The first thing I noticed were the pages of music scattered around the room like a dusting of black-dotted snow. The second thing I noticed was that the dollhouse had been moved to the foot of her bed, but with so much force that it leaned backward where its forward movement had been stopped by the bottom bed rail.

I stood next to the four-poster, where Nola lay curled in a fetal position on top of her bedspread, still fully dressed. Through the triangle of light from the hallway I watched my breath vaporize in front of me. I shivered in the icy air, glad I had on my thick robe.

"Nola? Are you okay?" I put my hand on her arm and felt goose b.u.mps. "You're freezing," I said as I pulled up the quilt that had been draped at the foot of the bed and placed it over her. Gingerly, I sat down on the bed next to her; then, not knowing what else to do, I put my hand on her shoulder. We were both silent, waiting for the other to speak.

I tried to remember back when I was her age, when I lived with my father without a mother to confide in or many friends. I'd had a doll who'd witnessed all of my tearstained confessions and insecurities, unappreciated, because I'd never stopped wishing my mother would suddenly reappear to make everything all right.

Reaching over, I snagged the teddy bear from the corner, tucking it under the quilt with Nola. Without a word, Nola reached over and hugged it to her, and I resisted the impulse to smile. Instead, I said, "I know I'm not your mother, but I am a girl, and I even used to be thirteen."

"A million years ago," came the m.u.f.fled response.

I was so relieved to see some of the old Nola return that I wasn't too offended.

"Yes. A million or so years ago. But what I'm trying to say is that even though I don't know exactly what you're going through, if you need somebody to listen, I'm here." I took a deep breath, trying to see in the darkened shadows of the room, my breath gathering like storm clouds over the bed. I remembered huddling in my own bed as a child, feeling the presence of others around me but knowing I was still horribly and irrevocably alone. I looked down at the child huddled in the quilt, and wondered how much I could tell her.

"When I was about your age, I didn't have any friends. I was . . . different from the other kids." That's one way of putting it. "That's when I started making lists. I'd keep paper and pencil by my bed, and whenever I felt alone or scared, I'd jot down things I needed to do or wanted to do. It helped me get my life in control when so much of it seemed as if I couldn't. It's sort of taken over my life now, but it really saved me back then. I'm thinking you don't need to do that because you have me to talk to, but if you want me to get you a pad and pencil instead, I will."

She lay there quietly, but I knew she hadn't gone to sleep. By her silence, I a.s.sumed I had her answer and began to stand so I could go find her something to write on. Her hand clasped my wrist, stopping me, and I sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"Of what?"

There was a short pause. "That I'm going crazy."

My heart tightened in my chest. "Why do you think that?"

"Because I'm too much like my mom." She began sobbing, deep, choking sobs that left her gasping for breath. I grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on her nightstand and tucked them into her hand. Unsure what to do next, I patted her shoulder, remembering the events of the afternoon, trying to come up with a reason that would have led Nola to the conclusion that she was losing her mind.

"That song you were playing today on Miss Manigault's piano-did your mother write it?"

She shook her head, her hair rasping against the pillowcase. "We wrote it together. But we never finished it."

"It was beautiful, Nola. We all thought so. But why would that make you think you're going crazy?"

Her body shivered with a silent sob. Very quietly, she said, "Because I keep doing crazy things and I don't remember doing them. At first I thought it was the dog, but I figured out that he couldn't be doing some of the stuff."

I sat very still. "Like what kind of stuff?"

Without looking up, she waved her hand in the direction of the dollhouse. "I find it in different spots all over the room, and I don't remember moving it. I don't even think that I could if I tried." She sniffed again, then pointed to the corner where Bonnie's guitar case rested against the wall. "And my mom's guitar, and all that sheet music-they're never where I left them." She began to sob again, and I knew I was hearing the sound of a heart breaking.

I wasn't even sure how to begin this conversation, but I had to try. "You're not crazy, Nola. There's a logical explanation for all of it." Well, maybe not logical, but at least it was an explanation. "But your mother wasn't crazy. I didn't know her, but from what I've heard about her from Jack and from you, I'm guessing she might have been sad that her career wasn't where she wanted it to be, and she tried to hide from her sadness with drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, that happens to a lot of people. But that doesn't make her crazy."

Nola shook her head vigorously. I had to struggle to make out her words between sobs. "I was such a good kid. I took really good care of her. I didn't do drugs or drink, or hang out with the bad kids, and I made sure she ate good when I could get food in her. But she killed herself anyway, like I didn't matter. Like she didn't love me. Why would she do that unless she was out of her mind?"

I was crying now, too, and knew I had no choice but to tell her the truth regardless of the consequences. "Oh, no, Nola. Your mother loved you very, very much. Please believe me, because I know it's true."

Her fists hammered the mattress. "You're lying," she screeched, and I shrank back. "How would you know? She's dead!"

I said the words before I could talk myself out of it. "Because she told me."

She went absolutely still, her tearstained eyes glaring up at me. "What do you mean?"

Closing my eyes, I tried to think of the best way to make her understand, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I can communicate with people who have pa.s.sed on."

Her eyes blinked slowly up at me as I waited for my words to register. Finally, she said, "You can talk to dead people? Like in that movie with the little boy and Bruce Willis?"

I sighed. "Yeah. Pretty much." I'd never seen The Sixth Sense until recently, when Sophie and Chad had invited me over for movie night and organic popcorn. I wouldn't have gone if I'd known which movie Chad had chosen.

Nola hiccuped. "And you saw my mom?"

Nodding, I said, "She wanted me to tell you that she loves you, and never meant to hurt you." I paused, trying to make up my mind as to how much I should tell her. "I see her around you a lot, like she wants to make sure you're okay."

Her shoulder relaxed under my hand, as if all the tension inside of her had somehow seeped from her body. In a very small voice, she said, "Did you ask her why she did it? Why she left me all alone?"

"I don't know why, but she won't speak directly to me. You remember when we were at the bridal salon and you heard me talking to someone? I was speaking with the bride who was the gown's original owner. Your mother sent her message through her." I placed the backs of my fingers against her cheek. "And you're not alone. You've got Jack and me, your grandparents, my parents, and Alston. Even General Lee is a fan. I think your mother might have known that she wouldn't be leaving you alone. That's why she led you to Trenholm's Antiques."

Nola was silent for a moment. "Why won't she speak to you directly?"

I shook my head. "I'm not sure. My mother thinks it has something to do with Jack, because your mother said his name, but that could mean a lot of things."

"But why would she be moving the dollhouse?"

I realized that she'd probably had all the information she could digest in one sitting and that I needed to save the rest for another time. Still, I tried to be as honest as I could. "There's a lot going on here that I don't understand. I was hoping that if I just ignored it, it would go away, but I don't think that's going to happen."

"But isn't the whole point of you being able to talk to dead people so that you can help them?"

Out of the mouths of babes. "I've been trying to figure that out my whole life. I used to think it was something I was supposed to tolerate-like being too tall, or having straight hair that wouldn't curl. It's only recently-thanks to my mother-that I've begun to look at it a little differently. Sort of like more of a gift than a curse."

She wiped the back of her hand across her face, then stared up at me. I was surprised and happy to see that she wasn't looking at me like a two-headed sideshow freak. "Your mom knows about you?"

I nodded. "She's actually psychic, too. And Jack and Sophie know, but that's about it. It's not the sort of thing I'm comfortable telling everybody."

"I think it's cool. In a creepy-weird way, but cool. I mean, you get to help people who get stuck here, you know? There're probably not that many people who can do that." She shifted out of the quilt covering her, and I realized the temperature in the room had returned to stifling. "Mellie?"

"Mm?" I wiped her damp hair off of her forehead.

"Can you stay here until I go to sleep?"

I smiled. "Of course," I said, knowing it wouldn't be too much longer. Her eyes were already drooping.

Her words slurred when she spoke again. "I still love my dollhouse, but it's creeping me out now. Do you think we can move it to another room tomorrow?"

"Definitely." I continued to sit on the bed and watch as her eyes finally slid closed and her breathing became slow and even. Gently, I stood, waiting a moment to make sure I hadn't awakened her before walking silently to the door, a shaft of light from the hall illuminating the bed in a yellow triangle.

"Mellie?"

I stopped and turned at the sound of Nola's voice, heavy with sleep.

"Yes?"

"I think you and Jack have the hots for each other. It wouldn't make me hurl if the two of you hooked up."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Are you really that interested in seeing us together or are you just trying to get Rebecca out of the picture?"

A soft snort came from the pillow, and then silence. I waited for a moment but heard only soft, gentle breathing.

I closed the door silently, then turned to find the hallway empty. I pushed back my disappointment, telling myself I had just been eager to tell Jack that I'd told Nola my secret and that she seemed to be okay with it.

I walked across the hall to my room, untying my robe as I did so, my eyes heavy with exhaustion. My hand was on the light switch when I stopped abruptly. General Lee had been replaced by Jack, who lay fully clothed-fortunately-on the top of my bed, his fingers laced behind his head. A spark of electricity zinged through my blood as I looked at him on my bed, the realization hitting me that all I had to do was take a few steps forward and then I wouldn't have to think about anything at all.

"That was sweet," he said.

Instead I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see him. "How much did you hear?"

The bedsprings creaked, and when I opened my eyes again Jack was standing in front of me, his arms pressed against the door, effectively trapping me between them.

"All of it," he said softly.

"She seemed to handle all of what I told her pretty well."

"Mm-hm," he murmured, lowering his face so that our noses nearly touched. "Is that really how all your list making started? Because you needed to find some sort of control in your life?"

"Pretty much."

He let out a small breath. "That explains a lot. But you still managed to become a nurturer to those around you who need nurturing."

I shook my head. "If you're referring to Nola, I think I did what anybody would have done. It's so obvious how much she needs somebody to talk to."

"Rebecca doesn't see that at all. She thinks what Nola really needs is a boarding school. In another state. Preferably another country."

Half of my mouth turned up. "Yeah, I can see her point. Until you really spend time with Nola and get to know her better. Because under the makeup and neon clothing, she's a pretty neat kid."

"Of course she is. She's half mine." His nose nuzzled mine and my lips parted involuntarily. I'd meant to use the next opportunity when we were alone to discuss what my mother had said about his being in trouble, but found now that I couldn't form a single coherent thought. "And she thinks we have the hots for each other."

I stumbled over words in my head, trying to come up with a response, and failed miserably.

He was standing so close I could feel his chest rumble when he spoke. "Remember when we were on the kayak and I told you that you and I weren't over yet? This is what I was talking about."

My chin tilted up as his lips angled toward mine. I closed my eyes in antic.i.p.ation, just in time to hear the front door open downstairs and my parents' voices as they climbed the steps toward my mother's room next to mine.

My eyes flicked open, meeting Jack's amused ones. I put my finger to my lips as we listened to my father say good-night to my mother, then retreat-luckily-back down the steps and out the front door again.

I glanced meaningfully at the connecting door to my mother's suite of rooms and made a flicking gesture at Jack so that he'd know he needed to leave.

Leaning very close to my ear, he whispered, "And that was almost-kiss number six." He straightened and I pulled away from the door, trying to recall my former equilibrium.

He turned the k.n.o.b very slowly and stepped out into the hallway, the light from under my mother's door guiding his way to the steps. As if in afterthought, he turned and said, "I'll be back tomorrow."

My heart skidded and thumped in my chest. Without thinking, I blurted, "To finish the kiss?"

He raised an eyebrow, his face creased in a smile. "To move the dollhouse."

I stepped back, straightened. "Good. Because I was going to tell you not to bother if it was about the kiss. You're dating my cousin, remember?"

"Good night, Mellie," he whispered, then headed toward the stairs. I could hear his soft laughter and retreating footsteps as I closed my door, wondering how Nola could see so clearly the one thing I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge.

CHAPTER 14.

I struggled home the following afternoon after a horrendous day at work. It had started with Charlene, the new receptionist, swapping out my latte for green tea, leaving me with a caffeine deficit that n.o.body appreciated. Then I'd spent the entire day showing historic homes in the Radcliffeborough neighborhood to a couple from Mount Pleasant, only to be told after touring house number seven that they weren't ready to move just yet. But the icing on the cake of my day had been my trip to the home of Sophie's friend Carmen, from her yoga cla.s.s, who was making the bridesmaids' dresses. My dress was little more than a toga with a leotard underneath. Even a Wonderbra couldn't help me look like anything but a male nymph stuck in time. My headpiece would be a crown of flowers, and the length of my dress wouldn't matter because I would, indeed, be barefoot.

I paused on the front walk of my mother's house, studying the two cars parked at the curb. The first was Jack's Porsche. I'd planned to not be at home when he came to move the dollhouse, although now I realized that he couldn't move it alone and most likely would have had to wait until Chad was finished teaching for the day. My gaze strayed to the porch, where I recognized Chad's bike, the identifying peace sign on the back fender faded from the sun.

I considered retreating to my car for a much-needed nap, but the car parked behind the Porsche captured my attention. It was a bright red Beetle with curb feelers protruding from the wheel wells, a red-and-green fuzzy cover over the steering wheel. A small Christmas wreath was affixed to the front grille, and a handicap tag dangled from the rearview mirror.

Curious, I walked a little faster, almost jogging up the front steps and into the house. Dropping my briefcase and purse in the foyer, I followed the sound of voices into the front parlor with the large stained-gla.s.s window. Normally, the window was the topic of conversation for new visitors to the house, but I could tell from the tone of the conversation that they weren't talking about a window.

My mother met me in the doorway. "Mellie, I'm glad you're here. We have company."

With a worried frown, she led me into the room. A square block of gla.s.s, something I recognized as a remnant from the garden that had been left behind by the former occupants, sat in the middle of the room in the same spot my grandmother's Chippendale table had sat as of earlier that day. Julia Manigault sat in her wheelchair in front of it with her house manager, Dee Davenport, next to her and Nola on the other side. But the oddest part of the entire tableau was General Lee casually sniffing the rear end of the s.h.a.ggy dog I'd seen before, who insisted on vanishing as soon as he caught me watching him.

I stepped forward to greet Julia. "This is a surprise, Miss Manigault. I didn't expect to see you again."

Her gaze held nothing of the venom I'd seen the previous day. "I wanted to tell you how sorry I was for my behavior. I don't handle surprises very well, and your mention of the dollhouse . . ." She paused. "And I needed to see the dollhouse. To make sure it's the same one."

I glanced at Nola, who just shrugged. "The same one as what?"

"The same dollhouse that was given to me by my father in 1931, when I was ten years old." I waited for her to say more that might unlock part of the mystery surrounding the dollhouse, but she pursed her lips tightly, as if afraid something she didn't want revealed would escape.

Dee stood and took my hand. "I'm sorry to come unannounced, but Miss Julia insisted on coming right over. She wanted to apologize in person for the . . . misunderstanding yesterday."

I raised my brow. Misunderstanding? The woman had screamed at me to leave. "I see," I said, my Charleston upbringing not allowing me to demand that she define misunderstanding in a language I could understand. "How did you know how to find me?"

Dee grinned. "Your real estate ads are in the papers all the time. Not the best picture of you, Miss Julia pointed out, but we recognized you. We called your office, and when Charlene Rose answered the phone-she used to live two doors down from Miss Julia-I asked her for your home address."

I made a mental note to confront Charlene about how it wasn't a good idea to be handing out my home address to anybody who asked-neighbor or not.

She continued. "We went to your house on Tradd Street and the most peculiar man with pants that didn't fit him very well told us we could find you here at your mother's house. Which was a bonus, seeing how Miss Julia wanted to see Mrs. Middleton again anyway."

I sat down on the sofa opposite them and nodded to Mrs. Houlihan, who'd just brought in a tray of sweet tea and cookies and began pa.s.sing gla.s.ses and plates around to the small group.

Miss Julia's eyes bored into mine. "I knew I'd seen you before, though, when you showed up on my doorstep. You were involved in that business with Nevin Vanderhorst's house and the dead bodies buried in the garden. The papers didn't mention anything besides what the police told them, but people in this town talk, and a lot of them were saying how you could see ghosts and that's how you found out about what happened to poor Louisa Vanderhorst."