I thought for a moment that she wanted to say something else, but when she didn't I said, "Good," and continued walking. "I'm glad we understand each other." I knew the conversation wasn't over, but I also knew that she wasn't ready to continue just yet. And if I wanted to get to the bottom of why she'd taken the money in the first place, I'd have to bide my time. There was more than just stealing involved, something I'd been convinced of when she'd met my eyes and told the truth. Her resemblance then to the young me had been uncanny, and I couldn't help but want to give her a second chance.

We reached the covered open-air market that stretched between Meeting and East Bay streets, where long tables were set up displaying wares for the throngs of tourists in their kaleidoscope-colored T-shirts. The pungent scents of horses, from the nearby tourist carriage barns, and cooking food mingled in the air like new neighbors still trying to get to know each other.

The rumor was that the market had once been a slave auction house, but that was just something made up for the tourists. The land had actually been donated in the late eighteenth century for a food market, and while its wares had changed over the years, its purpose had not. I generally avoided it because, slave market or not, it was filled with the spirits of Charlestonians both past and present.

We strolled slowly through the crowds of people until Nola paused by a table displaying the traditional sweetgra.s.s baskets. A woman whose black skin had been baked by the sun into the color of dark coal sat in a chair behind the table weaving a basket in the time-honored tradition pa.s.sed down by the generations of women in her family. A middle-aged woman sat next to her, watching carefully as Nola picked up a tiny basket only slightly larger than my hand. She held it up to get a better look, studying the intricately woven blades of sweetgra.s.s done with such skill that the beginning and end of each blade disappeared into a seamless weave.

I smiled at both women before turning to Nola. "It's beautiful, isn't it? These baskets are part of the local Gullah history brought over with slaves from West Africa. Dr. Wallen takes some of her cla.s.ses on a field trip to Edisto Island to see how they're made. She says there's a direct correlation between the making of these baskets and the restoration of the old houses here in the city. I have no idea what she's talking about, but I do love these baskets."

Reluctantly, Nola put the basket down and prepared to move on. I noticed again the ratty condition of her backpack and the frayed rubber of her Converse sneakers and made the educated guess that she didn't have much spending money. In a move that I can only call impulsive, since I rarely did anything without advance planning, I picked up the basket and held it out to the younger woman. "How much is this one?"

"Seventy-five dollars," she said as she stood and moved to the edge of the table to face me. "All made by hand."

The price was high, and I could tell by Nola's quick intake of breath that she thought so, too. But I figured any kid who'd had the guts to get on a bus and take it to the other side of the country to live with strangers needed a little something to call her own.

"I'll take it," I said, drawing my wallet from my purse. The woman quickly processed the transaction and placed the basket in a plain white paper bag before handing it to Nola.

Nola kept her arms crossed in front of her, pressing the Palm Avenue shopping bag against her chest. "It's not mine," she protested.

"I got it for you," I said, taking the bag and pressing it into Nola's hand. "It's a welcome to the Lowcountry. Besides," I added, as I drew her away from the table, "I'm going to make your dad pay me back." I winked at her, eliciting a small smile, and began walking again.

We pa.s.sed tables of beaded jewelry and homemade perfumes, wreaths made of twigs and dried marsh gra.s.s, and individually wrapped bags of candied pecans and peanut brittle. Never one to pa.s.s up sugar, I bought one of each and held one up to Nola.

She shook her head. "No, thanks. It's probably made with real eggs and lots of sugar."

I took a bite of peanut brittle, savoring the burst of sweetness on my tongue. "I certainly hope so."

"How can you put that stuff into your body?" she asked with disgust as I took another bite.

I swallowed with a smile. "Very easily, thank you."

As Nola paused at a booth selling hand-carved wooden animals, I broached the next question. Gently, I asked, "Why did you take the money from the wallet?"

She picked up a statue of a sleeping cat and moved it up to her face to study it closely. "I needed to buy something."

"You do know that you can ask your dad for money, right? Don't tell him I said this, but I think he's a pretty reasonable and fair-minded guy. I don't think he'd be a pushover, but he'd listen."

She continued to study the cat, turning it over and running her fingers over the smooth, dark wood. "I know." She placed the cat gently on the table, keeping her eyes averted. "That's not the problem."

I frowned, not understanding until I saw the stain of pink rise on her cheeks. "Oh," I said, unsure how to continue. "You needed . . . female things?"

She gave a short nod, followed by a shrug.

I placed my hand on her arm and gently led her away from the table. "I think he could handle it, Nola. He's not as clueless as he looks."

That brought another slight upward turn to her lips. Still, she wouldn't meet my eyes as she turned to walk back in the direction we'd come.

I followed. "He's your father, Nola. No matter how embarra.s.sing you think it would have been to ask him, it would have been better than stealing the money."

She stopped so suddenly that I nearly ran into her back.

The hand clutching the two shopping bags turned nearly white. "My mom never had money for that stuff, so once a month I took a bus to a different town and stole what we needed. I figured paying money for it would be better." She turned and continued walking.

It took a moment for her words to sink in, and then I had to jog in my high heels to catch up. "Look, Nola. Let's go to Trellis Pharmacy and we'll get you everything you need, okay? Even makeup. But don't ask me to buy you any black eyeliner. You've got the most beautiful blue eyes, and n.o.body can see them with all that black goo smeared around them."

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered in a look I was already beginning to recognize as defiance, and I cut her off before she could speak. "You can keep the red lipstick for now if you like. Just get rid of the black eyeliner." I'd work on ditching the lipstick and multiple earrings later.

Her expression didn't change as she spoke. "If you're not trying to hook up with Jack, then why are you being so nice to me?"

Her question brought all kinds of thoughts to mind-like why she was referring to her father by his first name, and how somebody so young could know so much about circ.u.mspect adult behavior.

I took a deep breath and met her eyes. "Because you remind me a lot of somebody I used to know." Before she could ask any more questions, I started walking. "Come on; the store's not too far."

She shrugged and fell into step beside me, and we walked in silence for several blocks before she spoke again. "Mellie?"

I didn't register surprise that she was not only calling me by my first name, but that she was using my nickname, because it occurred to me that it was the first time she'd addressed me directly.

"Yes?" I replied, keeping my gaze focused straight ahead.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," I said, forcing my smile to remain small. And as I turned to look at her I caught our reflections in the front window of a store as we pa.s.sed by, seeing the unmistakable image of a third woman following closely at our heels. I stopped, turning abruptly, and found myself staring at nothing at all.

CHAPTER 4.

I had just finished discussing the menu for that night's barbecue with Mrs. Houlihan-which included tofu burgers and baconless baked beans served on a separate table so unsuspecting guests wouldn't accidentally eat any-when I heard a tapping on the back kitchen door.

I stood to let my mother in, along with a blast of hot air. Despite the heat, my mother barely glowed with perspiration and carried with her the scent of flowers. She closely resembled a more refined, albeit brunette, version of Dolly Parton, with the same enviable proportions. If not for the fact that I closely resembled her in almost every other way, including our ability to communicate with those no longer living, I would have demanded my DNA be checked.

She kissed me on both cheeks and that's when I noticed the yellow rose in her hair.

"Nice flower," I said as I closed the door, then led her out of the kitchen. Mrs. Houlihan was very protective of her domain, and when it was time to get to work you didn't want to get in her way. General Lee remained on his bed in the corner, his eyes trained on the housekeeper, hoping to catch a stray sc.r.a.p.

"Thank you. An early-morning gift from your father and his garden."

I didn't bother to ask her what my father was doing at her house in the early morning, because I really didn't want to know. Although they'd been divorced and estranged for over thirty years, their budding romance might have actually been sweet if it weren't for the fact that they were my parents.

As my mother followed me into the front parlor, she asked, "Are you expecting the ladies from the Historical Society for tea or something?"

I sat down on the sofa while my mother took the Queen Anne chair opposite. "No, why do you ask?" I began to pour coffee from the tray Mrs. Houlihan had brought in earlier while I'd been doing paperwork at my grandmother's desk. Amelia had found the desk at an estate auction, and my mother had given it to me. It gave me no small comfort to sit at it to go through mail or pay bills and feel my beloved grandmother with me, despite the fact that with her phone calls I never felt that she was that far from me anyway.

My mother made a point of studying my heels, white linen dress, and Grandmother's pearls before responding. "Are you wearing that for a barbecue?"

I handed my mother a cup of black coffee on a saucer while I filled my own cup with four sugar cubes before filling it, making sure to leave enough room for cream.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing? The hem's not hanging out, is it?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Don't you have, oh, I don't know, a pair of skinny jeans or something? Something that would make you look young and hip, maybe a little s.e.xy?"

I tried to pretend that my mother hadn't just used the word "s.e.xy" in a sentence directed at me. A thumping beat began to reverberate throughout the house, followed shortly by two slamming doors and then the sound of water being forced through old pipes.

I raised my voice slightly so I could be heard over the noise. "Why would I want to look s.e.xy in my own backyard?"

She lifted both eyebrows.

"What?" I really had no idea what she was getting at.

"Isn't Jack coming tonight?"

I pretended that my pulse hadn't just skittered at the mention of his name. "Of course. The party's for his daughter. But what's that got to do with what I'm wearing?"

She closed her eyes again, as if summoning divine strength. "Mellie, sweetheart, I think that Jack would appreciate seeing you in a nice pair of well-fitting jeans. Especially if he's bringing Rebecca to the barbecue."

My hand stilled with the coffee cup halfway to my mouth, and I could see little ripples in the surface caused by the thumping noise from upstairs. Carefully, I replaced the cup in its saucer and sat back. "Mother, in case you haven't noticed, Jack's seeing Rebecca. Not me."

"Yes, well, we all know the words to that song 'Love the One You're With.' If you ask me, she's his second choice, because you're too high-strung to let yourself go and see that the two of you were made for each other. Really, Mellie. It's time you listened to your heart for a change."

I stared at her for a long moment. "Have you been speaking with Grandmother?"

"No, why?"

"Because she called earlier this week and told me the same thing." I decided not to mention that I'd been dreaming about Jack right before the phone rang.

"Good. Then maybe you'll listen."

"Mother, you know as well as I do that Jack and I couldn't be together for any length of time before one of us killed the other." The thumping sound from upstairs reminded me of another reason. Before she could say anything else, I said, "I asked you over this morning because I have a favor to ask." I smiled benignly. "I have to move out for about three months while my foundation is being repaired, and I was hoping that I could move in with you."

She actually looked genuinely pleased. "Sweetheart, you know you don't even have to ask. Your father and I would love to have you."

I skipped over the "father and I" part and went straight for the next part of the favor. "I won't be alone. I hope that's not a problem."

"Well, of course you'll need to bring your adorable General Lee. He's part of the family."

I kept smiling as the noise from upstairs escalated. The bathroom door and then the bedroom door were thrown open, followed by a slam.

"What is that, Mellie?"

My smile didn't falter, but I was surprised my teeth didn't rattle. Living with a teenage girl for three days had left me feeling as if I'd been run over by a truck and then left in the middle of the road. We'd moved past the point of polite strangers and were now testing boundaries like a pin to a balloon. "That's Emmaline Amelia Pettigrew. Otherwise known as Nola, Jack's daughter."

Her left eyebrow rose, Scarlett style. "I see. Amelia's been telling me about her. And she's living with you because . . ."

"Because she and Jack keep b.u.t.ting heads. Apparently Nola's mother told her that Jack abandoned them both and she believed her." I glanced toward the foyer, afraid that Nola would sneak up and overhear. "I'll tell you everything later. But for now Nola's with me, and where I go, she goes." I perked up. "Besides, you always say how you regret not being there for my teenage years. Here's your chance."

My mother dabbed at the corners of her mouth with one of the linen napkins and stood. "You and I have dealt with evil spirits and vengeful ghosts. Surely we can handle one teenage girl."

We heard doors open again and the sound of a hair dryer turning on. I quickly walked to the foyer and called up the stairs. Raising my voice, I called out, "The fuses are a little delicate. You might want to turn off the stereo. . . ."

The lights flickered once, then went out completely, along with, fortunately, the noise that had been coming from the stereo. Even though I'd just purchased it for Nola, I had a small spark of hope that it had been ruined beyond repair.

"s.h.i.t! What the . . ."

"Nola!" I shouted back. "We have company."

My mother, to her credit, didn't flinch. Instead she moved past me and stood on the bottom step. "Nola? h.e.l.lo. This is Mrs. Middleton, Melanie's mother. I'm looking forward to meeting you when you're in a better mood. In the meantime, why don't you make yourself decent and come on down so Melanie can show you how to change a fuse. I have a feeling it will be a skill you'll come to appreciate."

With a satisfied smile, she stepped down into the foyer as Mrs. Houlihan stuck her head out of the kitchen door. "Somebody blew a fuse and I lost my power. Do you want me to change it?"

"Thanks," I said, "but I've got it covered."

"Just make it quick," the old housekeeper said. "These baked beans won't bake on their own."

I faced my mother again, but her attention was focused on something behind me. I turned, too, and saw Nola's guitar case leaning against the newel post, where I could have sworn it hadn't been earlier.

"What's that?"

I spotted the N'awlins sticker on the case, not like I needed further ID. "It used to be Bonnie's-Nola's mother-but it's now Nola's. Although according to Jack, she won't play a note."

Two furrows formed between her eyebrows. "Then what's it doing here?"

"Nola and I would like to know the same thing. Sometimes she wakes up with it in her bed; other times it just appears at random locations throughout the house, as if it wants to be seen."

"Maybe Bonnie is trying to tell you something."

"Could be," I said, not meeting her eyes. "I haven't tried to contact her so I'm not sure, but it seems likely." Unlike my mother, I preferred to let sleeping spirits lie. I wasn't one to jostle them awake and ask them to move to the light already. I'd spent a childhood being ridiculed for my particular "gift" and an adulthood trying to hide it. And at the age of thirty-nine, I saw no reason to change my MO. Changing it just made life messy.

My mother's eyes were understanding as she met mine. "You haven't told her yet, have you?"

I sighed. "About her mother possibly still being here or my ability to have a conversation with her?" I shook my head. "I don't think she's ready to hear either. She already has trust issues, and I can't see her believing anything else I say if I started out with, 'Hi, Nola. I see dead people.'"

"You're probably right, but eventually you're going to have to tell her. And you'll have to find a way to talk with Bonnie-or whoever it is-to figure out why she's still here." She took a step closer to the guitar case. "I could place my hands on it if you think it would help."

I gripped her forearm, holding her back. My mother had the ability to communicate with spirits by touching objects a.s.sociated with them, sometimes with disastrous results. I liked to think of it as only a last-ditch measure. "I don't think that's necessary. Bonnie could just be hanging around to make sure Nola gets settled. Why don't we wait and see?"

She gave me her knowing look, the look mothers most likely acquire during the birthing process, and I tried very hard not to squirm in my Valentino heels.

"After the barbecue tonight, I'm heading over to Caroline Lane's. Her sister pa.s.sed last fall and left some unfinished business that Mrs. Lane would like to settle so her sister can rest in peace. You're welcome to come along."

"Mother, please. You know how I feel about performing like a circus seal. And what would my clients think if it got out? I'd never be taken seriously again."

A shriek sounded from upstairs, rapidly followed by stomping footsteps and a door being thrown open. Again. "Stop moving my d.a.m.ned guitar! Where'd you put it?"

Hating to shout in my own house, I moved to the base of the stairs again. "I'll give it to you after you help me change the fuse."