Page 10 of The Attic on Queen Street
I sent her a withering glance. “Jayne said to start small, with manageable goals.”
She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of thick greenish juice and took a swig. I didn’t remind her that in this house we used glasses, because nobody in their right mind would want to drink any of her concoction anyway. “Then go ahead and add ‘breathe’ to the list. And ‘reorganize something that’s already been organized ten times.’ ”
“Aren’t you going to be late for school?”
She flung open the pantry door and took out a breakfast bar. She peeled off the paper of what looked to be a small dirt brick and took a bite. “Mrs.Ravenel is doing car pool again and she’s always late, so I’ve got a good ten to fifteen minutes.” She indicated the laptop again with her chin. “Does that have anything to do with my dad?”
I had to remind myself that not only was she just sixteen going on seventeen, but that Jack was her father. “Sort of,” I admitted.
She slid into a chair across the table from me and I tried not to gag at the smell of the dirt bar she seemed to be enjoying. “You know, Melanie, I don’t think that whether or not you exercise or get dressed matters to Dad. He loves you—warts and all. He even thinks it’s pretty cool that you talk to dead people and that Sarah seems to have inherited it from you.” She chewed thoughtfully. “I think the issue isn’t reorganizing his desk drawer without asking or labeling his closet shelves. It’s more that even though you’re married, you still think like you’re on your own. That he’s not your partner in all things. That you’re so afraid of being told no that instead of discussing it, you go off and do your own thing regardless of the consequences.”
I looked at her, ready to argue that she was wrong, because what I did had never been meant to result in subterfuge or outright lying; my motivation had been to protect Jack and others I loved. But I couldn’t find the right words to refute what she’d just said. Maybe I just needed more coffee.
Instead, I said, “Did you come up with that on your own?”
She shook her head as she slid out her chair and stood. “Nope. I overheard a conversation between Dad and my grandparents. That’s pretty much verbatim.” She smiled, then took another bite of her breakfast bar.
“Are you working after school today? I can pick you up and drive you home so your grandfather doesn’t have to.”
She’d been helping my in-laws for a few hours each week at Trenholm Antiques since the previous summer with managing the website, working the cash register, and learning about the business and antiques. Ever since she’d been given an antique doll house—not the best choice, aswe’d learned—Nola had been morbidly fascinated with anything that had been owned by people who no longer walked the earth.
I, of course, didn’t share this fascination, but as soon as Jack agreed that she was old enough for a part-time job, Nola had begun working for her grandparents and seemed to enjoy it almost as much as she enjoyed writing music. At least until recently, when a new hire, apparently a bossy and arrogant—according to Nola—man, had been brought on to help with the heavy lifting as well as to help manage the store. My in-laws had decided to travel more, scouting for antiques across the globe while at the same time being the tourists they’d never allowed themselves to be. They insisted they weren’t ready for retirement, so this would be the best of both worlds.
I wasn’t sure if Nola’s issue was with taking direction from a stranger in a place where she’d been allowed free rein ever since she’d arrived in Charleston or something else entirely. I hadn’t mentioned it to Amelia, hoping Nola’s disgruntlement would settle itself without parental intervention.
Nola sighed. “Not until Saturday. Lord Voldemort decided it would be more productive if I worked only weekends.”
I wanted to ask her more, but her attention was distracted by the window behind me that faced the wrecked garden. “Dr.Wallen-Arasi is here. And... oh, crap.”
I closed my laptop and stood, wondering at her reaction. I reached the door before Sophie could knock and excite the dogs, and I opened it so she and her companion could enter the kitchen. The chilly bite of early-morning air hit me and I slammed the door shut as quickly as possible.
“Good morning,” Sophie said cheerfully as she unwrapped a rainbow-striped knit scarf from around her neck. It matched the footie socks she wore with her Birkenstocks and the beanie cap on her head. I didn’t ask for her coat because I hadn’t had enough coffee yet to face whatever outfit was hiding beneath it.
“I brought someone I’d like you to meet because I think you’re going to be seeing quite a lot of him going forward.”
I dragged my eyes away from the footie socks to look at hercompanion for the first time. He was young—just a little older than Nola—and very tall, at least six foot three, with blond hair that was probably light brown when not in the sun, and café au lait–colored eyes. His suntanned face and hands told me that he spent a lot of time outside.
“Beau, this is my friend Melanie Trenholm I’ve been telling you about.”
“Beau Ryan,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, ma’am.”
If I couldn’t tell from his accent that he was Southern, the “ma’am” would have been a dead giveaway. He had a nice, firm grasp, which I appreciated, but the “ma’am” thing needed to be dropped immediately or I’d feel the need to learn how to knit.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Beau. But please, call me Melanie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a bright smile, showing even white teeth.
I squeezed his hand a little harder than necessary before stepping back. “And this is my stepdaughter, Nola.”
Nola stayed where she was, regarding the newcomer with narrowed eyes that made her look even more like Jack. Crossing her arms to make it clear she wasn’t going to be shaking any hands, she said, “We’ve met. He’s the new guy working at Trenholm Antiques.”
I mouthed the words “Lord Voldemort,” then looked back at Beau. From Nola’s descriptions of the new hire, I’d pictured a balding, paunchy, and middle-aged imbecile who couldn’t tell the difference between Chippendale and IKEA.
“Beau is in his second year at the American College of the Building Arts pursuing a bachelor of applied science in blacksmithing,” Sophie explained. “I think he’s perfect for replacing the missing sections of your iron fence, so I wanted him to meet you and your dad.”
Sophie had already given me a guesstimate of the cost to replace the broken fencing and gate that encircled our property, and my only response had been maniacal laughter that I hoped had conveyed the word “no.” As in I didn’t care if the fence was broken or missing or had disappeared completely. I had one child going to college and another two who hadn’t even started preschool yet. I wasn’t about to spend theireducation money or inheritance on an iron fence. I’d even started going online to search for alternative fencing options that resembled iron but at a price that didn’t make me feel faint, none of which I was fairly certain would pass Sophie’s approval. Not that it was needed since she wasn’t the one paying the bills.
“Beau’s already started drawing up plans. Hopefully he will be able to make it one of his school projects to replace the missing parts or, if necessary, replace the entire thing.”
