The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(80)

We said good-bye to the children and waved to them and Jayne as they made their way outside to the sidewalk.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Jolly asked, her eyes bright behind her glasses.

“About what?” I asked.

“Your nanny—Jayne, right? I thought I saw it the first time she was here, and now I’m definitely sure.”

Uneasily, I asked, “Saw what?”

“An aura. She definitely has an aura. It’s how you can tell someone has ‘the gift.’ That’s what my grandmother used to say about me, so that’s how I know I can communicate with spirits. They’re just taking a little longer to recognize that.”

“Really?” I said. “Do I have an aura?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No. Not even a shadow, or I would have told you. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure it’s more of a burden than a blessing most times.”

“That’s for sure.” She began fiddling with the dragonfly-shaped pin on her blouse, staring at Jack.

With a straight face, he said, “Any more dark-haired gentlemen holding up a piece of jewelry?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Sadly, no.” Her face became grim. “Actually, I’m not sure, so I don’t want to say anything. . . .” Although it was very clear that she was itching to tell us something.

“Go ahead,” Jack said. “We can handle it.”

“It’s a cat. And it’s talking to you. I just can’t hear what it’s saying.”

I stared at her for a moment, jolted by her mention of a cat. “What color is it?”

She frowned as if concentrating. “One of those striped tabby cats. With a long tail.”

I wondered if I’d sighed audibly. “Okay. We’ll be on the lookout for talking striped cats.”

She shook her head. “You shouldn’t take my messages so literally. I’m still new at this, so I do get things wrong—or a little twisted, I should say. But do think on it—it might become clear to you what the actual message is.”

“Will do,” I said. Knowing Jolly was watching, I gave Jack a chaste kiss good-bye and watched him walk away, headed toward a café where he could write.

I returned to my office and flipped on my computer and tried to work on a list of planned showings for a family flying in from California. Instead I found myself staring at the screen without really seeing it, imagining instead a house and a town floating underwater as if in a snow globe, and the haunting peal of church bells that hadn’t been rung in more than thirty years.





CHAPTER 23


Istood with my mother in her Legare Street bedroom, feeling a little like Ali Baba after the secret cave had been opened. She’d emptied the contents of several jewelry boxes of varying sizes onto her bedspread, in search of a necklace she had in mind that would go perfectly with my dress for the launch party.

“I know it’s in here somewhere,” came her voice from her vast walk-in closet, where several shelves were designated for her various jewelry containers. I was itching to organize them, but she’d refused my offer of help, claiming that they were organized by her age when she’d worn them and by her memories. Still, when I saw the mismatched earrings and knotted chains, I needed to clasp my hands together so I wouldn’t do something we’d both regret.

She emerged with a small leather heart-shaped box. It looked old, the hinged fold cracked and worn. “It must be in here. This is the jewelry I wore when I was in high school, and maybe a few costume pieces from college. I can’t imagine why it would be in here, but I can’t think where else it could be.”

“Strange, that. Seeing that nothing else seems to be where it’s supposed to be,” I said under my breath. “If you’d just let me organize it . . .”

“Mellie,” she said, in that tone of voice that usually only seasoned mothers had. She’d been mothering me for only a few years, but she’d already perfected it.

She opened the box and I peered into the jumbled mess inside, the chains wound around rings and earrings, and even a couple of stray buttons lying haphazardly on top. I bit down hard on my lower lip, and tasted blood. With red-lacquered nails, she drew out a pretty gold ID bracelet, the chain narrow and feminine. “I always thought I’d give this to my daughter when she was at Ashley Hall.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, squinting to get a better look. On one side Ginette Prioleau, Class of 1970 had been engraved, and on the other, Ashley Hall, Charleston, South Carolina.

“I’m thinking I’ll give it to Nola her senior year. She’s not interested in a class ring, but she’ll consider this vintage, so she might like it.” She placed it on her dresser next to a single diamond earring stud that was missing its partner, and an S-link gold chain with a broken clasp. I’d already pointed out that I had no missing or broken pieces of jewelry because my costume jewelry was meticulously organized on labeled hooks and clear bins, and my good jewelry was in a locked safe where each shelf was labeled, so I kept silent.

“What’s this?” I asked, pulling out a ring with what looked to be an oval onyx stone, a small diamond at its center.

I dropped it in her outstretched palm, and watched her face soften as she recognized it. “I loved that ring. I don’t think I took it off for years.” She slid it over the third finger of her right hand, and I tried not to notice how easily it still fit. I’d had to have my wedding rings resized so I could still wear them.