Page 2 of The Guests on South Battery
Jack stared up at me for a moment. “Sweetheart, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think the reason we haven’t been able to hold on to a nanny is that things might be a little too... regulated?”
I straightened. “Of course not. Children do best when they’re on a schedule and live in an organized environment. It’s not my fault that I seem to know more about child-rearing than some of these so-called nannies. We’ll try a new agency with more stringent qualifications. I just need to ask around, because I think I’ve already tried the ones that were recommended to us.”
“You might need to go out of state.” A corner of his lips turned up, and for a moment I thought he might be joking.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll make some calls this afternoon.”
Sarah started to fret in earnest, while JJ continued to be oblivious. Jack was already out of bed and padding toward the door. “I know it’s hard, but you probably shouldn’t go in to see them—it might rile you up more than them. You’ll see them when you get home, and I’ll Skype with you at lunchtime. We’ll be fine. I’m just working on revisions my editor wanted for my book, and I can do that while watching two little babies. I mean, how hard can it be?”
It was my turn to stare at him. “My mom said to call if you neededanything, and I’m just a phone call away as well. Sophie said to call her if you got stuck, but between you and me, I’d use her as a last resort. Last time I called she mentioned a baby massage while listening to whale music.” I gave in to an involuntary shudder.
He walked back to me and gave me a long, deep kiss, one that left me not caring that I had to repair my lipstick. “We’ll be fine. Now go.”
His firm hand steered me toward the stairs as he headed to the nursery, briefly brushing my rear end before he let go. “And I just might have a surprise for you when you get home.”
His eyes definitely heldthat lookand it took all my strength reserves to continue down the stairs.
Halfway down, Nola’s bedroom door opened and she peered out, a puppy in each arm—appropriately named Porgy and Bess—as shewaved a front paw of each dog. “Say bye-bye, Mommy. Have a great first day back at work. Bring us back some kibble.”
Nola, Jack’s daughter whose surprise appearance after her mother’s death a few years before had taken a bit of an adjustment, was one of life’s unexpected gifts—and I never thought I’d be saying that about any teenager. A sophomore now at Ashley Hall, she was quirky, smart, an accomplished songwriter, and as much my daughter now as Jack’s. Like all his children, she was his spitting image, right down to the dimple in her chin. I’d come to the conclusion long ago that Jack’s genes were simply bullies in the conception department. She was a vegan (most of the time), and my self-appointed nutrition guru who liked to slip in tofu and quinoa on Mrs. Houlihan’s shopping list in place of creamed spinach and fried okra, but I loved her anyway.
“Thanks, Nola. Good luck on your French test. Alston’s mother is driving the morning and afternoon carpools today, so you can spend the time going over your flash cards.”
“Yes, Melanie,” she said, rolling her eyes.
I heard Mrs. Houlihan in the kitchen and tiptoed toward the front door to avoid her. Sophie had detected wood rot in one of the kitchen windows and had it removed so it could be restored and then reinstalled. That had been six weeks ago, prompting me to suggest replacing all the windows with new, vinyl ones, knowing it was only a matter of time before the remaining ones would start going soft around the sills and leaking water. Sophie, a new mother herself, had clutched at her heart and had to sit down, looking at me as if I’d just kicked a puppy. I’d let the suggestion drop. But I was tired of listening to Mrs. Houlihan complain about how dark it was in the kitchen with a boarded-up window, and how it was impossible for her to continue to work in such conditions.
I pulled on my coat before opening the front door, then shut it silently behind me. I drew up short at the sight of a van parked at the curb,HARD ROCK FOUNDATIONSpainted on the side, and my father’s car behind it. My father, with whom I’d recently reconciled, had made it his mission to restore my Loutrel Briggs garden to its former glory.He’d done such a good job that both his remarriage to my mother as well as my own wedding had been held beneath the ancient oak tree in the back garden surrounded by roses and tea olives.
But that didn’t explain why he and Rich Kobylt, my plumber, foundation repair technician, general handyman, and even erstwhile counselor, would be there so early in the morning. I remembered my conversation with my father the previous evening, his asking me when I planned to leave for work. As if he’d been secretly scheduling something with Rich Kobylt that he didn’t want me to know about.
Probably because Rich’s presence upset me. Not because of his penchant for low-slung and overly revealing pants, or even the sound of fluttering dollar bills and the ringing of a cash register I usually heard right after he showed up on my doorstep. His presence upset me because Rich had the uncanny ability to uncover things that I’d preferred not to deal with. Like foundation cracks and crumbling chimney bricks. And buried skeletons.
I looked with longing at the carriage house, where my Volvo station wagon was parked next to Jack’s minivan, wanting nothing more than to pretend that I had no idea I had visitors and head into work as planned. But I was an adult now. The wife and mother of three. I was supposed to be brave.
Mentally girding my loins, I headed down the recently rebricked pathway to the rear garden, past the silent swing hanging from the oak tree, and the fountain, recently relieved of two skeletons, burbling in the chill winter air. I stopped when I reached the back corner of the house. I must have made a noise, because both my father and Rich turned to look at me.
They were standing in the rear garden, where the famous Louisa roses had been blooming for almost a century. But where there had once been rosebushes there was now only a deep, circular indentation on the ground.
My father took a step toward me, as if trying to block my view. “Sweet pea—I thought you’d be at work.”
I frowned at him, then directed my attention toward Rich, quicklyaverting my eyes when I saw he was squatting at the edge of the indentation, his back to me. “What’s happened?”
Thankfully, Rich stood. “Good mornin’, Miz Middleton—I mean Miz Trenholm.” His cheeks flushed. “I think with all this rain we’ve been having, this part of the yard sank. Looks like there might be some kind of structure underneath.” He squatted to look more closely into the fissure and I turned my head. There are just some things you can’t unsee.
“A structure?” I waited for him to say the word “cemetery.” I’d seenPoltergeist, after all. And it wasn’t as if that sort of thing hadn’t happened before in Charleston. The recent construction of the new Gaillard Auditorium had unearthed a number of graves that had been there since the Colonial era.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, sweet pea,” my father said as he took another step toward me. I made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and knew he was also thinking about the anonymous letter that had been sent into thePost and Courierand printed right after the twins were born by intrepid reporter and staff writer Suzy Dorf. Something about more bodies to be found on my property.
I hadn’t realized until now that I’d been holding my breath ever since, waiting for just this moment, and knowing that even though I claimed to be done with spirits and the dead, they would never be done with me.
I sidestepped them both to stand near the deep indentation that looked like a navel in my garden, old bricks now visible through the soggy earth and ruined rosebushes. My phone began to ring again, the old-fashioned telephone ring that didn’t exist on my phone. I ended the call, then turned off my phone, knowing I’d hear only empty space if I answered it. Somehow this chasm in my garden and the phone call were related. And the clocks in my bedroom, all stopped at the same time. I didn’t know how, but I suspected that I’d eventually find out whether I wanted to or not. There was no such thing as coincidence, according to Jack. And when my phone began to ring again, I had the sinking feeling that he was right.
CHAPTER 2
Despite the cold January air and shoes that felt like vises, I decided to walk the few short blocks to Henderson House Realty on Broad Street. I had hopes that the bright blue sky and the sun that shone valiantly despite the frigid temperature might clear my head. By the time I reached my old standby, Ruth’s Bakery, my head was clear of all thoughts, but only because my feet were screaming at me, overriding any coherent thinking.
I smiled with surprise at Ruth, who shoved a folded-over bag and foam cup across the counter, just like old times. “How did you know I was starting back at work today?”
