Page 20 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“Good heavens,” Greco said, coming to a full stop when he spotted the dog. “Do you do that to everyone who offends you?”
I was a little resentful that he addressed his question to me.
I frowned and Jack came to my rescue. “That’s General Lee. He’s just had his little procedure.”
General Lee moved his head long enough to give us a deep, soulful look before resuming his examination of the wall paint.
“Poor little guy,” Greco said. “I’d pet him, but I get the feeling he’d rather be alone right now.”
Jack nodded. “He’s holding up well, under the circumstances, but he keeps shooting me warning glances not to get in the car with Mellie and allow her in the driver’s seat.”
Greco raised his eyebrows but, being an apparently intelligent man, kept silent.
After he declined my offer of refreshments, I led the way up the stairs while he took his time eyeing the foyer with obvious appreciation. “So,” Greco said as we walked, “have you met with any other designers?”
Jack coughed. “Only about a dozen or two. Mellie is...”
“Particular,” I offered.
“Picky,” Jack said at the same time.
I frowned at Jack. “By ‘picky’ he means that I like things...”
“Her way,” Jack offered. “Besides impeccable taste and the ability to work within a budget, any designer we hire will also need to have some knowledge of psychology—especially obsessive-compulsive disorders.”
My elbow contacted with Jack’s hard stomach, eliciting a satisfyingoomph.
“And probably self-defense,” Jack continued. “It’s a good thing you have a nursing degree—that’s definitely in your favor. Do you know how to use a labeling gun by any chance?”
Turning my back on Jack, I faced Greco. “Ignore him. He’s a writerand lives in a fantasy world most of the time, so you really never know what’s going to come out of his mouth next.”
“Good to know,” the designer said, looking refreshingly unfazed. Several of the other designers I’d interviewed had left before we’d even climbed the stairs, so I took this as a good omen.
The bedroom door was shut, as it had been since we’d moved Nola into the guest room in March, when I’d seen the face in her window and sensed the dark shadow hovering in the upstairs hallway. It was still there, waiting. And watching. I just wasn’t sure for what. Or for how long.
When I’d given the excuse of needing to redecorate Nola’s room to move her out, I’d had the worry of not having the money to spend on a major redo. But I’d been saved by my mother and Amelia agreeing it was a great idea since Nola was a young woman now and her bedroom should reflect her growing maturity. They’d been so enthusiastic that they’d decided to split the cost as a Christmas gift to Nola.
“So,” I said, turning around to face the two men. “This is Nola’s room. She just started her junior year at Ashley Hall and we’d like to give her a room that not only reflects her eclectic tastes for her to enjoy now, but will be a warm and comfortable retreat to come home to once she starts college.”
We stood smiling at each other in the hallway for a long moment before Jack coughed. “Maybe we should go inside and take a look?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I put my hand on the doorknob and turned. Nothing happened.
“Is it locked?” Jack asked, stepping in front of me to try.
“I hope not,” I said, “since there’s only one key and it’s usually kept on the inside of the door.” Our eyes met in mutual understanding.
Greco chimed in. “These old houses usually have a skeleton key. Maybe your housekeeper knows where it is?”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but I don’t think it’s locked. It’s just... stuck.”
Jack tried turning the knob again, pushing hard against the door with the side of his body. I could see it give, the outline of light peekingout from around the frame. It definitely wasn’t locked, then. But something was holding it closed from the other side.
The front door downstairs opened and closed. “Hello?” Nola called. “Anyone home?” I bit my lip, not wanting her to see the struggle and understand the reason for it. I heard the sound of her book bag being dropped at the bottom of the stairs—I needed to talk to her about that again—and then her feet running up the stairs, and knew I was too late to stop her.
“Need help?” she asked, moving toward her bedroom.
“It’s all right...” I began, but she’d already squeezed in front of Jack, assessed the situation, and turned the knob. The door swung open. We stood staring into the space, unsure of what to say.
