The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(43)
I paused outside the gates of the house I’d lived in for the first six years of my life with my grandmother. I always felt her presence, but it was stronger here. I wondered sometimes if it was the memories of her I felt, or if she still hung out here to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. She still called me on the phone from time to time, so it was probably the latter, but being in this house always made me happy.
My father had a flower box sitting on a wrought-iron garden table and was humming to himself as he placed lemon yellow petunias and gold gerbera daisies in the moist dirt. “Good morning, sweet pea,” he said as I kissed his cheek. “I know winter isn’t over, but I couldn’t resist planting something while the weather’s so nice.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said, admiring the colors and placement. He had a real gift for gardening, which I was just beginning to appreciate. I knew what roses looked and smelled like, so that was a start.
“Here for your walk with your mother?”
“Yes,” I said. “I thought she’d be outside waiting.”
He pursed his lips. “She had an early appointment, but she should be wrapping things up by now.”
“An appointment?”
He gave me a terse nod so that I’d know exactly what kind of “appointment” she had. Unlike me, my mother had no problem advertising her psychic abilities. My father preferred not to acknowledge it one way or the other. I guessed that was one thing I’d inherited from him.
I sighed. “Where are they?”
“In the downstairs drawing room.” He saw my dubious expression and then said, “Don’t worry—you won’t be interrupting anything important. Besides, she’s been here awhile already.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, wondering if I should be insulted he didn’t take our abilities seriously. It had been an ongoing battle between him and my mother, and had been partially responsible for their divorce when I was a little girl. Despite being exposed to several apparitions and paranormal events, he was the Doubting Thomas of the psychic world. He was very good at seeing and understanding only what he wanted to, a confirmation that I was, indeed, his daughter.
I pushed open the front door, pausing at the contraption in front of me. It looked like one of those double jogging strollers that I saw young, fit, and perky mothers running behind down Charleston’s neighborhood streets, their jaunty ponytails bouncing happily through holes in baseball caps. I wondered if the client my mother was meeting with had brought it, because I couldn’t think of any other reason why it would be sitting in my parents’ foyer.
“Mellie? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mother,” I said as I made my way to the drawing room. I paused in the threshold for a moment, admiring the play of sunlight through the stained glass window. There was a secret message hidden inside, a mystery that Jack and I had solved, with my mother’s help. She’d thought then that the two of us could go public with our abilities, that it was our duty to help others. I was still waiting to be convinced that it wouldn’t destroy my career or my reputation.
“Come here,” she said, beckoning me to a mahogany game table where it was rumored Lafayette had once played cards. She sat opposite a red-haired woman who appeared to be around my age, the dark circles under her eyes making her seem older. My mother’s gloves had been removed and were folded neatly on the side of the table, leaving no doubt that she’d been doing a reading.
“Good morning,” I said, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then nodded at her companion. “We’re late for our walk, and I have an appointment to show a condo on East Bay at ten.”
“Sit down, Mellie. We’re just about done here.”
I did as I was told, then looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Veronica, this is my daughter, Melanie Trenholm. Melanie, this is Veronica Farrell. I believe you’ve met her daughter.”
I stared at her with confusion, trying to place the name and the face. “I’m sorry . . .”
“My daughter is Lindsey. She’s a friend of your stepdaughter, Nola, and they’re in the same year at Ashley Hall.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, recalling the girl Nola had brought home. The girl with the Ouija board. There was something else about Lindsey that I had meant to remember but had forgotten. I wish I’d thought to weigh my brain before and after childbirth so I’d have proof that one loses a substantial amount of brain matter with each child.
A small smile lifted her lips and brought a lightness to her pale face. “And I know you from USC. We were in an art history class and worked on a project together.”
That was it. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead. “Oh, yes. Lindsey mentioned that to me. I’m afraid that I don’t remember much about my college years. I think I’ve deliberately tried to repress those memories so I won’t remember how lonely and socially awkward I was.”
She smiled fully now and I saw the resemblance she had to her daughter, despite their different coloring, their delicate, almost fragile bones, their high cheekbones and straight eyebrows. “Patrician” is the word I would have used. I did remember her now, albeit vaguely, and remembered why I’d probably dismissed her from my thoughts as soon as we received our grade on our project. She’d been one of those girls inordinately close with her family. Her mother or sister always called when we were working together, and instead of letting the phone ring she’d answer it, then spend precious work time recounting whatever it had been that had occupied their conversation. I’d found it tedious, although now I could probably admit that in my lonely, parentless state I’d been jealous.