The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(31)
“Thank you,” Jack said. “I’m sure after I think for a while I’ll figure out who that could have been.”
“You be sure to let me know, all right?” Jolly wrote something down in the alligator-picture-covered notebook. “I keep a list so I can gauge my accuracy.”
“What’s your percentage so far?”
Her lips pressed into a tight line. “About five percent. Closer to four, actually. But I’m getting better. I’m taking online classes to hone my skills.”
“That’s great,” I said, tugging on Jack’s arm. “I’ll see you in an hour.” A cool blast of air greeted us as we exited onto Broad Street. “For the record,” I said, “I didn’t see anybody. Maybe she was seeing you and my next birthday present and just got confused.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Thanks for the reminder that I have five months to prepare.”
I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Maybe Jolly can help you figure out what I’d like.”
We were still chuckling as we entered the Brown Dog Deli and were quickly seated in one of the booths against the brightly painted blue wall, liberally adorned with vibrantly colored posters and framed cartoon dog prints. As Jack had predicted, we were ahead of the lunch crowd and our waitress appeared with water glasses and was ready to take our orders as soon as we sat down. I ordered the fried green tomato and pimento cheese sandwich with a side of potato chips while Jack ordered the Pita Frampton. Remembering our earlier conversation about my weight, I changed my side to the fresh fruit mix, lamenting my potato chips as soon as the waitress stepped away from our table.
Jack’s left hand with the gold band around his third finger rested on the table. I wanted to reach over and place my hand in his but was afraid that was more a teenager kind of thing to do. I hadn’t dated as a teenager, so I had no point of reference, but I’d seen enough young adult movies with Nola, so I had a pretty good idea.
“So,” I said before sipping my water through a long straw, “what did you want to talk about?” My old self would never have asked this question, preferring the head-in-the-sand approach—a method that I still returned to more often than not. But this was my marriage—something that would never have even happened if I’d kept my head buried—and I figured it was a good place to start with the new, married version of me.
Jack looked pleasantly surprised that I was the one who’d spoken first, but he made the wise decision not to comment on it. He reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked like a section of newspaper. He unfolded it on the table and I saw it was a clipped article, the edges jagged. I immediately began rummaging through my purse for my emergency bag that held scissors, duct tape, WD-40, toothpaste, and an assortment of other items I might need in any given day.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
My hand stilled. “I’m looking for my scissors. I thought I’d trim that up for you.”
“That’s probably not necessary. I think all you need to do is read it.”
“Right,” I said, pulling my hand out of my purse as if it didn’t matter. I pulled the paper closer so I could read it, trying not to squint so I wouldn’t have to listen to Jack tell me again that I shouldn’t be ashamed to wear glasses and that most people over forty did. Since he had yet to reach forty, it was in both our best interests—especially with a pair of sharp scissors nearby—that we refrain from that conversation.
“It’s from last Sunday’s paper,” he said. “The puppies got to it after you pulled out the real estate section but before I could read the rest of it, but your dad brought it over this morning after you left for work to show me. It’s from the editorial page.”
I felt the first fissure of unease.
“It’s from that series the Post and Courier is doing about the history of some of the historic houses in Charleston. It wasn’t supposed to last this long, but apparently, it’s become quite popular, and the staff writer is getting all sorts of social invitations from people hoping that their houses will be the subject of the column.”
“Suzy Dorf,” I said, not bothering to disguise the sneer in my voice. “She’s been trying to reach me. She’s actually left several messages and a text on my phone.”
He raised his eyebrows, not warranting my comments with a comment of his own.
“She annoys me. I have nothing to say to her—especially after she printed that anonymous letter last year about there being more bodies buried in our garden. I should sue her for libel.”
“That might be premature, don’t you think? Especially considering that we’ve just unearthed a cistern in said garden?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any dead bodies we find are our dead bodies. She needs to mind her own business.”
His eyebrows drew together as if he was trying to translate something in his mind. After a brief shake of his head, he said, “She’s a reporter. That’s what she does.” He reached over and slid the clipping closer to me. “Read it.”
Trying very hard not to squint, I began to read:
Hollywood is coming to the Holy City! Thankfully, it’s not for a far-be-it-from-reality reality series but for a feature film from a major studio. Charleston native Marc Longo’s book, Lust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City, hasn’t even hit bookstore shelves yet, but there’s so much buzz about this book that the rumor mill has reported that the movie rights went to auction for a cool seven figures.