Page 73 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
She closed her eyes. “Well, like I said, he had dark hair, which I could see because he wasn’t wearing a hat. And his clothes were old-fashioned, with those short pants men used to wear that ended at theknees.” Her eyes popped open. “He was holding something, too. I think the first time I saw him, I thought it was a bracelet, but this time I saw it wasn’t a bracelet at all.”
“So what was it?” I pressed.
“Some kind of a bird, I think. With four really big jewels, which was why I thought it was a bracelet at first. But this time I could tell it wasn’t. Maybe a pendant?”
“Or a brooch?” My voice cracked.
“Yes! I think that’s it.” She nodded to emphasize her realization. “And whoever it was must have come from wherever Jack had just been, because he followed Jack out when he left.”
I didn’t mention that Jack had been at home working, or that I knew where the spirit had come from. Nor did I mention that I had no idea why.
“Did you tell Jack about the apparition?”
“Of course.” Jolly chewed on her bottom lip. “Especially because there were some definite unfriendly vibes coming from the man. And when I looked at his face, his eyes were just dark, hollow circles. So I thought Jack should know.” Her expression was sympathetic. “I will admit that Jack seemed a little startled—not everyone expects to hear that they’re being shadowed by an evil spirit.”
I realized my jaw was nearly numb from clenching my teeth. I almost didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice when the words finally tumbled out. “Did the spirit... say anything?”
Jolly’s bright green eyes stared straight into mine. “Ghosts don’t talk, dear. You’ve been watching too many reruns ofGhost Whisperer.” She leaned forward, Christmas bulb earrings swinging. “It’s more of a... mental connection with the spirit. And let me tell you, this was an angry spirit and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear what he was saying. Except...”
“Except?” I prompted.
“Except I felt something beneath his anger. Something that felt a lot like... heartbreak. Not just a broken heart, but asearedheart. Like he was a man who’d been horribly betrayed by someone he’d deeply loved. So I decided to listen to what he was trying to communicate to me.”
The phone rang, startling us both. “One moment,” she said as she answered the phone, then placed the call on hold.
“And?” I asked impatiently.
She pressed her lips together. “I don’t usually use this kind of language....”
“Just tell me, please.”
“I was pretty sure he was trying to say, ‘Traitors deserve to die and rot in hell.’”
Icy fear dripped down my spine as I recalled the same words in my own head at the mausoleum, and then coming from my mother’s mouth in Nola’s bedroom. I swallowed. “Was that all?”
She paused, then shook her head. “No. There was a name, too. But I got the impression that he was thinking it was Jack’s name, except it wasn’t.”
“What was the name?”
Jolly’s green eyes widened. “I’m pretty sure it was Alexander.”
There was only one Alexander I knew. Alexander Monroe. The name on one of the crypts in the mausoleum. The British soldier billeted at Gallen Hall during the occupation of Charleston.
“Hmm,” I said, pretending that the name didn’t mean anything. “Very interesting. And you told all this to Jack?”
“Yes, of course. I assumed he would mention it to you, although he did say you were under a lot of stress right now with the holidays and the film crew in your house and getting ready for the progressive dinner. Jack said you’re hosting twenty-four couples for the main course? And all on top of you having two little ones and a teenager and a full-time job. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.” She gave me a sympathetic smile. “That Jack is such a wonderful husband—so compassionate and caring. That’s probably why he didn’t bring it up. It’s not an emergency or anything. I mean, it’s not like ghosts can hurt you, right?”
I stared at her for a moment without comment. “Right,” I said noncommittally. “Well, thanks for letting me know. And for these.” I held up the pink message slips. Walking back to my office, I was left to wonder why Jack hadn’t mentioned any of it to me. As I closed my officedoor, I felt a small surge of anger. It might be petty, but feeling left out was the one thing I couldn’t live with and that always made me revert to the old Mellie. Even with that knowledge, the hurt didn’t dissipate, making me decide that when Jack was ready to share what Jolly had just told me, I’d tell him about the bees in Nola’s bedroom and what had happened when my mother touched the bedpost.
I hung up my coat on the coatrack, buttoning it up to the collar and checking the pockets even though I’d just checked them before I’d left the house. It was an old habit, started when I was a young girl taking care of my alcoholic father, checking his pockets for flasks or small bottles so I could destroy them before he remembered where they were. It was the kind of old habit that was difficult to break. Along with drawer labeling so my father didn’t have to struggle in the morning picking between black and navy socks.
When Jack laughed at some of my quirks, I sometimes had the urge to explain why I did these things. But then I’d have to explain to him why I still did, even after all these years of my father being sober. If only I knew the answer, then maybe I could stop.
I moved to the Keurig machine—a birthday gift from Jack—on my credenza and was selecting which flavored coffee I wanted from the rack of alphabetized K-Cups when a flash of red caught my attention. Keeping my body still, I shifted my gaze toward my desk and froze. The heart-shaped red pillow that I’d taken from Veronica’s attic sat on my chair, propped up so I couldn’t help but notice it.
Putting down my coffee mug, I walked over and picked up the pillow, thinking—hoping—it was a different one. But because of how things worked in my neck of the woods, I knew hoping was a lot like planning on putting out a forest fire with a single puff of breath. I studied the pillow, noticing the neat hand-stitched seams along the ruffled edge, the nubby red material that appeared as new and vibrant as it probably had thirty years before. I brought it to my face and sniffed, recognizing the faint scent of Vanilla Musk perfume.
I pressed the intercom button on my desk phone and waited for Jolly to pick up. “Jolly, has anyone been in my office since I left it yesterday?”
