The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(11)
The grandfather clock, where Confederate diamonds had once been hidden, chimed eight times, the sound deep and booming in the quiet house, almost obliterating the sound of what I imagined to be the house inhaling, as if in anticipation of something only it could see. General Lee and the puppies, curled into a furry ball at Nola’s feet, looked up at me right before a knock sounded on the front door.
The frenzied movement of three dogs rushing toward the door and barking loudly accompanied me to the alcove, where a replacement chandelier—which had cost me three months of commissions—now hung in the same spot the previous one had been in before it mysteriously fell and smashed onto the marble floor, narrowly missing me. One of the tiles had been cracked, but I had strategically hidden it under a rug so Sophie wouldn’t notice and then demand that I have marble craftsmen from Italy come to replace the entire floor and I’d be forced to sell one of the children to pay for it. Because that’s the sort of thing that happens when one’s best friend is a bona fide house hugger.
My mother, Ginette Prioleau Middleton, stood on the piazza wrapped in a black cashmere cape, looking as beautiful now in her mid-sixties as she probably had been during her brief yet stellar career as an opera diva. Her dark hair gleamed in the porch light, her green eyes bright with barely any lines to betray her age. She was tiny but somehow never appeared small—something I’d discovered since our recent reconciliation and our even more recent battles with spirits reluctant to head toward the light. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold tiptoed its way down my spine. My mother never came by unannounced. Unless there was a reason.
“Mother,” I said, stepping back to allow her inside.
She kissed my cheek, then handed me her cape, keeping her gloves on. She always wore gloves, even in the summer. Her gift—her word, not mine—was the ability to see things by touching objects, sometimes inadvertently. Gloves protected her from being overwhelmed by images and voices bombarding her from as casual a contact as a stair railing or doorknob.
“I’m sorry to come so late. But I was returning from a Library Society meeting and was passing your house, and knew that it couldn’t wait until morning.”
“What couldn’t wait?” I asked, my throat suddenly dry.
She rubbed her hands over her arms. “Can we go someplace warmer? I need to thaw out.”
“I’ve got the fire going in the parlor.” I led the way, the dogs rolling and bouncing at my mother’s high heels.
Nola rushed over to embrace Ginette. The two had a tight bond, something I was grateful for despite the fact that sometimes I felt they were ganging up on me. Or laughing at me. Jack had maintained a bland expression when I asked if he’d noticed it, and we’d finally agreed that it must be postpartum hormones that made me see things a little skewed.
“Awesome shoes, Ginette,” Nola enthused. “Maybe I can borrow them for a date or something?”
Ginette smiled. “Of course—just ask me anytime. My closet is yours.”
I looked down at my fluffy pink slippers, trying to ignore my feet that were still throbbing in memory of the beating they’d sustained earlier in the day. “How long did it take for the swelling in your body and feet to subside after you gave birth to me?”
She and Nola exchanged a glance—I was pretty sure that wasn’t my hormones imagining it—before my mother turned back to me. “I don’t really think I . . . swelled very much. I was wearing my old clothes and shoes by the time you were a month old. But you had twins,” she added quickly. “And you are much older than I was, so that changes the equation drastically, I would think.”
My mother and Nola nodded in unison, and again I had the subtle feeling that they knew something I didn’t.
Nola went back to the desk and I indicated for Ginette to take one of the stuffed armchairs by the fire while I took the other one. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Your father’s waiting for me at home, so I’ll be brief. Have you spoken with your cousin Rebecca?”
Nola let out a groan at the mention of Rebecca’s name. I remembered the pink slip I’d received that morning at work, and had promptly discarded and forgotten. “She left a message for me, but I didn’t call her back. It was a Monday and my first day back at work, and having to talk with Rebecca would have probably sent me over the edge.” I leaned forward. “Why?”
“Well, she called me when she couldn’t get ahold of you.” The fire crackled, and she turned her gaze toward the flames. “She’s been having dreams.”
I briefly closed my eyes, seeing the orange and yellow flames imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. “Dreams?”
Rebecca, a very distant cousin, had also apparently inherited her sixth sense, except her psychic ability exhibited itself in her dreams. She wasn’t always accurate with her interpretations, but usually accurate enough to be alarming.
My mother nodded without looking at me. “She sees a young girl in a white nightgown, and she’s banging on a wall.” She faced me again and I saw the reflection of the fire in her green eyes. “Except she’s banging on the inside of the wall.”
I sat back and glanced over at Nola, who’d stopped typing on her laptop and wasn’t even pretending not to be listening. “Why does Rebecca think it has anything to do with me? If there was something inside one of these walls, I would know about it.”