Page 10 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
When I walked in the front door after work, the smell of Mrs. Houlihan’s Christmas cookies baking in the oven wafted from the kitchen, drawing me to the room like a cat to catnip. Or a dog to, well, baking cookies, since General Lee, Porgy, and Bess were all camped out in front of the kitchen door, gazing at the solid wood surface as if just the weight of their stares might open it.
It was still November, but Mrs. Houlihan insisted on stuffing the freezers with sugary holiday treats way in advance of any Christmas company we might have. I personally thought she did it to torment me, especially because only she and Jack had the keys to the large freezer in the carriage house and it was always locked. I knew because I checked. Daily.
I joined the dogs in their vigil, holding my breath to listen for any signs of movement from the other side of the door. I’d recently been banned from the kitchen while my housekeeper, Mrs. Houlihan—inherited along with General Lee and the house—did her Christmas baking, following the infamous cookie-cutting incident in which I was showing the children how to use cute winter shapes on the rolled-out cookie dough. I’d been eating all the leftover dough to make cleanupeasier, ensuring the children didn’t see me because Jayne said raw dough wasn’t good for them. I’d eaten raw dough my entire life without issue, so I was sure Jayne’s ban hadn’t included me.
Mrs. Houlihan had been upset when she discovered she didn’t have enough dough for a second batch and gave me a warning, not seeming to care that I was hungry or sugar deprived—or that I paid her salary. When her stash of red and green M&M’S, which were supposed to be the snowmen’s buttons, mysteriously disappeared, she threatened to quit if I didn’t leave, and I had no choice but to exit the kitchen in defeat. Even the twins had watched my departure with what looked like disappointment in their eyes.
Pressing my ear against the door, I could hear Mrs. Houlihan bustling about inside. With a sigh, I turned to the dogs. “Sorry. We’ll have to wait until she leaves, and then I promise to sneak us something to sample.”
“I heard that!” Mrs. Houlihan called out from the other side of the door. “Just be aware that one of my pies and three dozen of the cookies were made from recipes Dr. Wallen-Arasi gave me with all vegan, gluten-free, and sugar-free ingredients. And I’m not going to tell you which ones they are.”
I found my mouth puckering with the memory of some of Sophie’s culinary recommendations and gave an involuntary shudder. I squatted to scratch behind three sets of furry ears. “Don’t worry. I promise to stop by Woof Gang Bakery tomorrow and bring you home something tasty.”
They resumed their vigil as I carefully hung up my coat in the small cloak closet. It took me longer than it should have because no one had buttoned and zipped up their coats or hung them all in the same direction, so I had to fix them. I made a mental note to bring it up with Nola and Jack during dinner. I was halfway to the stairs to head up to the nursery when I heard JJ’s squealing laughter followed by Jack’s deep-chested chuckle coming from behind me. I followed the sound toward Jack’s closed office door, then carefully opened it before thrusting my head into the opening.
Jack’s computer screen was dark, and he was lying faceup on the rug in front of his desk, JJ sitting on top of his chest. They both wore cowboy hats, Jack’s stuck under his head on the floor, and Jack was bouncing his son up and down in a good imitation of the movement of a horse. All my insides melted as I watched them, wondering what I’d done to be so lucky. Not once during my own difficult childhood had I imagined this life. But now that it was mine, I clung to it with both hands like a squirrel in a hurricane might cling to a palmetto trunk.
My gaze slid to the corner of the room where Sarah sat in a shaft of sunlight, waving her hands and babbling as if in conversation. Which she was, I realized, although I couldn’t see anyone. But I could smell the faint scent of roses, the telltale indicator that Louisa Vanderhorst, former resident of the house and planter of the Louisa roses in our garden, was nearby. Although she was a gentle maternal spirit, and one who only periodically visited, I felt a small shock of alarm. Because Louisa stopped by only when she felt we needed her protection.
I turned back to a now hatless Jack, who’d sat up and placed JJ in his lap. “Where’s Jayne?” I asked, bending down to kiss Jack on the lips, then loudly blow a raspberry on JJ’s cheek before swooping up Sarah into my arms. She smiled at me, her blue eyes bright and sparkling as she kissed my nose, then turned to wave her pudgy fingers at the empty corner.
“I sent her home.” Jack didn’t meet my eyes as he stood, intently focusing on lifting JJ onto his shoulders.
“You sent her home? But I thought you said you needed as many writing hours as you could get to turn your book in by the deadline.”
“Did I?” he asked, starting to trot around the room, JJ’s giggles bursting from his tiny chest like bubbles.
I almost allowed myself to let it go. Not to let harsh realities intrude on this sweet family moment. To pretend that I didn’t know that my husband had heard bad news and had chosen not to share it with me. But if there was ever a moment when I needed to be the new Melanie I was intent on becoming, this had to be it.
“Jack,” I began, ready to tell him about my conversation withAnthony, my run-in with Marc, and Rebecca’s dreams—and maybe even the unwanted visitors I’d seen in the house.
“Mellie,” Jack said at the same time, preempting me. Despite my good intentions, I was completely happy to let him go first. I smiled encouragingly at him, trying not to be obvious that I was holding my breath.
“My editor was let go. Patrick took a huge chance on me and was my main advocate at the publishing house, so it’s a little devastating. They’ve assigned me to one of the newer editors—a young woman not much older than Nola, I think. Her name is Desmarae.” He grinned, but it was a poorly executed replica of his usual smile. “Not that being so young is necessarily a bad thing, but she admitted when we spoke on the phone that she’d not only never read any of my books, but she also had no idea who I was when they assigned her to me.”
My heart burned at the indignation. “Then I guess she’s been living under a rock.” Forcing a bright smile, I said, “You still have your awesome agent, who believes in you almost as much as I do.”
He didn’t even try to force a smile this time. “Desmarae did say she loved my author photo on the back of my last book.”
I remembered that picture. It was what had convinced me to go out with him. I tried not to think of another woman looking at the picture and having the same thoughts I did. I cleared my throat. “So you still have a contract and a book deadline.”
“Affirmative,” he said, jostling JJ on his shoulders and making our son squeal with delight.
“Then why would you let Jayne go home early? So you could wallow in self-doubt?”
He stared back at me for a long moment. “Yeah, probably.” He slid JJ from his shoulders and handed him to me.
“I’m going to feed and bathe the children and get them ready for bed while you write. Do not leave this room until you have finished at least three more pages. I’ll have a little surprise waiting for you when you’re done.” I gave him our special look to show him just what kind of a surprise I had in mind, hoping, as I said it, that it wasn’t Nola’s turn to host her study group at our house that night.
Not that it would matter, I thought as Jack’s face became serious and he returned to his desk chair.
“I can always try. It will probably all be crap because my brain’s not in it right now, but writing is rewriting, as my ex-editor used to say.” He jiggled the wireless mouse on his desk, and his computer screen came to life. He read the lines on the screen, his brows squeezed together in concentration.
With a child in each arm, I began to back out of the room, apparently already forgotten.
“What were you about to say—before, when I interrupted you?” Jack kept his fingers poised over his keyboard but turned around to face me.
“Nothing important.” I smiled, and he began typing. I could still hear the clacking of his fingers on the keyboard as I began to nudge the door behind us with my foot.
