The Attic on Queen Street (Tradd Street #7)

Dr. Sophie Wallen-Arasi was—against all reason—my best friend. A professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston, she was mismatched tie-dye to my crisp linen suits with matching handbags, Birkenstocks to my Louboutins, and real Christmas greenery versus hassle-free plastic garlands, because she liked to make things more difficult than they should be. I liked to think that we complemented each other, rounding off any sharp edges of our personalities. She’d guided me through the extensive and never-ending renovations on my historic house, which I’d unwillingly inherited—along with a dog, General Lee, and Mrs. Houlihan the housekeeper. All the while, I had kept up a running commentary about her bizarre clothing choices in the hope that one day she might actually look in a mirror and fix things.

I looked down at my baggy sweatpants and moth-eaten cardigan sweater with an unidentified food stain on the sleeve, and felt my eyes well with tears. I’d found them in a dark corner of the closet where Jack had dropped and forgotten them. Besides our children, they were the only things of his he’d left behind.

As if to stave off more tears, Jayne held up the bag and mug with a hopeful smile. “I brought you doughnuts from Glazed. And made you coffee just the way you like it.” She moved closer so I could feel the steam from the coffee. “Since Mrs. Houlihan is still on vacation, I helped myself.”

My mouth would usually have started watering at the mere mention of my favorite doughnut shop, but all I could muster was a soft grumble in my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

I took the mug while she set the bag on the dining room table and eyed the shriveled oranges and the dead pine boughs regurgitating brown needles on the glossy wood surface. The centerpiece relic was from a Christmas dinner fund-raiser the night of the big snow when Jack had nearly been buried alive. A sudden flash of anger pushed away a little of my despondency. I accepted that I had perhaps broken our trust agreement by venturing out on my own. But I also couldn’t stop thinking that if Jack had just stayed in bed to recover from the flu like he’d been told, he wouldn’t have been in the snow-covered cemetery that night or fallen into a collapsed grave.

“It’s almost the end of January, Melanie. Would you like me to help you take down the Christmas decorations?”

She indicated the drooping Christmas tree in the corner. The sad ornaments huddled at the bottom, where they’d slid off of bare branches next to puckered oranges in various stages of decay like victims of a massacre in which indifference had been the only weapon.

I shrugged. “Sure.” Ignoring the doughnuts, I took a sip of coffee, barely tasting it. I wrapped my fingers around the mug, appreciating its warmth, but paused as I raised it to my lips for a second sip. “Why are you here? Sarah and JJ are with Jack today.”

Jayne sighed. “Besides the fact that I shouldn’t need a reason to visit my sister or to bring sustenance since Mrs. Houlihan is away, I am bringing a message.”

“A message?” I didn’t bother to hide the hopefulness in my voice; one of the best things about having a sister was the absence of the need for pretense.

She gave me a consoling smile. “From Rebecca. She and Marc would like to meet with you and Jack about the filming. She considered asking you herself, but with Marc and Jack involved, she figured she’d need me as a go-between. She mentioned it’s hard to clean blood off of these antique rugs.”

I raised my eyebrows. Rebecca was our distant cousin as well as Jack’s onetime girlfriend and my sometime nemesis. She’d married Marc Longo, whose main talent appeared to be using his far-reaching influence to ruin Jack’s writing career.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “No. That’s not going to happen. We don’t need the money anymore, not since we found the rubies in the cemetery.” I didn’t add the night Jack was nearly killed because I didn’t need to. Everyone remembered that night not only because of Jack’s near-death experience but also because Marc got dragged feetfirst into a mausoleum and his hair turned solid white.

I continued. “Our lawyers have already been in touch with the film production company with a generous cash-settlement offer to get them to change filming locations. We had to remind them that we were forced into agreeing only because we were trying to avoid a lawsuit after Nola’s car accident with Marc and that creepy producer, Harvey Beckner. But now, because of the rubies, we’re not that desperate. There is absolutely nothing Marc can say to make us change our minds.”

“Marc is aware. But Rebecca says there’s more to it. She suggested meeting at your office at a time that works for both you and Jack.”

“Both of us?” I didn’t care how pitiful my voice sounded or how my firm insistence on not having a film crew anywhere near my house had been quickly replaced with thoughts of what I would wear to the meeting if Jack was there and how I should probably wash my hair. “He agreed?”

“He hasn’t agreed yet. They thought it best that you ask him and then let them know.”

My excitement dimmed. “Oh. I’ll try. That’s the only thing I can promise. Although I think we’d have a better chance of another big snow in Charleston than of Jack agreeing to sit down with me, not to mention with Marc and Rebecca.”

“All right. I’ll let Rebecca know.” She squatted and picked up two of the oranges, the spiked cloves that I had so painstakingly applied in precise rows now looking more like crooked pimples on shrunken heads. “Why don’t I start clearing away all of the rotten fruit and dried greenery? It’s a fire hazard, you know.”

I didn’t answer, distracted by the sound of Nola’s guitar coming from her room. My stepdaughter had inherited her musical ability from her late mother and had already found success writing jingles for commercials, as well as a few hit songs for pop heartthrob Jimmy Gordon.