The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(36)

I stood at the back door, going through the mail piece by piece, dropping all except a bill from Rich Kobylt’s business, Hard Rock Foundations—for the restoration of the kitchen window as well as two dining room window frames that had rotted through—and a heavy linen envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jack Trenholm. It was thick, like a wedding invitation, and before I turned it over to see the return address, I ran through my head anybody I knew who’d be getting married. With the exception of octogenarian librarian Yvonne Craig, I didn’t think I knew anybody still single.

The return address was engraved onto the back of the ivory-colored envelope. There was no name, but the address was in New York City. I opened the back door and smelled something wonderful cooking on the stove, Mrs. Houlihan gently stirring a pot’s contents with a wooden spoon. The three dogs were in their individual monogrammed beds. Nola swore they could read and that was why they always ended up in the right bed. I had my doubts—nothing that cute could also be that smart. It worked against the laws of nature.

I gave them each a scratch behind the ears, then turned to Mrs. Houlihan expectantly. “That smells divine. What is it?” I reached to lift the lid from the pot, but the older woman slapped gently at my hand.

“It’s a vegan meat sauce for the whole wheat spaghetti you’re having for dinner tonight. It’s from the cookbook Dr. Wallen-Arasi gave you for Christmas.”

“I thought I told you to donate that to Goodwill.”

“Did you? I must have forgot. I must say, I’ve been making some of the recipes at home and my clothes are fitting much more loosely.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, wondering if she was trying to say something else, but she busied herself with sorting spices on the rack on the counter.

My interest and appetite having fled, I carefully hung up my coat in the small closet we’d had added to the butler’s pantry, checking each pocket carefully and making sure the lapels of all the coats were facing the same way. Nola had learned quickly, but there were two of Jack’s coats that I had to fix.

I slid open the kitchen drawer where I kept the letter opener. That was another thing I’d told Jack I’d take care of—the opening of mail. I’d shown him several times the correct use of a letter opener, even shown him where ours was kept, but it was as if he refused my instruction, and if an unopened envelope accidentally fell into his possession, he’d open it like a hungry bear at an overstuffed garbage can.

I carefully slid the letter opener into the corner of the envelope, then gently moved the blade to the other corner, leaving a clean, precise opening the way Mother Nature intended. I pulled out an engraved invitation on heavy cardstock without an envelope or RSVP card—the way etiquette sticklers did it.

I stared at the elegant script, and I suddenly felt light-headed. It wasn’t a wedding invitation at all. It was an invitation to a book launch party. I read over it a couple of times just to make sure I wasn’t misinterpreting it, then shoved it back into the envelope and when I stacked the mail, I put it under the bill in the hope that Jack would overlook it and I could pretend I’d never seen it. It did occur to me that I could shred it in the paper shredder in Jack’s office and no one would be any the wiser. It was what the old me would have done. But I was a mature married woman now, and it would be up to Jack to notice the invitation and respond.

A heavy thump and then the sound of something being dragged upstairs brought me out of the kitchen. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened, thinking it was from Nola’s room, which at the moment was practically vibrating with loud music that sadly wasn’t the ABBA album I’d given her for Christmas.

I heard JJ laugh and I smiled as I took the stairs two at a time to reach the nursery. I opened the door and paused, my own smile quickly fading as I took it all in. Jayne sat in the rocking chair with her foot resting on the ottoman, her ankle wrapped in a bandage. Both of my children sat on her lap holding a brown paper lunch bag—definitely not one of the educational toys that lined the room and the bookshelves—and laughing each time one of them squeezed the bag and made a crinkling noise. Jack, his button-down shirt discarded on the side of Sarah’s crib, wore only his sweat-soaked T-shirt. But the most disconcerting sight of the entire scenario was the furniture, all moved into a new position and ignoring the feng shui design created by the interior designer I’d hired to help set up the nursery.

Jack grinned at me as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “What do you think? Jayne suggested that the room would be more functional this way, with more play room, and I agreed.”

Sarah smashed her paper bag between two fists, causing both children to start chortling with glee. I looked down at the beautiful handmade rug that had been a gift from Jack’s mother, the primary color design of building blocks with the children’s initials on each one, now completely hidden by the bucket of toys upended in the middle of it.

Jack approached to kiss me hello, but I stepped back, citing his sweat as my main reason. “Looks like you’ve been busy,” I said.

“We have,” Jayne exclaimed. “Sarah and I were building all sorts of structures with the blocks, and JJ was having a blast knocking them down. That’s when I realized that they needed more room, so I asked Jack to help.”

I stared pointedly at the wrap on her ankle. “I thought the doctor told you that could come off in a day.”