The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(10)
At the mention of something even older than my house being found in my backyard, I’d already begun to shake my head in denial before Meghan said, “From what we can already see, the bricks are mismatched and were probably taken from other structures. Could have been from outbuildings that were no longer used from here or different places. I’ve even seen a few cases where bricks were taken from cemeteries when they were moved to make way for new streets and buildings.”
I froze at the word “cemeteries.” That was the thing with old bricks. They weren’t just sand and clay. They also contained the accumulated memories and the residual energy of the people who’d lived in their midst. These bricks had been buried in my backyard for more than 150 years and were now being bared to the light of day. I shuddered at the thought of what else might be waiting to be exposed.
“I promise you won’t even know we’re here,” Sophie said, as if I’d already given permission to use my backyard as an archaeological dig. “Meghan and a few of my other grad students are so excited about excavating the cistern. It’s not just the bricks we find fascinating. Usually things were tossed or dropped into cisterns over the years that can be a real thrill for historians like us.”
I just stared back at her, not understanding the thrill at all. Because digging into the past usually meant unearthing a nasty ghost or two. I didn’t relish dodging falling light fixtures or objects thrown across a room, especially now that there were two babies in the house.
I looked from her to Rich. “How long do you think it will take before I get my garden back? I’d hoped to have a big first birthday party for the twins out here in March.”
Rich pulled up the waistband of his pants, only to let them droop again once he let go. “Filling it in won’t be a problem—no more than a day or two to get it back the way it was. But I have to wait for Dr. Wallen-Arasi to finish first. Hate to think I’d be reburying some artifact if we don’t give her enough time.”
The instruction to go ahead and fill in the hole as soon as possible was on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t, of course. I wouldn’t put it past Sophie and her students to picket my house until I agreed to let them dig it up again. Saying yes was the path of least resistance to an inevitable conclusion.
I felt the icy wind blow against the back of my neck again, twisting its way around my torso as if I wore no coat at all. “Make it quick, okay?”
Sophie nodded and met my eyes, understanding the reasons for my reluctance. But not enough to ignore the fact that I had a veritable treasure trove of history buried in my garden.
“I got your voice mail, by the way,” she said. “I’ve got to take a group of my students to Pompian Hill Chapel of Ease tomorrow to do some grave cleaning and to repair a box tomb, but I can meet you at the Pinckney house on Thursday morning. Does eight o’clock work?”
“It does for me. I’ll check with my client and get back with you. She doesn’t want to go inside, but I think she should. She doesn’t like old houses.”
Both Sophie and Meghan looked at me as if I’d said something blasphemous. “It happens,” I said.
We said good-bye, and then Sophie left with Meghan and Skye. Rich stayed where he was, his hands on his hips, looking down into the pit, the bottom now blackened as the slanting sun scooped out the light. I was wary of what he was about to say. I’d learned in the years we’d been working together that he not only had a second sight but wasn’t fully aware of it.
“I don’t want to scare you, Miz Trenholm. But there’s something not right about this. Something not right at all.”
Ignoring his implication, I said, “I don’t like a hole in my garden, either, but we’ll have to live with it for a little while. Hopefully it won’t take too long.”
I said good-bye, then walked toward the kitchen door, sensing a set of footsteps following me, and knowing they weren’t his.
After feeding the twins and tucking them into their cribs for the night, I sat in the downstairs parlor flipping through the new MLS listings on my laptop and making spreadsheets for my new clients. Nola sat doing homework at the mahogany partner’s desk that Jack’s mother, Amelia, had found for her through her antiques business, Trenholm Antiques on King, while Jack finally took a shower. He’d claimed he hadn’t had time for grooming—or writing—while taking care of the babies. He’d looked so traumatized that I didn’t point out that if he’d followed my schedule that I’d helpfully written down for him, and tried to be more organized, he wouldn’t look as if he’d been wandering the wilderness for weeks.
A fire crackled in the fireplace beneath the Adams mantel—Sophie’s pride and joy. It was a thing of beauty, but it still made my fingers hurt when I looked at it, as if they recalled all the hand-scraping with tiny pieces of sandpaper Sophie had given me to remove about eighty layers of old paint from the intricate scrolls and loops. My manicurist had almost quit during that period, and if I hadn’t given her a generous gift certificate to my favorite boutique, the Finicky Filly, I would still be walking around with bloody stubs for fingers.
I found myself sinking back into what felt alarmingly like domestic tranquility. But there was an uneasiness in the air, an energy that crept out of the walls like morning mist. The sense of unseen eyes watching me. I knew, without a doubt, that the lingering dead had managed to find me again, and that my newfound peace was about to end.