The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(6)

“I guess that’s what I get for giving in to temptation,” she said. “There’s this wonderful bakery down the street—Ruth’s Bakery, I think—and I could smell the doughnuts from the sidewalk. I’ve never been able to turn down sugar.”

My own smile faltered as I thought about my ex-favorite bakery, imagining I could smell the sweet aroma of baking doughnuts. Feeling more than a little bit hurt, I reached for the paper bag from Ruth’s and dropped it in the wastebasket, then resisted the urge to ask Jayne for her candy wrappers to throw away so I could bury my nose in them later.

I indicated for Jayne to take the seat in front of my desk while I sat down across from her. She was younger than me, early thirties, I thought, and her hair was blond—dyed—but her eyebrows were dark. She was attractive in an all-American way, with long legs and a wide smile. Despite her thinness, she had the kind of chest I’d always wanted yet had attained only when I was pregnant and nursing. Or wearing a padded bra. My breasts were still bigger than they had been, but had somehow managed to migrate to new positions on my chest since the children were born.

“I’m sorry to just drop in. I can reschedule if you have other appointments,” Jayne said.

I was about to pretend to check my calendars when I paused. There was something oddly familiar about her smile, and the way the light through the office window lightened her eyes to a pale green.

“Have we met before?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Probably not. I’ve never been to Charleston before. Never been much farther than Birmingham before now, actually.” She smiled again, but the light behind her eyes had dimmed somewhat. “I think I have one of those faces that look like a lot of other people’s.”

“That must be it,” I said.

The sound of magazines slipping off the credenza and slapping against one another as they hit the floor had us both jumping from our chairs. Jayne quickly moved to pick them up, stacking them as neatly as they’d been before. “I must have put these too near the edge.”

“Oh, okay.” But they hadn’t been. They had been five inches from the edge, and there was no way they could have slid on their own. I frowned. There was another presence in the room, someone I couldn’t see and could barely feel. Not even a shadow, or a shimmer of light. I could tell that whoever it was wanted me to see them, but something was preventing me. I could almost see a curtain that had been pulled across my sixth sense, forcing me to use only the five senses everybody else had.

I sat down suddenly, confused and irritated. I wanted to call the shots regarding my inherited ability or disability—depending on how I was feeling about it at any given time—and something I couldn’t understand was blocking me. I recalled how during my pregnancy my ability to see dead people had disappeared and how I’d found myself oddly missing it. I couldn’t help wondering whether motherhood had somehow had the same effect. Maybe that was the reason I’d been undisturbed for so long. Maybe.

Jayne returned to her seat and smiled, but there was something different about her expression. Like a painting where the artist was still a few brushstrokes away from completion. “I’m looking for a Realtor. And when I was walking by the agency this morning, I felt compelled to stop. I saw your photo in the window and you looked . . .”

She paused, not sure I wanted to hear what she had to say. I was notoriously unphotogenic, as my driver’s license photo could attest. I had visions of it pinned to a bulletin board in the DMV’s break room as an example of their best work.

“Approachable,” she finished. “Like you’d understand what it was I needed.”

Feeling pleased and not a little relieved, I pulled out a notepad and pencil and regarded her. “So, what can I help you with?”

“I need to sell a house. And buy a new one.”

“I only work in Charleston. So if you have a house in Birmingham to sell . . .”

She shook her head. “I’ve inherited a house, here in Charleston. It’s an old house—I’ve walked by it a few times. I want to sell it and buy a new one.”

I sat back, not completely understanding. “Have you been inside the house?”

“No. I don’t need to. I don’t like old houses as a rule, so there’s no reason for me to go inside.”

I stared at her. “You don’t like old houses?”

“I don’t like all that . . . history in a place. I want something fresh and new. Lots of metal and glass and stone.”

“I see,” I said, jotting down notes. I did see. I’d said those exact same words when I first inherited my house on Tradd Street and had said them often since, the most recent this very morning as I’d turned my back on my sunken garden and headed toward my car. “Where is your house located?”

“On South Battery Street. Right near the corner of Legare—the big white house with the portico and columns.”

I thought for a moment. “The old Pinckney house?” I knew it, of course. I was on a first-name basis with just about every old house in Charleston either through a family connection or from my job as a Realtor specializing in historic real estate. “Button Pinckney was an acquaintance of my mine—a lovely woman. Was she a close relative?”

Jayne looked down at her hands as if embarrassed. “Actually, I’d never met her. And I didn’t know until now that Caroline Pinckney had a nickname. I didn’t even know of her existence until three weeks ago when her lawyers contacted me to let me know I’d inherited her estate.”