The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(3)
He walked back to me and gave me a long, deep kiss, one that left me not caring that I had to repair my lipstick. “We’ll be fine. Now go.”
His firm hand steered me toward the stairs as he headed to the nursery, briefly brushing my rear end before he let go. “And I just might have a surprise for you when you get home.”
His eyes definitely held that look and it took all my strength reserves to continue down the stairs.
Halfway down, Nola’s bedroom door opened and she peered out, a puppy in each arm—appropriately named Porgy and Bess—as she waved a front paw of each dog. “Say bye-bye, Mommy. Have a great first day back at work. Bring us back some kibble.”
Nola, Jack’s daughter whose surprise appearance after her mother’s death a few years before had taken a bit of an adjustment, was one of life’s unexpected gifts—and I never thought I’d be saying that about any teenager. A sophomore now at Ashley Hall, she was quirky, smart, an accomplished songwriter, and as much my daughter now as Jack’s. Like all his children, she was his spitting image, right down to the dimple in her chin. I’d come to the conclusion long ago that Jack’s genes were simply bullies in the conception department. She was a vegan (most of the time), and my self-appointed nutrition guru who liked to slip in tofu and quinoa on Mrs. Houlihan’s shopping list in place of creamed spinach and fried okra, but I loved her anyway.
“Thanks, Nola. Good luck on your French test. Alston’s mother is driving the morning and afternoon carpools today, so you can spend the time going over your flash cards.”
“Yes, Melanie,” she said, rolling her eyes.
I heard Mrs. Houlihan in the kitchen and tiptoed toward the front door to avoid her. Sophie had detected wood rot in one of the kitchen windows and had it removed so it could be restored and then reinstalled. That had been six weeks ago, prompting me to suggest replacing all the windows with new, vinyl ones, knowing it was only a matter of time before the remaining ones would start going soft around the sills and leaking water. Sophie, a new mother herself, had clutched at her heart and had to sit down, looking at me as if I’d just kicked a puppy. I’d let the suggestion drop. But I was tired of listening to Mrs. Houlihan complain about how dark it was in the kitchen with a boarded-up window, and how it was impossible for her to continue to work in such conditions.
I pulled on my coat before opening the front door, then shut it silently behind me. I drew up short at the sight of a van parked at the curb, HARD ROCK FOUNDATIONS painted on the side, and my father’s car behind it. My father, with whom I’d recently reconciled, had made it his mission to restore my Loutrel Briggs garden to its former glory. He’d done such a good job that both his remarriage to my mother as well as my own wedding had been held beneath the ancient oak tree in the back garden surrounded by roses and tea olives.
But that didn’t explain why he and Rich Kobylt, my plumber, foundation repair technician, general handyman, and even erstwhile counselor, would be there so early in the morning. I remembered my conversation with my father the previous evening, his asking me when I planned to leave for work. As if he’d been secretly scheduling something with Rich Kobylt that he didn’t want me to know about.
Probably because Rich’s presence upset me. Not because of his penchant for low-slung and overly revealing pants, or even the sound of fluttering dollar bills and the ringing of a cash register I usually heard right after he showed up on my doorstep. His presence upset me because Rich had the uncanny ability to uncover things that I’d preferred not to deal with. Like foundation cracks and crumbling chimney bricks. And buried skeletons.
I looked with longing at the carriage house, where my Volvo station wagon was parked next to Jack’s minivan, wanting nothing more than to pretend that I had no idea I had visitors and head into work as planned. But I was an adult now. The wife and mother of three. I was supposed to be brave.
Mentally girding my loins, I headed down the recently rebricked pathway to the rear garden, past the silent swing hanging from the oak tree, and the fountain, recently relieved of two skeletons, burbling in the chill winter air. I stopped when I reached the back corner of the house. I must have made a noise, because both my father and Rich turned to look at me.
They were standing in the rear garden, where the famous Louisa roses had been blooming for almost a century. But where there had once been rosebushes there was now only a deep, circular indentation on the ground.
My father took a step toward me, as if trying to block my view. “Sweet pea—I thought you’d be at work.”
I frowned at him, then directed my attention toward Rich, quickly averting my eyes when I saw he was squatting at the edge of the indentation, his back to me. “What’s happened?”
Thankfully, Rich stood. “Good mornin’, Miz Middleton—I mean Miz Trenholm.” His cheeks flushed. “I think with all this rain we’ve been having, this part of the yard sank. Looks like there might be some kind of structure underneath.” He squatted to look more closely into the fissure and I turned my head. There are just some things you can’t unsee.
“A structure?” I waited for him to say the word “cemetery.” I’d seen Poltergeist, after all. And it wasn’t as if that sort of thing hadn’t happened before in Charleston. The recent construction of the new Gaillard Auditorium had unearthed a number of graves that had been there since the Colonial era.