The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(24)
My mother was still smiling, but her expression seemed strained. Jayne must have noticed it, too, because she said, “I have one of those faces. People always think they’ve seen it before. But I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
Ginette’s expression relaxed. “Yes, that must be it. Are you from Charleston?”
“Birmingham. This is my first time here.”
Ginette moved into the drawing room and sat down in my vacated seat. Sarah’s attention was immediately focused on her grandmother’s jet-black onyx necklace. It had been a birthday gift from my father and had a stunning gold clasp in the shape of a sweetgrass basket. As soon as Sarah’s small fingers wrapped themselves around the strands, her face broke out in a rapturous smile, almost as if the joy of the gift had transferred itself into her small fingers.
“Melanie told me that you’ve inherited Button Pinckney’s house.”
JJ began to squirm and I took him from Jayne. She settled back onto the sofa while I remained standing, swaying gently. I tried to ignore the grandfather clock because then I’d know we were far off our nap schedule.
“Yes. And I’m sure she’s told you that I have no idea why. Unless it was to punish me for something I’m not aware I did.” She gave a halfhearted laugh. “It’s in really bad shape. I doubt I have the energy or interest in restoring it. I’ll probably take a loss and sell it as is.”
“Because you don’t like old houses.”
Jayne looked up at her sharply. “No. I don’t.”
Ginette regarded her for a long moment, making Jayne glance away. “I should get going.” She stood. “When would you like me to start?”
“Would two days work? That should give you time to check out of your hotel and settle in here. I’ll have Mrs. Houlihan get your room ready. Would you like to see it?”
She shook her head, almost before I’d finished speaking. “I’ll see it when I move in. I just have a suitcase, but I have more in storage. I can have that sent over whenever I figure out where I’ll be permanently.”
“We do need to move ahead,” I said gently. “Sophie is dying to get her hands on your house, and has already started making phone calls to people who restored the Villa Margherita right down the street.”
“I really think I can give you an answer now, but I’m afraid it might not be the answer you want to hear.”
“I just want my clients to end up where they’re supposed to be. I can handle Sophie’s disappointment.” I tried to wipe the image of me in a turban on a flyer out of my mind.
My mother stood and approached us, Sarah still focused on the beads of the necklace. “Jayne, we’ve only just met, so I don’t know you. But I did know Button very well, for a long time. I know she loved that house. Loved how she could touch the same banister and walk across the same floors as her ancestors had ever since the Revolution.” She placed her hand on Jayne’s arm. “It was more than a house to her. It became the child she never had, and the only part of her family to survive. She would not have left it to you without serious thought or reason. I just want you to consider that before you make your decision. Maybe the time spent restoring the house will give you the time you need to find out why.”
Jayne took one long, slow breath. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It just seems that digging into her reasons would be ungrateful. And . . .”
I raised my eyebrows.
“And sometimes the answer you find to a question is something you wish you’d never learned.” She was silent for a moment as she watched Sarah’s fascination with my mother’s necklace. “But I appreciate your insight, Mrs. Middleton, and I promise to give this deep consideration.” Turning to me, she said, “I’ll let you know when I arrive for work the day after tomorrow. Please tell your husband good-bye for me.”
“I will. And he’s very intrigued by your story. As I mentioned, he’d be a good research resource.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll let you know.” She said good-bye to my mother and the children, then headed for the vestibule to put on her coat. I followed her to the door, waiting as she buttoned her serviceable navy wool peacoat.
I opened the front door, and she paused. “There’s one more thing,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll need a night-light shining in the hallway. I have one for my bedroom, but I need one for outside my door.”
“All right,” I said. “That won’t be a problem.”
“Good. And thanks again.” She said good-bye and walked onto the piazza and then out through the garden gate. I watched her leave, listening as her footsteps disappeared down the sidewalk, trying to think of all the reasons why a grown woman would still be afraid of the dark.
CHAPTER 7
As was typical in Charleston, bitingly cold winter days were often followed by much balmier weather that had us replacing our heavy coats with cotton sweaters. It was as if Mother Nature were teasing us, making us dream with an almost feverish anticipation of the upcoming season. Spring in Charleston was something out of a fairy tale, with every garden, window box, and planter spilling out with fragrant blooms in every shape, size, and color. The streets that were merely picturesque during the other three seasons became works of art in the spring—assuming one liked row upon row of old houses and couldn’t see the shadows hidden behind their windows. But even I could almost forgive the hoards of tourists who flocked here for the spring tour of homes and gardens.