Return to Tradd Street
Karen White
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KAREN WHITE
The Strangers on Montagu Street
“Hard to put down . . . a smorgasbord of literary enjoyment. [White’s] characters are completely delicious and the Charleston locales add the seasoning.”
—The Huffington Post
“Charming and complex living characters, combined with unsettled ghosts that balance uncanny creepiness with very human motivations, keep this story warm, real, and exciting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Her best book yet . . . spooky, sensual, suspenseful . . . simply put, this is a book you’ll read and pass immediately to a friend because it’s just too good not to share.”
—Southern Literary Review
“White’s latest will keep you in its grip from first page to last.”
—RT Book Reviews
“White captures the true essence of Charleston by intertwining the sights and smells of the historic town with an enchanting story filled with ghostly spirits, love, and forgiveness . . . a once-in-a-lifetime series.”
—Fresh Fiction
The Girl on Legare Street
“Karen White delivers the thrills of perilous romance and the chills of ghostly suspense, all presented with Southern wit and charm.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks
“If you have ever been fascinated by things that go bump in the night, then this is a bonus book for you . . . will have her faithful fans gasping.”
—The Huffington Post
“In The Girl on Legare Street, [White] embraces Charleston’s mystical lore, its history, its architecture, its ambience, and its ghosts.”
—Lowcountry Weekly (SC)
“Elements of history, romance, and humor. I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.”
—BellaOnline
“Beautifully written, with interesting, intelligent characters and a touch of the paranormal. The story is . . . dark [and] ofttimes scary.”
—Fresh Fiction
The House on Tradd Street
“Engaging . . . a fun and satisfying read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The House on Tradd Street has it all: mystery, romance, and the paranormal, including ghosts with quirky personalities.”
—BookLoons
Falling Home
“This sweet book is highly recommended.”
—Booklist
The Beach Trees
“[White] describes the land and location of the story in marvelous detail. . . . [This is what] makes White one of the best new writers on the scene today.”
—The Huffington Post
“More than just a ‘beach read.’ It’s a worthy novel to read any time of year—any time you wonder if it’s possible to start anew, regardless of the past.”
—The Herald-Sun (NC)
The Memory of Water
“Beautifully written and as lyrical as the tides. The Memory of Water speaks directly to the heart and will linger in yours long after you’ve read the final page. I loved this book!”
—Susan Crandall, author of Pitch Black
“Karen White delivers a powerfully emotional blend of family secrets, Lowcountry lore, and love in The Memory of Water—who could ask for more?”
—Barbara Bretton, author of Just Desserts
Learning to Breathe
“White creates a heartfelt story full of vibrant characters and emotion that leaves the reader satisfied yet hungry for more from this talented author.”
—Booklist
“You savor every single word . . . a perfect 10.”
—Romance Reviews Today
More Praise for the Novels of Karen White
“The fresh voice of Karen White intrigues and delights.”
—Sandra Chastain, contributor to At Home in Mossy Creek
“Warmly Southern and deeply moving.”
—New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith
“Karen White writes with passion and poignancy.”
—Deb Stover, award-winning author of Mulligan Magic
“Karen White is one author you won’t forget. . . . This is a masterpiece in the study of relationships. Brava!”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
“This is not only romance at its best—this is a fully realized view of life at its fullest.”
—Readers & Writers Ink Reviews
“After the Rain is an elegantly enchanting Southern novel. . . . Fans will recognize the beauty of White’s evocative prose.”
—WordWeaving.com
“In the tradition of Catherine Anderson and Deborah Smith, Karen White’s After the Rain is an incredibly poignant contemporary bursting with Southern charm.”
—Patricia Rouse, Rouse’s Romance Readers Groups
“Don’t miss this book!”
—Rendezvous
New American Library Titles by Karen White
The Tradd Street Series
The House on Tradd Street
The Girl on Legare Street
The Strangers on Montagu Street
The Color of Light
Learning to Breathe
Pieces of the Heart
The Memory of Water
The Lost Hours
On Folly Beach
Falling Home
The Beach Trees
Sea Change
After the Rain
The Time Between
RETURN TO TRADD STREET
KAREN WHITE
New American Library
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © Karen White, 2014
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
White, Karen (Karen S.)
Return to Tradd Street/Karen White.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-101-62648-1
1. Women real estate agents—Fiction. 2. Women psychics—Fiction. 3. Haunted houses—Fiction. 4. Historic buildings—South Carolina—Charleston—Fiction. 5. Charleston (S.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.H5776R48 2014
813'.6—dc23 2013032459
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
New American Library Titles by Karen White
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER
10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
EPILOGUE
About the Author
To my readers, whose enthusiasm for Jack, Melanie, Nola, General Lee, and the rest of the characters encouraged me to continue their story
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the people of Charleston, South Carolina, for your warm hospitality and dedication to historical preservation, which allows people like me to appreciate the beauty and history of the Holy City. Thanks also to Lisa Estes of the Preservation Society of Charleston for your insight into the people and customs of your native city.
And thank you for the patience and assistance of my good friend Diane Wise, RN, MSN, CNM, for all the extremely helpful information regarding pregnancy and childbirth. Despite having gone through both twice, there’s still so much I didn’t know!
Greatest thanks to Martha and Bill Buckley for your help with Citadel customs and uniforms. I hope you don’t mind my picking your brain for future books! You’re too good of a resource to utilize just once.
A big hug goes to my dog, Quincy (the inspiration for General Lee), who patiently sits by my side as I type every word, and to my dear friends Susan Crandall and Wendy Wax, who unwearyingly read each word before it is published.
Thanks also to Tim, Meghan, and Connor, who have learned how to live with a writer and know better than to comment that dinner isn’t on the table or that I’ve worn the same sweats for the past week when I’m on deadline. I love you!
CHAPTER 1
My eyes flickered open in my Tradd Street bedroom, where splinters of light fed slowly into the room through the plantation shutters. The gossamer curtains that my mother had thought would add a touch of femininity to the otherwise masculine space moved softly from cool air being blown out the vent hidden in the wide baseboard. A wet nose and furry ear pressed against my cheek as General Lee’s tail fanned my face. Yet none of these creature comforts eased the tightening in my chest that had seized me upon waking as the reality of my life once again came crashing down on my head like an avalanche with no impediments. Despite a lifetime of being in control of my destiny, and what I thought was a fulfilling life of purpose as a successful Realtor, I found myself in the most incomprehensible and extraordinary predicament: I was forty years old, single, and—most baffling of all—pregnant.
I glanced over at my bedside table to the small domed anniversary clock that had belonged to the home’s previous owner, Nevin Vanderhorst. Like most everything else in the bedroom and the rest of the house, I’d kept it, although I wasn’t altogether sure why. I liked to tell myself it was because the house would be easier to sell if I didn’t put too much of a personal stamp on it. But sometimes, like now, I imagined I could hear Mr. Vanderhorst’s voice telling me about the love he had for his family’s ancestral home. It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hands. I hadn’t really understood what he’d meant at first, but now I was afraid I was beginning to.
I was wary of understanding that connection between history and family. Despite being a native Charlestonian with my own baggage of family trees and old houses, I’d done very well without it for nearly thirty-three years, after all. At least until my mother, who had abandoned me when I was six years old, decided it was time we reconciled.
I squinted at the round face of the clock, silently cursing my decision not to replace my electric clock with a similar one—except with even larger, brighter neon numbers I could read without my glasses. I fumbled in the bedside drawer before finding my glasses and sticking them on my nose. Seven thirty. I jerked up, mortified that I had once again slept in. Not that anyone ever got to Henderson House Realty before nine, but since I’d begun my employment there I’d been like Old Faithful, always at my desk by eight o’clock. It’s what had put my name on the sales leaderboard in Mr. Henderson’s office every single quarter since my first year. A record I’d kept until recently.
I’d begun to swing my legs to the side of the bed when the room tilted and the contents of my stomach left over from the night before began to jostle for attention. Groaning, I lay back down on the pillow, feeling no better despite a wet swipe from General Lee’s tongue. A brief tapping on the door was followed by the appearance of Mrs. Houlihan, my housekeeper, entering the room carrying a plate of saltines.
“Seems I got here just in time. Your mama told me to have these on your bedside table each morning. You’re supposed to eat a couple before you even raise your head off the pillow.”
I’d inherited Mrs. Houlihan along with the dog and the house. Although I was still having doubts about the benefits of the latter two, Mrs. Houlihan was worth her weight in gold. And, after studying her broad chest and ample hips, I realized that would be a considerable amount, indeed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Houlihan,” I said as I took a proffered cracker and stuck it on my dry tongue. I left it there to dissolve, afraid that if I moved my mouth too much my stomach would protest. I closed my eyes to keep the room from spinning and heard the sound again. It was what had awakened me, forgotten as soon as consciousness had claimed me.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, lying very still so I could both hear better and wouldn’t throw up from any sudden movement.
“Hear what?” Her eyes met mine.
The sound was so small it would have been easy to ignore. Except that it was accompanied by a rush of frigid air, like the door to a tomb had just been opened.
“A baby crying,” I said. As if he could hear it, too, General Lee jumped off the bed and ran out the door. I told myself it was because he was hungry and was searching for food in the kitchen.
She smiled and moved to the door. “No babies in this house—at least not yet. Maybe you’re hearing a cat on the sidewalk. Or your ears are playing tricks on you to help you practice for what’s to come.” She stopped and faced me again, her bulk filling the doorway. “I’ll make you some of that decaffeinated green tea Nola brought over for you. Just lay down and keep eating crackers until you feel like you can sit up.” She pointed to the small handbell that my mother had placed next to the clock. “And just give me a ring if you need me.”
A loud, grinding motor started under my window, making me jump. “What’s that?” I asked, spitting saltine crumbs into the neck of my nightgown.
“That contractor Rich Kobylt is here doing the cleanup from the foundation work. He said he’d told you last week so you’d know to park your car on the street so he could have access to the rear garden.”
Through a haze of nausea, I allowed my glance to fall on my BlackBerry and new iPhone—neither of which I’d turned on since yesterday, when I’d struggled in from work and fallen into bed around six p.m. I vaguely recalled a conversation with Mr. Kobylt, even remembered that I’d successfully avoided a full view of his rear cleavage from his ubiquitous drooping pants. I might even have put a note on my various calendars, none of which were any good to me with their power buttons in the off position. My desk calendar at the office was filled with doodles of He-Who-Would-Not-Be-Mentioned, showing him in crudely drawn vignettes in various medieval-type death throes, instead of carefully penned-in appointments. I closed my eyes and groaned.
“Don’t you worry. Your daddy came by earlier and moved your car so you could sleep a little longer. Take your time, and just holler at me if you need something. I’ll go feed General Lee.”
As if he’d heard his name
, a sharp bark came from downstairs. Before my pregnancy-induced morning sickness, he and I had shared a biological need to be fed at specific times throughout the day. Anybody could have set their clocks on either his barks or my increased whininess. Now the thought of food completely unnerved me. I hurled myself out of bed and barely made it to the bathroom in time.
An hour and a half later, I struggled downstairs. After rewashing the ends of my hair and replacing my makeup three times from subsequent trips to relieve my stomach of all its contents and then some, I’d given up. I’d swiped my hair back into a ponytail and put a little powder on my nose. I didn’t bother with my glasses, as I was truly uninterested in seeing the results of my toilette.
Two slices of dry toast—gluten free, wheat free, and taste free—sat on a plate on the table next to the steaming cup of promised decaffeinated green tea. Across the table sat my mother, former opera diva Ginnette Prioleau—looking as if she’d just stepped out of an ad for Gwynn’s department store. Although in her sixties, she could have easily passed for somebody at least a decade younger, or even a brunette version of Dolly Parton, without the accent and with a slightly smaller bust. My only consolation with this whole pregnancy thing was that for the first time in my life I had a reason to be wearing an undergarment that didn’t resemble a training bra.
I sat down in front of the toast and tried not to picture a chocolate doughnut. “Good morning, Mother. What brings you here so early?”
She took a short sip from her cup. “Do I need a reason? You’re my only child, about to give birth to my first grandchild—isn’t that enough?”
I eyed her warily. “Nola called you, didn’t she?”
Nola, the teenage daughter of He-Who-Would-Not-Be-Mentioned, and I had formed a bond after her arrival in Charleston earlier that year following the death of her mother, Bonnie, in California. She’d been living with my mother and me in my mother’s house on Legare Street until recently, when my home was deemed fit to live in again after an enormous—and bank account–emptying—foundation repair. She was quirky, funny, musically gifted, and smart, and if it hadn’t been for her unfortunate choice of fathers, she would have been the perfect teenager.
