Page 54 of The Guests on South Battery
Mrs. Houlihan had stayed to help with the little party, and was busy passing around the trays of food and napkins while Jack tended the bar, making a point of giving the boys glasses of ice water even if they asked for a Coke or lemonade, as if caffeine and sugar might affect their judgment.
Nola had forbidden me from taking photos, but this would have been unnecessary anyway, judging by the number of cell phone photos and selfies that were being snapped. I’d ask Nola to curate hers and forward them on to me. When I’d realized that she didn’t have any baby or early childhood photos, it had become my mission to document every moment of her life since she’d come to live with us, as if that could make up for all her early years. I was hoping to give her a scrapbook album as part of her high school graduation gift. It was my little secret, which was hard to keep when Jack and Nola both teased me for my excessive photo taking at every family and school event.
I found myself standing alone with Michael, Lindsey’s father. He didn’t strike me as being overly shy, but I saw that he kept to himself, smiling and nodding while in a group, then slowly extricating himself with an excuse for food or drink. He never rejoined the people he’dbeen speaking with, preferring instead to stand by himself, wearing what I would almost call a look of smug satisfaction. He seemed to have an excessive fascination with the furniture and artwork in the room. He’d paused by the grandfather clock when I joined him.
“These old clocks never work, do they?” he said dismissively.
“Actually, this clock has been keeping perfect time for almost two centuries. It’s only recently that we’ve begun to have issues with it.” I wanted to tell him that it also had an ingenious hidden compartment where Confederate diamonds had once been hidden, but I had the perverse need to deprive him of the knowledge.
He looked doubtful, as if I were lying to him. “I can hear it ticking, and the pendulum is moving, but the hands are stuck. Seems like a permanent disability to me.”
“It’s not,” I said, smiling, wondering why this man seemed to rub me the wrong way.
As if sensing this, he smiled back. “Look, I’m sorry. Antiques are my wife’s thing. I was raised in a small town by a hairdresser and a mechanic. We didn’t live in a trailer home, but our house wasn’t much bigger or sturdier. And we couldn’t drive it anywhere.” He laughed a little and I joined in to be polite.
“Anyway, let’s just say the only antique we had was a sofa my mother got at a garage sale that looked awful and smelled even worse. So when I married into Veronica’s family...” He shrugged as if that explained everything.
And in a way, it did. They lived in a big, beautiful Victorian mansion on Queen Street, and I imagined it had been in Veronica’s family for a while. “So you don’t like antiques?”
“Hate them. Who wants stuff that other people have touched and used before? I swear the house is more like a shrine to dead family members than a house for those of us still living.”
Despite my earlier impression, I was starting to like this man. “Some people say that these old houses and the things that remain inside are our touchstones to the past. A way of keeping history alive.”
He snorted. “More like living in the past so we have an excuse not tomove forward. We’ve only lived there a year—we moved her parents to an assisted-living facility last Christmas and Veronica inherited it—and I’m just amazed at what people are willing to adjust to so they can live in a historic house. I mean, we freeze to death in the winter because to add a whole new HVAC system to the house would ruin its historical integrity. And to get it done ‘the right way’”—he said these last three words using air quotes—“according to Veronica, which would mean getting an architect involved as well as somebody who knows something about historic preservation, would cost a fortune. I say just do it the cheapest way so that we’re not wearing our winter coats inside three months out of the year, and to hell with the Board of Architectural Review.”
In the not-so-distant past, I probably would have high-fived Michael. But I’d suddenly had a vision of what my house might look like now without Sophie’s careful attention to its historical integrity, and it made me a little sad. Not as sad as when I imagined how healthy my bank account would look if Ididn’tlisten to her, but sad nonetheless.
“True,” I said. “But they do serve a purpose, even if they are annoying. The BAR makes sure that our historic district is preserved and not stripped of all its character. Then we’d just be another Atlanta.”
“Is that so bad?” he asked, using his index finger to flick a tassel that hung from the casement key on the clock.
I wouldnottell Sophie that I’d actually uttered words from my own mouth that I’d heard her say time and time again to me. These were usually accepted by me with great derision followed by remarks of how if we became another Atlanta we wouldn’t have to deal with the throngs of tourists. Or cruise ships. “I’m not sure,” I hedged. “I think one could make an argument for both sides.”
I smiled, eager to change the subject before I really dug myself into a hole. I was intrigued by something he’d said about his wife’s home. “Speaking of your wife’s family, I met your late sister-in-law once, so when you mentioned that your house had become a shrine, is that who you were referring to?”
His demeanor shifted to the way he’d been when I first spotted himat the clock, aloof and dismissive. “Partly. There are oil paintings and old photos of pretty much every family member who ever had their likeness captured. It’s ridiculous; it makes those of us who married into the family feel like permanent outsiders. But Adrienne’s room...”
He almost seemed angry and I was ready to change the subject again, but he didn’t seem to want to. “They haven’t changed a thing. Even her makeup is still on the dressing table along with her hairbrush that still has her hair in it. Can you imagine? Her clothes are hanging in her closet, and her rain boots are still in the mudroom. I mean, to lose a child is horrible, but it’s like living with a dead person.”
You have no idea. “I can imagine how difficult that might be for you. But surely you and Veronica will want to redecorate now that you’re living in her family home.”
Michael blew out a puff of air. “You’d think. And actually, that’s what we’d started doing when we discovered Adrienne’s college trunk in the attic. Ever since, Veronica refuses to let anything be changed in case we disturb any lingering evidence. Like there would be after twenty years! I’m getting close to fed up, I guess, which is sort of feeding my dislike of antiques.” He shook his head. “Sorry—it’s just a raw spot for me right now. Didn’t mean to drag you into it.” His smile was ingratiating again, and I found myself warming to him, wondering if we had more in common than he thought.
Veronica approached and tucked her hand into the crook of Michael’s arm and I wondered if I’d imagined him stiffening at her touch. Of course, if there was a long-term argument regarding their current living situation simmering between them, I couldn’t blame him.
“I hope you’re not monopolizing our hostess,” she said, squeezing his arm in either affection or warning, I wasn’t sure.
“Not at all,” I said. “We were just discussing the merits of history and old houses and their places in our lives. Not to mention the costs associated with renovating a historic house. Trust me, I could write a book, but it would have to be shelved with the horror novels.” I’d said it as a joke, but neither one of them laughed.
“Melanie has agreed to help us with Adrienne’s case.”
Michael pulled away. “I thought you said you were consulting a psychic medium.” He looked at me suspiciously.
I sent Veronica a look of warning. “Actually, she consulted with my mother. I happened to be there at the time.”
“Yes, well, just for the record, I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo. If you don’t mind, the less said about it in front of my daughter would be greatly appreciated.”
“You are certainly not alone in that assessment,” I said, thinking of my own father. “And I have no intention of dragging Lindsey into any sort of paranormal investigation my mother may be doing.”
