Page 25 of The Guests on South Battery
We were still chuckling as we entered the Brown Dog Deli and were quickly seated in one of the booths against the brightly painted blue wall, liberally adorned with vibrantly colored posters and framed cartoon dog prints. As Jack had predicted, we were ahead of the lunch crowd and our waitress appeared with water glasses and was ready to take our orders as soon as we sat down. I ordered the fried green tomato and pimento cheese sandwich with a side of potato chips while Jack ordered the Pita Frampton. Remembering our earlier conversationabout my weight, I changed my side to the fresh fruit mix, lamenting my potato chips as soon as the waitress stepped away from our table.
Jack’s left hand with the gold band around his third finger rested on the table. I wanted to reach over and place my hand in his but was afraid that was more a teenager kind of thing to do. I hadn’t dated as a teenager, so I had no point of reference, but I’d seen enough young adult movies with Nola, so I had a pretty good idea.
“So,” I said before sipping my water through a long straw, “what did you want to talk about?” My old self would never have asked this question, preferring the head-in-the-sand approach—a method that I still returned to more often than not. But this was my marriage—something that would never have even happened if I’d kept my head buried—and I figured it was a good place to start with the new, married version of me.
Jack looked pleasantly surprised that I was the one who’d spoken first, but he made the wise decision not to comment on it. He reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked like a section of newspaper. He unfolded it on the table and I saw it was a clipped article, the edges jagged. I immediately began rummaging through my purse for my emergency bag that held scissors, duct tape, WD-40, toothpaste, and an assortment of other items I might need in any given day.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
My hand stilled. “I’m looking for my scissors. I thought I’d trim that up for you.”
“That’s probably not necessary. I think all you need to do is read it.”
“Right,” I said, pulling my hand out of my purse as if it didn’t matter. I pulled the paper closer so I could read it, trying not to squint so I wouldn’t have to listen to Jack tell me again that I shouldn’t be ashamed to wear glasses and that most people over forty did. Since he had yet to reach forty, it was in both our best interests—especially with a pair of sharp scissors nearby—that we refrain from that conversation.
“It’s from last Sunday’s paper,” he said. “The puppies got to it after you pulled out the real estate section but before I could read the rest of it, but your dad brought it over this morning after you left for work to show me. It’s from the editorial page.”
I felt the first fissure of unease.
“It’s from that series thePost and Courieris doing about the history of some of the historic houses in Charleston. It wasn’t supposed to last this long, but apparently, it’s become quite popular, and the staff writer is getting all sorts of social invitations from people hoping that their houses will be the subject of the column.”
“Suzy Dorf,” I said, not bothering to disguise the sneer in my voice. “She’s been trying to reach me. She’s actually left several messages and a text on my phone.”
He raised his eyebrows, not warranting my comments with a comment of his own.
“She annoys me. I have nothing to say to her—especially after she printed that anonymous letter last year about there being more bodies buried in our garden. I should sue her for libel.”
“That might be premature, don’t you think? Especially considering that we’ve just unearthed a cistern in said garden?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any dead bodies we find areourdead bodies. She needs to mind her own business.”
His eyebrows drew together as if he was trying to translate something in his mind. After a brief shake of his head, he said, “She’s a reporter. That’s what she does.” He reached over and slid the clipping closer to me. “Read it.”
Trying very hard not to squint, I began to read:
Hollywood is coming to the Holy City! Thankfully, it’s not for a far-be-it-from-reality reality series but for a feature film from a major studio. Charleston native Marc Longo’s book,Lust,Greed, and Murder in the Holy City, hasn’t even hit bookstore shelves yet, but there’s so much buzz about this book that the rumor mill has reported that the movie rights went to auction for a cool seven figures.
I looked up at Jack, who was valiantly trying to keep his face expressionless. It had beenhisstory first, before Marc had stolen it fromhim and rushed his own version of the story to publication before Jack even had a chance. The murder involved Marc’s family, giving him the inside scoop, but the bodies had been found inourgarden. Jack had already written his own book about how we’d solved the mystery, and he’d signed a publishing deal. It just hadn’t been published before Marc got there first. We’d had a small victory when we were able to keep Marc from buying the house out from under us, but only because Nola had lent us the money. It was unfair, and humiliating, and something we’d learned to get past and forget about. Until now.
“Is this what your agent called you about the other day?”
He nodded. “Keep going. It gets better.”
I’ve heard from an anonymous source that the Vanderhorst house at 55 Tradd Street—the setting for the sordid story behind the book—will be used for filming, to give the movie an authentic flair and the all-important nod from the Charleston establishment. And, with the appearance of new yellow caution tape in the back of the property, who knows what else might be discovered and used for fodder for a sequel? The house is supposedly haunted, so this could get interesting. Boo! Stay tuned to this column for further updates.
My hand was shaking as I slid the paper back to Jack. “Well, those Hollywood people have another think coming if they think for one second I’m going to open up the door to my home to let them film a movie about a book my husbanddidn’twrite. And thenerveof that reporter to assume that it will happen, without even asking us!”
Jack cleared his throat as if to remind me that Ms. Dorf had, indeed, tried to talk to me, but I ignored him. “Have you heard from Marc about this?” I drew back, horrified at the direction of my thoughts. “Or Rebecca? She forced us to give them an engagement party. Surely that doesn’t give them the right to assume...” I stopped when I caught sight of his expression. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re so sexy when you’re angry.”
I blinked a few times. “Stop distracting me. I—we—have every right to be angry. Why aren’t you taking this as seriously as I am?”
He reached over and took hold of my hand again. “Have you ever considered how long it’s going to take for us to get back on our feet financially and pay Nola back? She refuses to call it a loan, but I don’t think we’ve ever considered it anything else.”
I stared at him for a long moment, sure I misunderstood. “Jack, surely you can’t...” I was interrupted by my phone ringing. Jack stared at it, noticing the number without a name, then met my gaze. “Did you change your ring tone? I was kind of getting used toMamma Mia.”
I shook my head as I hit the red button to end the call. “No. I have no idea where this ring tone came from. Or who’s calling. They’ve called a bunch of times, but I don’t recognize the number and they never leave a message—well, only once. They didn’t say anything—just a bunch of odd noises.” I gave an involuntary shudder, remembering the sound of prying wood and a tinny note vibrating in the empty air.
