Page 4 of The Guests on South Battery
I found myself relaxing for the first time that morning. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Jolly.” I turned toward the corridor that led to the small offices and cubicles of the various agents. I supposed I should have been grateful that Mr. Henderson had allowed me to keep myoffice, a perk to only the top-selling agents. I hoped that meant he was confident I’d be at the top of the leaderboard soon, assuming that I’d be given a name tag.
“Melanie?”
I paused and faced the new receptionist. “Yes, Jolly?”
“Since we’re going to be working together, there’s something you should know about me.” She paused, her blue-painted fingernails playing with the dragonfly pin. “I’m a psychic. I do readings for people at fairs and festivals on the weekends, but since we’re going to be coworkers, I’ll give you a discount if you’re interested in a reading. Just let me know.”
My earlier optimism quickly evaporated. I wasn’t exactly sure how I should respond, so I just smiled and nodded, then made my way back to my office.
Jayne—with a Y—had her back toward me when I reached the door. She faced the credenza, where she was carefully organizing my magazines and journals, making sure that each was spaced apart the same distance, and that the edges lined up in a perfect parallel to the edge of the furniture. I frowned. They might be out-of-date, considering I hadn’t been into the office in a long time, but I always kept them tidy, organized by date, and with the title and issue of each volume clearly visible. And I’d left strict instructions that they weren’t to be disturbed in my absence. I found it vaguely annoying that she’d mess with my magazines, and wondered if she might be nervous.
“Good morning,” I said as I placed my bag and pink slips on the top of the desk.
The woman turned and smiled, then held out her hand to me. “Hello,” she said, shaking my hand in a firm grasp. “I’m Jayne Smith.” Her accent was definitely Southern, but not Charlestonian. Her hand felt bony, matching her thin wrists. And the rest of her body I noticed as I stepped back. The woman looked practically emaciated despite the fact that there were distinctive powdered sugar crumbs on her upper lip.
“Melanie Trenholm,” I said, trying to ignore the crumbs, butwondering how I could let her know without any awkwardness. When I dropped my hand I surreptitiously flicked my index finger over my own lip. Her green eyes widened in understanding as she reached into her purse and, after removing several candy bar wrappers, found a napkin to wipe her mouth.
“I guess that’s what I get for giving in to temptation,” she said. “There’s this wonderful bakery down the street—Ruth’s Bakery, I think—and I could smell the doughnuts from the sidewalk. I’ve never been able to turn down sugar.”
My own smile faltered as I thought about my ex-favorite bakery, imagining I could smell the sweet aroma of baking doughnuts. Feeling more than a little bit hurt, I reached for the paper bag from Ruth’s and dropped it in the wastebasket, then resisted the urge to ask Jayne for her candy wrappers to throw away so I could bury my nose in them later.
I indicated for Jayne to take the seat in front of my desk while I sat down across from her. She was younger than me, early thirties, I thought, and her hair was blond—dyed—but her eyebrows were dark. She was attractive in an all-American way, with long legs and a wide smile. Despite her thinness, she had the kind of chest I’d always wanted yet had attained only when I was pregnant and nursing. Or wearing a padded bra. My breasts were still bigger than they had been, but had somehow managed to migrate to new positions on my chest since the children were born.
“I’m sorry to just drop in. I can reschedule if you have other appointments,” Jayne said.
I was about to pretend to check my calendars when I paused. There was something oddly familiar about her smile, and the way the light through the office window lightened her eyes to a pale green.
“Have we met before?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Probably not. I’ve never been to Charleston before. Never been much farther than Birmingham before now, actually.” She smiled again, but the light behind her eyes had dimmed somewhat. “I think I have one of those faces that look like a lot of other people’s.”
“That must be it,” I said.
The sound of magazines slipping off the credenza and slapping against one another as they hit the floor had us both jumping from our chairs. Jayne quickly moved to pick them up, stacking them as neatly as they’d been before. “I must have put these too near the edge.”
“Oh, okay.” But they hadn’t been. They had been five inches from the edge, and there was no way they could have slid on their own. I frowned. There was another presence in the room, someone I couldn’t see and could barely feel. Not even a shadow, or a shimmer of light. I could tell that whoever it waswantedme to see them, but something was preventing me. I could almost see a curtain that had been pulled across my sixth sense, forcing me to use only the five senses everybody else had.
I sat down suddenly, confused and irritated.Iwanted to call the shots regarding my inherited ability or disability—depending on how I was feeling about it at any given time—and something I couldn’t understand was blocking me. I recalled how during my pregnancy my ability to see dead people had disappeared and how I’d found myself oddly missing it. I couldn’t help wondering whether motherhood had somehow had the same effect. Maybe that was the reason I’d been undisturbed for so long. Maybe.
Jayne returned to her seat and smiled, but there was something different about her expression. Like a painting where the artist was still a few brushstrokes away from completion. “I’m looking for a Realtor. And when I was walking by the agency this morning, I felt compelled to stop. I saw your photo in the window and you looked...”
She paused, not sure I wanted to hear what she had to say. I was notoriously unphotogenic, as my driver’s license photo could attest. I had visions of it pinned to a bulletin board in the DMV’s break room as an example of their best work.
“Approachable,” she finished. “Like you’d understand what it was I needed.”
Feeling pleased and not a little relieved, I pulled out a notepad and pencil and regarded her. “So, what can I help you with?”
“I need to sell a house. And buy a new one.”
“I only work in Charleston. So if you have a house in Birmingham to sell...”
She shook her head. “I’ve inherited a house, here in Charleston. It’s an old house—I’ve walked by it a few times. I want to sell it and buy a new one.”
I sat back, not completely understanding. “Have you been inside the house?”
“No. I don’t need to. I don’t like old houses as a rule, so there’s no reason for me to go inside.”
I stared at her. “You don’t like old houses?”
