The Strangers on Montagu Street.

Karen White.

To my readers, whose enthusiasm for the first two books about Melanie and Jack inspired this one.

Acknowledgments.

Thanks again to the usual suspects: Wendy Wax, Susan Crandall, and my long-suffering family, who, although only vaguely aware that I do something with my spare time besides laundry, make all of this possible.

Thanks, too, to the awesome talent at Penguin Group and New American Library: my editor, Cindy Hw.a.n.g; the entire art department (who are responsible for my gorgeous covers); the resourceful sales and marketing teams; and my publicity team (thank you, Craig and Heidi!). And thanks to the truly remarkable publishing team without whom my books would still only be ideas knocking around in my brain: Leslie Gelbman, Kara Welsh, and Claire Zion. To my agent, Karen Solem, a huge thanks for sticking with me since the beginning.

Any book set in Charleston requires plenty of visits for "research," so I must acknowledge the warm and gracious citizens of the Holy City for always welcoming me with their trademark hospitality and fabulous cuisine. I look forward to my next "research" trip for the fourth book in the Tradd Street series.

CHAPTER 1.

The phone rang out in the night-shrouded house, shrill and insistent, bringing me abruptly out of an odd dream that somehow involved me, Jack, a shovel, and something dark and undulating buried beneath the black earth. But when Jack opened his mouth to speak, I heard only the ringing of the telephone, jerking me upright in the bed and sending General Lee scampering to the floor with an irritated bark. I reached for the phone, remembering too late that the cord had been pulled from the wall, and held it to my ear before I recognized the pinp.r.i.c.ks of warning on the nape of my neck.

Melanie.

I listened for the words that weren't really words, more like sounds punctuated with static that only I could hear. "Grandmother?"

Melanie, I heard again, the sound soft and melodic. I felt no fear, although I suppose a phone call from the dead would alarm most people. But I was used to it.

"Grandmother?" I asked again, hearing only the staccato pop of static. I closed my eyes as my mother had taught me, and focused on the sound, trying to make words form in my mind.

Don't be afraid.

I resisted rolling my eyes and tried hard to push aside my impatience, wondering once again why ghosts couldn't just come right out and say what they wanted. My life was like one long B movie, with me as the lone member of the audience shouting at the screen, "Just tell her already!"

Refocusing again, I closed my eyes tighter and listened while trying to ignore General Lee's pawing at my leg in an attempt to get my attention.

Don't be afraid. And listen to your heart for a change.

My eyes popped open as I suddenly realized that Jack had been telling me the same thing in my dream. The dial tone sounded in my ear and I quickly hung up the phone. General Lee whined and pressed his paw against my nightgown. I looked down at the small black-and-white fur ball, reluctantly inherited along with the housekeeper, Mrs. Houlihan, and the historic house on Tradd Street where I now lived. The same house that was apparently crumbling beneath my feet and sucking money from my bank account at an alarming rate.

I bent to pick up the neglected dog, but he escaped my grasp and instead ran to the dressing table and began pawing at one of the drawer handles, making the bra.s.s clang against the dark polished mahogany.

"What?" I asked, following him and wondering why I actually expected an answer. General Lee was only slightly less communicative than the ghosts I'd been speaking with since I was very small and hadn't yet learned to keep such "skills" to myself.

With only the light from an outside streetlamp to guide me, I crossed the room to the dresser and was about to repeat my question when I spotted what looked like a wallet lying on the middle of the dresser top nestled between my La Mer night cream and the folded spreadsheet I used each day to allocate my-and sometimes other people's-time.

I flipped on a small crystal lamp, then blinked until my eyes became accustomed to the light. Because I was convinced that wearing my gla.s.ses would officially make me old, they were hidden in my nightstand drawer, so I had to squint to see. I stared hard at the object I was positive hadn't been there when I went to bed. It was definitely a wallet, and a familiar one at that. I picked it up and flipped it open, not at all surprised that I recognized the face on the South Carolina driver's license. Jack Trenholm, six-foot-two, one eighty-five, black hair, blue eyes. After glancing in the bills section and noticing he had two twenties and a ten tucked inside, I snapped it shut with disgust. n.o.body had a decent driver's license photo; my own closely resembled one of those fuzzy photos taken of Bigfoot. But Jack's, of course, was almost as good as the publicity photo that appeared on the back cover of his books. As a bestselling author of true-crime historical mystery novels, he had no right to look like a GQ model. It was irritating and not a little unnerving.

I frowned down at General Lee. "How did this get here?" The more appropriate question should have been, "Why?" but I'd long since learned unusual things happened around me a lot, and always for a reason-but never for a reason that was easily explained. Besides, I was talking to a dog, and the subtleties of my question would surely be lost on him.

I rubbed my hand against the soft leather while I thought. I hadn't seen Jack for about two weeks-not since the disastrous afternoon when a heretofore unknown teenage girl had shown up on my front porch and called him "Daddy." I'd happily stepped back to allow Jack, his parents, and Jack's girlfriend (my very distant cousin Rebecca Edgerton) to take care of that little problem. I had plenty of issues of my own to deal with-the least of which being the diagnosis of a cracked foundation on my very old historic albatross of a house. And my inability to ignore my unreasonable attraction to Jack Trenholm.

I looked at the clock on my bedside table, and while I was wondering whether five fifteen was too early to call Jack, the doorbell rang. General Lee and I looked at each other and I thought I saw him frown, but that could have been my poor eyesight. I quickly slid my feet into my slippers, slipped a robe over my nightgown, and put the wallet in the robe's pocket. After scooping up the dog, I descended the staircase to the main hall, sincerely hoping that my visitor was the living, breathing kind.

The front door lights had been left on, illuminating the piazza of my Charleston single house and making it easy to recognize the familiar outline of my visitor through the gla.s.s sidelights on either side of the door. After punching in the code to disarm the alarm-A-B-B-A, for my favorite musical group-I unlocked the dead bolts and opened the door.

"Jack," I said calmly, my voice completely belying the jumpy, skippy thing my heart seemed to be doing. "I hope you have a really good reason for waking me up and darkening my doorstep at this hour."

He smiled the smile that had cut down swaths of women in his wake since he'd been a toddler. "Now, Mellie-I saw a light in your window, so I know you were awake. What were you doing? Organizing your closet alphabetically by designer?"

While I tried to think of a response that didn't include the embarra.s.sing fact that I'd already done that, I saw his gaze traveling from the toes of my slippers up to the high neck of my nightgown that peeked out of the top of my oversize and very thick robe. Despite its being late spring, I was dressed for winter, since I was notoriously cold-natured.

I frowned at him, taking in his khaki pants, loafers without socks, and white b.u.t.ton-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I also noticed the messy hair, the unshaven jaw, and circles under his eyes that, unfortunately, did nothing to lessen his appeal.

Before I could say anything, he said, "I don't remember seeing that in the Victoria's Secret catalog. Is it new?"

"What do you want, Jack? I have far more important things to do than hang around my front door chatting with you."

His smile slipped just enough for me to notice. He looked behind him to glance at a darkened spot on the piazza before turning back to me. His smile now resembled a grimace, and I felt the first tremors of unease. "I need to ask a favor."

I crossed my arms, relieved. Obviously, this was some kind of a joke. Jack never asked for favors. His usual MO was to ply his victim with charm so that she never knew she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. "Will this involve getting me on my back? Or maybe just getting me drunk so that I embarra.s.s myself?" He hadn't technically done either thing, but I liked to pretend that those two instances had been both deliberate and his fault.

Instead of the snarky comment I expected, he frowned and gave a quick shake of his head. Too late, I realized that he wasn't alone on the piazza, as the young girl I'd met only once before emerged from the shadows behind him. Jack stopped slouching against the doorjamb and straightened, allowing the girl to move into the foyer ahead of him. She eyed me in very much the same way her father just had, but with a far more critical eye and accompanied by the loud smacking of chewing gum.

"Nice slippers." She blew a large purple bubble with her gum, then snapped it back into her mouth.

I looked down at my feet. My slippers had been a gift from my best friend, Dr. Sophie Wallen, a professor of historical preservation at the College of Charleston, and I rather liked them. I kept telling myself it was because they kept my feet warm and not because they resembled General Lee, since I wasn't really a dog person. Especially at this moment, as I watched my fickle dog move from my side to sit at the girl's feet and nuzzle her leg.

Jack moved into the foyer, closing the door behind them, and I could see the lines of strain around his mouth, even though he was trying very hard to keep his smile in place. "Melanie, since I didn't get the chance to formally introduce you the last time we were here, I'd like you to meet Emmaline Amelia Pettigrew. Emmaline, I'd like you to meet my . . ."

He paused, as if unsure what to call me, and I couldn't blame him. "Friend," I interjected, feeling the unusual need to help him. It was very clear to me that Jack was completely out of his league with this woman-child.

"Melanie Middleton," I added, and stuck out my hand, because I couldn't think of anything else to do.

The girl stepped under the foyer chandelier and I got a better look at her. Despite the heavy black eyeliner, bright red lipstick, teeny-tiny denim skirt, and pink Converse high-top sneakers, I could tell she was very young, maybe thirteen or fourteen. She also had beautiful black, wavy hair and startling blue eyes that left no doubt as to her relationship to Jack.

Ignoring my hand, she snapped another bubble with her gum. "Nola," she said. "My real name's Nola."

I dropped my hand and looked at Jack.

"We just received her birth certificate from California, and it seems she was officially named Emmaline Amelia. Apparently she's always been called by a nickname."

Nola crossed her arms across her chest and she wore an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a smirk, and I knew enough to brace myself. "Mom always called me Nola because I was conceived in New Orleans, Louisiana, when she and this guy were drunk off their a.s.ses."

Jack spoke through gritted teeth and I had the fleeting thought that I should be enjoying this a lot more than I was. "Like I said, her name is Emmaline Amelia and she's been living for the last thirteen and a half years with her mother in Los Angeles."

I raised my eyebrows at him. There was a whole story behind those words that he'd have to share with me eventually. But not now. An almost imperceptible tremor shook the girl, and her knuckles were nearly white where her hands gripped a ratty backpack. And there was something in her take-no-prisoners stance, in her bravado, that didn't ring true. Something sad and lonely and scared. Something that reminded me of the young abandoned girl I had once been.

I didn't know a lot about teenage girls, despite having once been one, but I knew that a.s.signing a new name to her right now wasn't a good idea. I also knew that the girl standing in front of me wasn't an Emmaline or an Amelia.

Directing a warning glance to Jack to remain silent, I said, "Nice to meet you, Nola. I think that name suits you."

With a triumphant look that was meant for her dad, she said, "So, are you sleeping with him?"

"Absolutely not," I said at the same time Jack said, "Not for lack of trying."

Nola rolled her eyes. "I told him that I would only consider staying with you if the two of you weren't hooking up or anything."

Or anything. I wasn't sure what that last part encompa.s.sed, but I knew for sure that whatever Jack and I had going on, it certainly couldn't be cla.s.sified as "hooking up."

"Stay with me?" I turned a sharp look at Jack.

"Yeah. That's the favor I was going to ask."

"What about Rebecca?" I asked, feeling light-headed. I already had a pretty jam-packed schedule, and I couldn't envision making room on my spreadsheet for one more thing, much less a troubled teenager.

Nola made a gagging sound as she leaned against my Chippendale console table, causing the Dresden figurine on top to wobble but, fortunately, remain in place. "Oh, please. Don't make me puke. All that sugary pink fakeness would make me want to strangle her, and I don't want to spend time in juvie."

I raised my eyebrows, although I was in complete agreement with her a.s.sessment of Rebecca. Forcing my voice to remain calm, I suggested to Jack, "And your parents?"

"They've already downsized to a one-bedroom condo. They'd put it up for sale today and buy a new house to make room for Emma . . . Nola, but I don't want them to do that. Besides, we, ah, kinda need something now."

"And she can't stay with you because . . . ?"

Jack clenched his teeth. "Because . . ." He shrugged, either because he couldn't think of a good enough answer or because he didn't want Nola to hear it.

Nola piped up. "Because he doesn't want me. He never has."

Jack took a step toward her, his hands palms out. "That's not true, Nola. I've told you that. I don't know why you won't listen."

Nola's voice rose a notch. "You're the one who won't listen." Nola's face reddened beneath her makeup, but it was more than just anger or hurt, and it suddenly occurred to me that I knew nothing about the circ.u.mstances that had brought her to Jack. Something had wounded Nola in a much more profound way than she wanted anyone to know, and it was apparent even to me that Jack really didn't have a clue.

My neck started to feel a little clammy. "Maybe I can just be your intermediary whenever you two have an argument. Sort of like a referee. I'll even do house calls." I smiled at them hopefully.

They both looked at me with identical expressions of disdain, two pairs of matching blue eyes making me feel very, very small and hardhearted. Some part of me even enjoyed watching them spar like a normal father and teenage daughter. I'd never fought with my parents, but only because I'd never been given the chance; my mother had left when I was six and my father had usually been too drunk to care. Despite my relationships with both parents having vastly improved over the last year, I still felt a huge void in my growing-up years. Not that I wanted to revisit them. I was thirty-nine years old, after all. Way too old to be dealing with teenage angst. Or to be single, but that was another matter altogether.

Grasping at my final straw, I said, "But she doesn't even know me."

Nola's look was so searing that I expected to see smoke rising from my terry-cloth robe. "It would be better than staying with him." She jerked her chin in Jack's direction. "Or living on the street." Her look indicated that the latter choice was only marginally worse than living with me.

Jack put his hand on my arm and turned the full force of his considerable charm on me, starting with a penetrating look from his very, very blue eyes. "We're here at this unG.o.dly hour because we were arguing up until midnight, when I called a truce just to get some sleep. That's when I caught her trying to sneak out. I made her sit with me on the living room couch until I thought you'd be up." He shook his head. "Please, Mellie," he said, using the nickname that I barely tolerated, although both he and my mother delighted in using it-my mother because it had been my childhood name, and Jack because he enjoyed irritating me. He continued. "It will only be for a little while, until we can figure this all out with cool heads-something we apparently can't have while living under the same roof."

In a last-ditch effort to avoid disaster I said, "What about school? Doesn't she need to be registered where she lives?"

Nola rolled her eyes. "School's lame."

Jack looked like he wanted to say something to her but thought better of it. Instead he said, "I already got her transcripts and she's a straight-A student. I'm going to try to get her involved with a homeschooling group to finish up the year. In the meantime, my mother's trying to get her into Ashley Hall, her alma mater and your mother's, too. I'm hoping their combined efforts can get her a spot in the fall."

I knew what an Ashley Hall girl looked like-smooth hair, lacrosse stick, fresh-faced-and I couldn't imagine Nola fitting in there any more than I would have at her age. But I bit my tongue. It had nothing to do with me.

Jack added helpfully, "So basically Nola has the whole summer to get acclimated to Charleston."

I looked at both of them as they stared at me expectantly, Jack hopeful and Nola resigned. I wanted to shout out an immediate "no." I had my own life to live, unfettered by husband or children or any other responsibilities that didn't include making my sales quota for Henderson House Realty. Or continuing the restoration of my beautiful yet money-sucking house. But when I looked at Nola, I saw again a scared and abandoned child who, except for the telltale trembling, was trying very hard to appear brave and strong. Unfortunately for both of us I saw not just her trembling; I saw myself.

"Fine," I said carefully, wanting to end Nola's misery and not willing to set her up for more rejection. "She's welcome to stay here for a bit. The guest room has clean sheets on the bed, and there are clean towels in the hall bath. I'll make sure Nola feels at home for as long as she needs to stay here." I shot a questioning glance at Jack in the hopes that he'd be able to give me not only a finite time period, but some kind of encouragement, too.

Instead, the only look I got from him was one of extreme relief. For all of the emotional trauma he'd caused me in the last year, I should have been gloating. Instead, I could only feel sorry for him and for Nola, their estranged relationship so much like the one between my father and me up until recently, when he'd finally decided to become sober.

"Thank you," he said, and all I could do was smile.

Jack walked to the door and pulled it open. "I know Nola doesn't want to forget this." He reached for something on the piazza and pulled inside the house a beat-up guitar case, scuffed and scratched, the original black of the case nearly completely hidden by stickers, most of them illegible. On the top near one of the latches was a small white rectangle with the faded black words I LOVE N'AWLINS. NOLA.

He set it down by the foyer table and I stared at it for a moment, feeling the telltale pinp.r.i.c.ks of gooseflesh on the back of my neck for the second time that night. I looked around, expecting to see . . . something. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees, and I watched Nola rub her arms. And then I heard what sounded like very quiet music. I glanced at Jack and Nola to see if they were hearing it, too, but they were concentrating on trying to figure out how to say good-bye without physical contact.

I strained to hear better, but the melody was so light that it was almost beyond my hearing range. The notes were strummed on an acoustic guitar, the tune hauntingly beautiful.

"So, Nola," Jack was saying. "You have my cell phone. Call me if you need anything. Anything," he emphasized.

She nodded, her jaw sticking out in the same way Jack's did when he was upset and trying not to show it.

I turned to Nola. "I want to speak with your dad for a quick moment. Why don't you go ahead up to your room-at the top of the stairs turn left. It's the third door on the right, and the bathroom's right next door to it. Make yourself at home and I'll be right there."

With a heavy sigh, Nola picked up her guitar and slung her ratty backpack over her shoulder, the unzipped corner exposing the well-worn face of a nearly threadbare teddy bear. It surprised me to see it, and it told me more about Nola than all of her heavy makeup and belligerent att.i.tude. It also reminded me that Nola was only thirteen years old, and very alone. Well, almost. General Lee, the little traitor, happily followed at her heels, content to be led away by a perfect stranger.

As she headed up the stairs, I called after her, "Nola, I have to go into my office early in the morning, but I'll tell my housekeeper, Mrs. Houlihan, to look after you and get you anything you need. I'll have her make you breakfast, so tell me what you want and I'll make sure we've got it."

She turned around and with a sullen expression said, "I don't like to wake up before noon, and I only eat vegan and organic." Without waiting for a response, she turned around and headed up the stairs, one slowly exaggerated step at a time.

I faced Jack again, seeing a faint glimmer in his eyes. "That could be a problem for you, Mellie, seeing how you only eat processed baked goods and animal protein. I guess I should have warned you."

"About a lot of things, apparently." I crossed my arms over my chest. "You've got a lot of things you need to tell me, starting with where her mother is."

His face sobered as he sent a quick glance up the stairs. "She's dead."

Jack's words didn't surprise me; I suppose I had known from the first moment I'd seen Nola. But a lifelong attempt at trying to bury my sixth sense made me extremely obtuse sometimes.

He placed his hands on my arms and pulled me closer to the door. Quietly, he added, "Nola's probably listening, so I don't want to talk about it now, but meet me at eight o'clock at Fast and French for coffee and I'll tell you everything."

I sighed. "You really owe me."

With a low voice, he said, "I know." He didn't drop his hands from my arms as he continued to look at me, and for an odd moment I thought he might kiss me, and I even thought that I might want him to. But the time for that was long gone, buried too deep beneath all sorts of reasons why Jack and I were wrong for each other-not including the fact that he had a girlfriend and now a teenage daughter.