Page 66 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
I exhaled a deep breath. “Hang on—let me go find out what’s going on with those three Gen Zers.”
“Hey, don’t knock millennials—we’re not all bad!” Meghan looked genuinely upset.
“Sorry,” I called as I walked across the courtyard to where the girls sat at a long table under one of the arched openings, my heels slowing me down as I tiptoed over the dirt in an attempt to save my shoes. I stopped in front of the table, waiting for one of the girls to look up. When no one did, I cleared my throat.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Trenholm,” Lindsey said sweetly. “We didn’t see you standing there.”
“Or the other twenty or so people who are looking for a little guidance here.” I frowned at the three of them, wearing matching black Ashley Hall cardigan sweaters with long-sleeved purple polo shirts, plaid skirts, and black tights. They never intentionally coordinated what color polo or tights they were going to wear, as allowed by the school, but somehow they always ended up looking like fraternal triplets. Personally, I liked that they always matched. Maybe because I was the thwarted mother of twins who preferred things to match but whose efforts were never appreciated.
Nola sat back heavily in her chair. “Sorry. It’s just that Lindsey reminded me this morning that our art history teacher told the class on Thursday that we were having a quiz on Dutch painters on Monday and I forgot to bring my art history book home. It’s going to be a big part of our final exam, too, so we have to know it.”
“I forgot my book, too,” Alton said. “And it’s like ten percent of our grade, so we need all the time we can get to study.”
I glanced down at the thick book with shiny pages and a photograph of a painting of a woman wearing a Dutch cap and a bright blue apron, pouring what looked like milk from a pitcher. I frowned, rememberinghow obsessive I’d been about grades at that age, and even felt a small tug of panic in the pit of my stomach. I glanced at my watch. “You’re supposed to be here for two more hours. How about I relieve you for an hour so you can go study? But only an hour. I’ve got work to do today, too.” I didn’t mention that part of that work would involve solving the photo puzzle on Jayne’s dining room table.
The girls shot up from their seats at once. “Thanks, Melanie,” Nola said, giving me a quick hug. “I’ll dedicate my A in the class to you.”
Nola scooped up the heavy book with both hands, and the three of them took off toward the house. I hoped they were aware that the Aiken-Rhett House was preserved and not restored—a distinction drilled into my head by Sophie—and that there was no furniture they’d be allowed to sit on. I turned away, intent on allowing them to figure it out.
I smelled coffee and turned to find a recyclable cup held in front of me. I smiled up at Veronica and accepted the cup. “Thank you. You must be a mind reader,” I said.
“I needed a coffee break and figured you probably did, too.” She took a sip from her cup. “I wish you’d been here earlier when we had a customer demanding plastic greens for her wreath so that she could keep it up as long as she wanted to without it turning brown. I thought Sophie might have a heart attack.”
I laughed out loud. “I can’t believe I missed that. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I’m moving slowly this morning.”
Veronica nodded. She didn’t say anything, although I could tell by her air of anticipation that she wanted to. I remained silent, sipping my coffee, and waited.
Eventually, she said, “Should I be concerned if the attic door opens on its own all the time now?”
“Are you asking if you think there’s something structurally wrong with your house? I’d say probably not. Although I’m not an expert on that sort of thing.”
“Adrienne’s trying to tell me something, isn’t she?”
I closed my eyes for a moment, smelling the dark coffee and enjoying the warmth on my bare hands. “Probably. Especially if this is something new.”
“It is, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. It started the night Michael said he wanted to put the house on the market.”
I looked at her. “When does he want to do that?”
“After the first of the year.” She met my gaze. “He gave me an ultimatum. Either him or the house. He said if I valued our marriage, I’d sell and allow us to start over.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I’m afraid that if we move out, we’ll lose Adrienne forever. And I’ll never know what really happened to her.”
I stared into my cup, tilting it in my hand and making my reflection swirl on the dark liquid. “I’m crazy right now with all this Christmas stuff and the filming going on at my house—not to mention the excavation in my backyard.”
Veronica’s face fell, and I briefly thought she might cry. “I don’t know what to do.”
I thought for a long moment of the young dancer in the hotel the night before. Of all the times I’d been forced to sing ABBA songs to block out cries for help. I took a deep breath. “I might be able to help you—or at least buy you some time. Why don’t you call my office and set up an appointment with me? I can certainly list your house, just as I can certainly make it go as slowly as possible.” My boss, Dave Henderson, would kill me for hanging on to an unproductive listing, but I couldn’t tell Veronica that I couldn’t help her. Besides, I wasn’t promising that I could find out what Adrienne was trying to tell her. All I was saying was that I could buy her some time.
Veronica grabbed my free hand and squeezed, her eyes moist. “Thank you, Melanie. Thank you so much. I don’t care what Rebecca says about you—I think you’re wonderful.”
I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant, but a group of mothers from the school whom I recognized had approached the table and were already busy chatting to me and asking questions. I drained mycoffee and turned my attention to them, all the while aware of the faint scent of Vanilla Musk perfume and the ribbon of icy air that caressed my cheek, leaving no doubt that the new activity in Veronica’s attic had nothing to do with coincidence.
CHAPTER 23
I woke up to a single ring of the landline telephone that was no longer plugged in but remained on my bedside table for occasions like this. I sat up quickly, not wanting to disturb General Lee or Jack, and held the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”
The snap and crackle of empty space filled my ear. I pressed the phone closer, hoping to hear my grandmother’s voice. She’d been dead for years, but she still preferred the phone to communicate with me. And only when she thought I might be in trouble. “Grandmother?” I whispered into the receiver, my stomach feeling as if multiple rubber bands were wrapped tightly around it. My greeting was met only with the electric sizzle of an ancient telephone line that shouldn’t be making any noise at all.
“Grandmother?” I said again, still straining to hear. I waited for another moment, then slowly pulled the receiver away from my ear but stopped; the sound was as strident as a baby bird’s cry, beaming its way to me as if from another galaxy.
