Yes. If you need to leave, make sure the television in here is set on Animal Planet—I just discovered General Lee likes watching that, and if he’s entertained, he won’t chew on the welcome mat. Have a good evening, ladies, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  The door began to close behind her before she opened it again. “Oh, and one more thing—an Irene Gilbert called twice and a Mr. Drayton called once. They both said it was very important that you call them back as soon as possible. I didn’t give them your cell number but told them I’d let you know that they’d called. Neither one would leave a message, but I left their numbers on the pad by the phone.”

  She waved her fingers at us before shutting the door behind her.

  “Mr. Drayton?” Sophie asked. “Wasn’t he Mr. Vanderh
orst’s lawyer?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, the tingling at the base of my neck growing stronger. “I wonder what he could want. I haven’t spoken with him since Mr. Vanderhorst’s estate was settled. And I have no idea who Irene Gilbert is.”

  Sophie placed the package on one of the kitchen table chairs, then pulled out another before bringing over the phone and message pad. “Why don’t you sit down and return the calls while I make us both a nice cup of green tea?”

  Both sounded equally unappealing, enough so that I contemplated making a run for my bedroom and locking the door. Unfortunately, I lacked the energy, and Sophie would have me cornered before I’d even reached the other side of the table.

  I’d already decided I would wait for Irene Gilbert to call me back, since I didn’t know who she was. Mr. Drayton had left both his office and his cell numbers and, squinting to see the numbers, I dialed the first one. After several rings the office answering machine picked up, which, seeing as how it was after five o’clock, didn’t surprise me. I glanced at the cell phone number for a second before placing my phone facedown on the table.

  “No luck?” Sophie asked from the sink, where she was filling a kettle with water.

  I shook my head. “No. I’ll try again tomorrow.” I flipped the pad over, my head now practically ringing from the tremor that had exploded from the base of my skull like a kudzu vine. I was the queen of avoidance. Dealing with spirits since childhood had taught me that if I ignored them long enough, they would—most of the time—eventually go away. I’d expanded this theory to all unpleasant things that I didn’t want to deal with. I’d only just begun to understand that some things, when ignored, could only get worse. Which didn’t make me stop testing my theory again and again.

  Sophie turned off the tap but continued to stare straight ahead through the large windows that held a view of my beautiful Charleston garden. “When the kitchen was updated, did you replace the windows?”

  I sat up straighter. “No, why?”

  She moved to the stove and turned on one of the gas burners. “Well, I can feel the heat pouring in, which means you might as well be throwing money out the windows every time you use the air conditioner. And there’s a little dark spot near the sill that might be mildew from moisture getting trapped between the window and the wall.”

  “Don’t,” I said, spearing her with the look I usually reserved for a broker intent on making a lowball offer.

  Sophie paused with a tea bag suspended in each hand. “Don’t what?”

  “I can’t take another thing right now or my head will explode. I don’t want to know what replacing windows in this house would cost, or removing mildew, but I’m sure it’s more than I can afford unless it involves selling my baby. Which I’m not prepared to do.”

  “But you can’t just pretend—”

  I cut her off. “Yes, I can. Just watch me.”

  The teakettle whistled, and she took her time pouring the hot water into two mugs. She set one on the table in front of me before sitting in a chair opposite with the other mug. She took a sip from her mug. “How did your house hunting with Jack go?”

  “Not so good. Every house I showed him looked good on paper—checked off just about every box on his wish list—the number of bedrooms, the size, the yard, and easy commute to Ashley Hall. But he nitpicked them to death. He keeps insisting he wants old with lots of history, with fixer-upper projects, and a garden big enough for a small pool and swing set. He even said he wouldn’t mind a few ghosts.” I rolled my eyes. “Where am I supposed to find him a house like that?”

  She looked at me oddly for a moment. “Where, indeed?” she said as she took another sip from her mug, her gaze falling on the package she’d placed in a chair. “Aren’t you going to open that?”

  No! I wanted to shout, but didn’t. Sophie Wallen-Arasi wasn’t the kind of person to take no for an answer, and would have simply found a pair of scissors and opened it herself. Besides, I had a strong suspicion that I’d wake up and find the package in bed next to me, demanding to be opened. The only choice I had was to delay opening it as long as I could.

  “So, what is it you wanted to tell me?” I asked, eager to redirect the conversation.

  “Oh, yes—something very intriguing, but I’m not even sure if it will mean anything.”

  “Jack and I have an appointment with Yvonne Craig next Monday, so give me what you have and I’ll share it with her. The woman is a genius at putting puzzle pieces together.”

  Sophie sat up straighter, wrapping her hand with their short, unvarnished fingernails around her mug. “Good, because she’ll have more extensive family trees than I have to see if this means anything. And I’m still looking through the archives about foundation repairs that were made to the house. That might be able to help us pinpoint when the body was placed there. I’ll keep you posted.” She puffed out her breath, as if trying to contain news so that it would simply burst forth and amaze me.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Mr. Vanderhorst’s great-grandfather John Nevin Vanderhorst was a twin.”

  I couldn’t see anything, but I imagined I heard the air ping. I considered her words for a moment. “Wasn’t John Vanderhorst the naval officer who hid the Confederate diamonds in the grandfather clock?”

  “Bingo. Same guy.”

  “But I thought Nevin Vanderhorst came from a long line of only children and had no living relatives to leave his estate.”

  “Which is true. The twin died when he was three—possibly of yellow fever.”

  “So why is that so interesting?”

  “Well, having fraternal twins can be an inherited trait. Mostly it’s carried down the female line, since it’s the female who will have the tendency to hyperovulate. Which, technically, might not be as clear-cut with the Vanderhorsts, since they typically married cousins—meaning the inherited trait might still be passed on through the family on the father’s side.

  “I was thinking of the two Vanderhorst cradles—the one in your attic and the one at the Charleston Museum—and I couldn’t help but wonder if twins ran in the Vanderhorst family.”

  “But surely just one incident doesn’t mean that it’s an inherited trait.”

  “True—but I only had the family tree go back as far as the great-grandfather. Maybe Yvonne can go back further.”

  “So what are you suggesting? That one set of parents didn’t like the idea of twins, so they bricked one up in the foundation?” I shook my head. “I don’t see how that would have any connection.”

  Sophie stared into her mug for a long moment, giving me a full view of her purple hair ties, and I had a sudden vision of her with a daughter with a matching hairstyle. I stifled a shudder.

  “Not exactly. I was thinking more along the lines of how easy it would have been to hide the death of one of the twins. Back then, determining a multiple birth wasn’t exactly a science—and sometimes a doctor wouldn’t know until the mother went into labor that she was having more than one baby.”

  She waited a moment, giving me time to digest what she’d just said. Sophie continued. “Or maybe the mother dropped a baby and it died, or for whatever reason the parents decided to keep the death hush-hush, which would have been easy to do, because nobody knew there’d even been a second baby.”

  The temperature in the room plummeted, and the air shifted around me, like a wave in a storm changing directions. My gaze darted from one corner of the kitchen to another, and although I saw nothing, an icy breath crossed my cheek and I felt more than heard the single word: Mine.

  “Wow,” I said, nearly choking. “I’ll definitely mention that to Yvonne.” My gaze seemed drawn to the package, and to the air surrounding it that seemed to shimmer and glow. Sophie merely sipped her tea, blissfully unaware of whatever else was in the room with us.

  “I think I should open the package now,” I said, moving across the room to the utility drawer where Mrs. Houlihan kept the scissors before returning to the table. For the
first time I noticed that some of the twine appeared to be knotted together, as if the package had been opened and then resealed. I began to snip each band of twine, the air seeming to pop and sizzle with each closing of the blades. When the twine had been completely removed, I realized there was no adhesive holding the package together. I tipped the package over and shook it, staring in surprise at the wad of newspaper that slid out onto the table.

  “Newspaper?” I asked as Sophie reached for it.

  “Very old newspaper,” she replied, smoothing the top of one of the pages. “From the New York Times. It’s from July 1898.”

  My eyes slid from Sophie’s face back down to the wad of newspaper. “I think there’s something wrapped inside.” I’d started to shiver from the cold, and I noticed that Sophie had goose bumps on her arms, too. I very carefully unwrapped the old paper, knowing Sophie would have a fit if I followed my instincts and frantically tore at it, eager to end the suspense and find out what I was so afraid of.

  When the newspaper wrapping finally parted, we froze, our hands suspended over the gossamer layers of yellowed linen and lace.

  Carefully I lifted the tiny garment, seeing now the small pearl buttons, the neck opening, and two impossibly little armholes. Remembering what Thomas Riley had told me about what they’d found in the box with the remains, I brought the neck opening closer to my face. Inside the linen collar, embroidered in small, careful stitches, was the name Susan Bivens. I shook the paper, wondering whether there might be a bonnet, too, but it hung flat and empty.

  “It’s beautiful enough to be a family heirloom,” she said, her voice almost reverential. “For a family with lots of twins in the family tree, it makes sense that there would be two sets—this one and the one in the foundation.”

  My eyes met Sophie’s again as puffs of our breath mingled in the chilly air before rising toward the ceiling. Sophie caught my arm just as I collapsed into my chair, the sound of a crying infant coming up through the floors of the old house and echoing in my heart.