The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(50)

I stopped behind her, looking at the hole to see Meghan and another grad student I’d been introduced to earlier, Rachel Flooring, with small shovels gently scraping away dirt from old bricks. Apparently, Meghan didn’t like to work in the cistern alone anymore, and always had at least one companion to dig alongside her. “You’re here early,” I said, noticing her ubiquitous pearls and cardigan sweater.

She smiled brightly up at me. “I know. But there’s a sale at J.Crew today that I wanted to get to, so I figured if I started here early I’d have time to get there before lunch.”

Of course, I refrained from saying. “Have you found anything new and interesting? I was kind of hoping you would be done by now and I could fill in this eyesore.”

Both she and Rachel looked at me as if I’d just suggested throwing a bag of kittens in a well. When Meghan had regained her composure, she said, “We want to be thorough, which is why it’s taking so long. But believe me, we’re working as fast as we can. We just don’t want to damage the bricks, because they have historic significance, and we’ll want to analyze them, too.”

“Look what they’ve found,” Nola said as she pointed at something on the blanket, where the girls had been placing artifacts—their word, not mine.

I stared at the collection of what appeared to be small animal bones and pottery shards. “Looks like what the plumber pulled from our garbage disposal last week,” I said with a grin. It quickly faded as I was met with the collective frowns of all three girls.

Nola straightened, then shouldered her backpack. “I’ll do you the favor of not repeating what you just said to Sophie.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Sorry. I meant Dr. Wallen-Arasi. But she told me I could call her Sophie.”

“I know, but we’re in Charleston,” I said, hoping that would explain everything.

We said our good-byes and I followed Nola to the front of the house, where Jayne was tucking a blanket around the children in the jogging stroller my father had brought over to our house. I’d yet to use it, but Jayne apparently enjoyed her morning jog with the children in tow. She wore tight running pants that accentuated her long legs and toned hips, and a close-fitting top that showed off arms that didn’t seem to wobble as she bent over the stroller to make sure the children were protected from the cool morning breeze. I quickly looked away when I realized I was frowning. Wrinkles were the last thing I needed right now.

“I like our new nanny,” Nola said. “She’s really good with the babies and doesn’t seem to mind your OCD impulses.”

“Excuse me?”

She was already moving toward the front gate. “Oh, nothing.” She stopped. “There is one thing. . . .”

“One thing?” I asked, wondering if she was talking about Jayne or about to apologize for the OCD comment.

She shrugged. “It’s just that I’m not really blaming her or anything, but ever since Jayne’s arrived I can’t seem to write any music. I’m sure it’s just bad timing, but it’s odd, you know?”

“I’m sure it’s just a phase. Talk to your dad—he goes through creative dry spells, too. He might be able to guide you through it. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with Jayne.”

“I know. You’re probably right. It’s just so weird. Like a curtain has been pulled over that part of my brain I use for creativity.”

I blinked, thinking it odd that she’d used those exact words to describe her artistic block, but was distracted from pondering it further by a familiar sedan pulling up in front of the house and parking at the curb. “It’s Detective Riley. I wonder what he’s doing here so early.”

Nola jerked her chin in Jayne’s direction. “I could guess. But she definitely needs some coaching. I overheard her yesterday on the phone talking with him, and I think she actually complimented him on his use of toothpaste and the fact that he had two legs. I mean, who says that stuff to anyone, much less an attractive member of the opposite sex?”

Realizing that her question was most likely rhetorical, I didn’t bother to respond that I actually knew someone besides Jayne who was equally as awkward. But the person I had in mind was married now, so it didn’t matter.

Alston’s mother pulled up next to Thomas with a wave, and with a quick peck on my cheek, Nola ran to the van, waving to Jayne and Thomas as they pulled away.

“Just the two people I needed to see,” Thomas said as he and I approached Jayne and the stroller. “I know it’s early, but I hoped to catch you before you got into the workday.”

He eyed Jayne appreciatively and I watched as her cheeks turned a bright red. “Good morning, Thomas,” she said. “I have two children. Here. To run. I mean, they’re not mine. But . . .” She closed her eyes as if mentally scolding her tongue. “Good morning,” she said again, then forcibly shut her mouth. Nola was right. It was painful to witness.

It was clear that Thomas was struggling not to laugh. To hide it he squatted down in front of the jogging stroller so he could be eye level with the children, the way somebody used to small children would do. I knew Thomas was a favorite uncle to a gaggle of nieces and nephews, so it didn’t surprise me. He reached over with his thumb and rubbed Sarah’s cheek. “Looks like Mommy’s already kissed you good-bye.”