Page 36 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes. You and I were only children growing up so it didn’t matter, but I want to make sure I’m always fair.”
“But...”
I reached for the labeling gun. “And if you argue with me, it’s not therapeutic anymore, okay?”
“All right, all right.” He began twisting the disk to the number one. “I just got off the phone with Harvey Beckner’s lawyer.”
My throat tightened. “And?”
“And Beckner is apparently okay with forgiveness and a fat check from our insurance company in exchange for the rights to film in our house. In a surprising move, he also said he would still pay us the going rate for the use of the house. Which is a good thing since I won’t see a penny of income for at least a year except for straggling royalties for my older books.”
I looked over at Jack, clicking the trigger on the labeling gun with more force than required, lost in his thoughts. “I guess we’re supposed to feel grateful, but I can’t help but believe there’s another shoe somewhere waiting to drop.”
Our gazes met before he returned to the labeling gun.
“How’s Nola doing?” I asked, eager to change the topic. Jack had knocked on Nola’s door as I was leaving after the Christmas movie marathon, just as Rebecca called to let me know that both Marc and Harvey had been released from the hospital with only a few stitches. It was another thing for which I should be grateful, but I just couldn’t manage.
Rebecca had started to say that maybe things were going to work out for the best after all, but I’d hung up on her before I could say that things working out for the best would be that the accident had rendered Marc sterile so that he couldn’t spawn little Marcs.
“Nola’s pretty shaken up,” Jack said. “We’re really fortunate that no one was killed or seriously hurt. I don’t think she will ever voluntarily get behind the wheel of a car for the rest of her life. She told me that all she wants for Christmas is a prepaid Uber account.”
I leaned over to my open laptop, where the Christmas spreadsheet was displayed on the screen, before typing “Uber gift card”under Nola’s name. “I can’t say I blame her. I once rear-ended a CARTA bus on Meeting Street because I’d been distracted by the cutest pair of shoes worn by a woman on the sidewalk—so it technically wasn’t my fault, but it took me weeks to be comfortable behind the wheel again.”
Jack blinked at me a few times without saying anything before returning to his labeling.
“Louisa was there,” I said softly.
“Louisa Vanderhorst? I thought she’d gone to the light, or wherever it is you send restless spirits.”
“She did. But she comes back whenever she thinks she needs to protect us. I saw her and smelled the Louisa roses. I’ve actually been smelling them a lot lately. As if she knows something we don’t.”
Jack frowned. “It would be helpful if she could be a little more specific. We might have seen this whole fiasco coming.” Before I could explain to him that it didn’t work that way, he continued. “They’ve suspended Nola’s driving permit, so her not wanting to drive isn’t really an issue right now anyway. She was definitely at fault since she was the one apparently speeding backward out of the driveway when Marc drove past, so the fine will be pretty hefty. She and I both agreed that it will come from her royalties from the Apple song commercial,” he said, referring to her extracurricular hobby of writing music for other artists and for the occasional jingle. It’s what had saved our Tradd Street house once before.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to confront the elephant in the room. “So, that’s it, then? They’ll bring their film crews in and we won’t lose the house, right?”
Jack put down the labeling gun and turned to me. “Do you remember what I told you outside in the garden on the day we were married?”
I nodded. “About how you wanted to live here for the rest of your life and see your children grow up here?”
“Yes. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You and me, our family, here. And I cannot—willnot—allow Marc Longo to take it all away from us. I’d rather die than see that happen.”
I grasped his hands. I had a sudden flashback of Rebecca telling me about her dream. Of an unknown man burying Jack alive. “Don’t say that, Jack. Don’t ever say that.”
His lips twitched in a small grimace. “It’s not that we couldn’t continue our relationship, you know.”
“Jack...” I said with warning.
“Yes, they’re going to film Marc’s movie in our house,” he said grimly. “We don’t have much choice. In the meantime, I’ve rescheduled our meeting with Yvonne for tomorrow. We’re going to dig through every piece of paper and we will find something. I know we will. I’ve sent a copy of the mausoleum drawings to an architect friend of mine, Steve Dungan, to look at to see if there’s something I can’t see with my untrained eye. There’s a different date at the bottom of each one, so I’m hoping he can compare them and tell us what’s different, maybe explain why the first one was built and then rebuilt only two years later.” He squeezed my hands. “We’re a good team, Mellie. If we work together, we can’t lose. In the meantime, we’ll pretend our tails are between our legs and we’ve given up.” He reached his hand behind my neck and gently drew me toward him. “Two can play this game, and things are about to get dirty.”
I kissed him, but my thoughts remained on Rebecca’s dream as an icy chill skittered across my skin like someone walking across my grave.
CHAPTER 14
I loved the way Charleston dressed up for the holidays. From the light-bedecked spans of the Ravenel Bridge and the wrapped trunks and fronds of the palmetto trees in Marion Square to the streetlights on King Street masquerading as gentlemen sporting wreaths with red bows around their necks, nothing put me in the spirit of Christmas more than walking through the streets of my city. I always waited with a child’s anticipation for the giant Santa hat to be placed on top of the turret of the house on the corner of Tradd and Meeting Streets. But as Jack and I drove to our appointment with Yvonne downtown, I barely noticed the red bows and greenery sprouting from most doors and iron gates. I was much too preoccupied with spirits other than the Christmas kind.
As usual, Jack had no problem finding parking near the Addlestone Library on the College of Charleston campus, where the South Carolina Historical Society archives were now housed. Yvonne Craig, long past retirement age, had turned down incentives to retire and instead had moved the few miles to the new location along with her precious documents. When she’d announced her decision, Jack had told her that she was one of the most important treasures found in the archives, andfollowed the compliment with a kiss on her soft pink cheek. I’d thought she might pass out.
