Page 31 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“How far did you have to run to get away from the clown once you took his clothes?” I asked, grabbing two more oranges, trying not to shudder at the unevenly spaced cloves.
Sophie picked up some pomegranates and began laying them out on the table to count. “The photo session was that bad, huh? Guess you won’t end up on the cover ofParentsmagazine now.”
“Better than being on the cover ofCircus Life,” I said under my breath. Louder, I said, “It was awful, if you must know. We ended up taking the photo in Waterfront Park near the Pineapple Fountain so we wouldn’t catch any dead people in the pictures, and because it was cold outside, we all wore our coats, which hid our mismatched outfits—JJ and the dogs refused to wear their Christmas clothes, and it was a disaster. Taking the photos outside was a stroke of genius on my part.”
“A true disaster,” Sophie said. “I don’t know how you manage. You’re a real survivor, Melanie.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not, and I didn’t get the chance to ask her before she bent over one of the boxes with the fake boxwood branches I’d found at a wholesale club for ninety-nine cents per branch. She pulled out a bunch and raised it to her face and gave it a big sniff before turning back to me. “Melanie!”
“Don’t they look real?” I asked enthusiastically. “By the way, did Itell you that I have an appointment at the historical archives to return old Vanderhorst letters that someone tried to throw away?”
She threw the branches on a table, my transgression temporarily forgotten. “Really? Who tossed them?”
“Marc Longo. He stole them from the archives. And then, instead of returning them, he just tossed them. Luckily, his brother found them and gave them to Jack and me to look through.”
Her eyes narrowed. “There’s a special corner of hell for monsters like that. Anything important in them?”
“I don’t know. Jayne texted me while I was doing a little Christmas shopping just now to let me know Anthony had dropped them off. I asked her to leave them on Jack’s desk to go through first as a sort of apology.”
“Why were you apologizing?” She held up her hand to stop me from responding. “Let me guess—you labeled all of his drawers again with color-coded labels.”
She looked up, waiting for me to respond. When I didn’t she said, “Then you organized his desk the way you would organize your own without any thought to how he would want it?”
I kept silent and watched as her eyes widened. “Oh, no, Melanie. Did you try to keep something from him again?”
I turned away from her, finally giving in to the urge to pick up one of the oranges and fix it. “I really screwed up. I feel like a complete failure as a wife.”
She was silent for a moment, and I felt her gaze on me. “Melanie.” I looked up at the soft tone of her voice.
“You’re not a failure, okay? Quirky, sure. Insecure? Yeah, most of the time. But you’re a pretty great person all around. You’re a great mother and a terrific friend. Remember how you watched Blue Skye when both Chad and I had the flu even though you already had a full plate? You didn’t even think twice. And despite what you might think, you’re a great wife, too. You and Jack were really made for each other, like Chad and me. Like peas in a pod.” She smiled. “Organic, of course.”
Even I had to return her smile at that.
She continued. “But you need to remember that marriage isn’t something you walk into knowing what to do. It’s a learning process. So, yeah, you made a mistake. Just say you’re sorry and that you’ll try harder, and then move on.”
“So you think I need to apologize?”
She gave me a look that didn’t need any words.
“Okay. I get it. And thanks.” I stared at her for a long moment. “Although I find it hard to listen to you when you’re dressed like that.”
“Forget what I said about you being a terrific friend. So,” she said. “What didn’t you tell him?”
I replaced the orange, then blew into my hands to warm them before emptying a box of pomegranates. “Just about the apparition I’ve seen in Nola’s room. And the dark presence I’ve been sensing in the upstairs hallway that may or not be related to the strange man without eyes that I’ve seen at the cistern.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What strange man?”
“I didn’t ask his name, but he’s wearing old-fashioned clothing and holding a piece of jewelry. Like a bracelet or something with different- colored stones.”
“What kind of old-fashioned clothes?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know—old.”
She took a deep breath. “Was he wearing pants or knee breeches?”
I thought back, trying to remember an image I’d been desperately trying to forget. “Breeches. Definitely breeches.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “What kind of shirt?”
