The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(7)
Déjà vu. I had a flash of memory of me sitting in a lawyer’s office not far from here as a lawyer explained to me that Nevin Vanderhorst, a man I’d met just once, had left me his crumbling house on Tradd Street that I neither wanted nor needed.
I was clenching the pencil so tightly that I had to place it on the pad of paper. I forced a smile. “Miss Pinckney was a friend of both my mother’s and my mother-in-law’s. They all went to school together at Ashley Hall.” I thought for a moment. “As far as I recall, Button never married or had any children. There was an older brother, I believe, who died a few years back. I don’t believe he had any children, either, although I’m pretty sure he was married at some point.” I remembered, too, that there had been some sort of tragedy associated with the family, but I couldn’t recall the details.
Jayne sighed. “Yes, well, you can’t imagine my surprise to hear that I’ve inherited an old house from a complete stranger.”
“Believe it or not, I actually can.” I closed my mouth, unwilling to share my personal feelings toward old houses and the way the walls always seemed to be whispering. “Maybe your mother or father or some other family member might want to see it first before you make any decisions. Surely they’ll have some idea as to why Miss Pinckney left her house to you.”
Jayne went very still. “There’s no one.” She slowly raised her eyes to mine. “I don’t have a family. I was raised in the foster care system and was never adopted.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. A disturbance in the air behind her made the space shimmer, like the shift in air pressure before a storm. I stared hard, trying to see what it was, but saw nothing. But I knew it was there, watching us. Listening. Wanting to be seen but unable to show itself. My gaze met Jayne’s. She stared back at me unblinking, and again I felt as if we’d met before.
She continued. “I’m fine with it now—it was a long time ago. Maybe this inheritance is just karma for an unsettled childhood and I shouldn’t question it too closely.” She smiled brightly, and I almost believed her.
“Did the lawyer give any indication why Miss Pinckney chose you?”
“I did ask, but he said she didn’t share any details or more information, even though he asked her repeatedly, anticipating, correctly, that I’d have my own questions. He did say he’d done a little bit of research on his own but hadn’t been able to discover anything.”
There was something about this woman that I liked, that made me want to help her. Maybe it was because I remembered a time in my life when I’d felt like an abandoned orphan, navigating life all on my own. “My husband is a writer who writes books about the area and knows everybody in Charleston, living or dead. He has a real knack for finding unturned stones. If you’d like, I could ask him to help.”
“Thank you—I’ll think about it,” she said. “I can’t help wondering if finding out why would be a bit like looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
I nodded, understanding her position more than she could imagine. “And you’re sure you want to sell it?”
“Absolutely. Old houses don’t appeal to me at all. They all have that . . . smell about them. Like decay and mildew and dust. That’s why I’d like to take the money from the sale of the house and find something more modern and fresh. Preferably built within the last five years.”
I nodded, thinking about my old condo in Mt. Pleasant, with its plain white walls and gleaming chrome and glass surfaces, where I’d lived before my unexpected inheritance and still thought fondly of from time to time. Usually directly after writing out another check to Rich Kobylt for a repair. “All right. But we’ll have to go into the house to get a value. To see what kind of shape it’s in and if it needs any immediate repairs before putting it on the market. Sadly, most of them do.” I thought of Mr. Vanderhorst and his sad smile. “It’s like a piece of history you can hold in your hands.” I smiled at Jayne, trying to appear hopeful. “A good friend of mine—Dr. Sophie Wallen-Arasi—is a professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston, and I know she’d love to come along and give us her professional opinion.”
I could hear her swallow. “You can do that on your own, right? I wouldn’t have to go inside, too, would I?”
“Not necessarily,” I said, studying her. “But I think it would be a very good idea for you to see it for yourself. Who knows? Maybe you’ll change your mind about selling. It’s been known to happen.”
“I won’t,” she said quickly. “So, ballpark—how much do you think the house could be worth? I’m not being mercenary or anything; it’s just that I’ll need to know how much I can spend on the new condo. I have no idea how long it will take to get a job here, so I won’t be able to rely on a salary at first.”
“To be honest, I have to go inside before I could make any determination. There are several houses on the same street that have sold in the low seven figures in the past few years, but there are also some that have sold for quite a bit less, mostly because of their condition. Buyers get them for a steal but then end up spending three or four times over the purchase price in restoration work. It would be in your best interest to get the highest selling price possible, which might mean doing some basic renovations before it hits the market.”