Suzy grinned. “Yeah, but then you would have disappointed all of your female fans. I say, all’s well that ends well. Even a year out from being published, I hear the buzz for Power, Greed, and Dirty Deeds is already the biggest thing in publishing since the last installment of Harry Potter. And Hollywood buzz, too. Maybe your house will have another chance to star in a movie.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when every light in the house flashed off and on several times. Suzy turned back toward us with wide eyes. “Or not.”
“So, Suzy,” Jack said, walking her to the gate, “one more thing. That unnamed source and those anonymous letters you received about our house that you wrote about in some of your articles—who really sent them?”
She looked back with genuine surprise. “They really were anonymous. They’d arrive on my desk with my name on the front of the envelope and nothing else. Nobody ever saw who put them there.” She tilted her head. “I always assumed they were from you.”
“From me? Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re a writer. Aren’t writers always looking for a good story? And publicity doesn’t hurt, either.”
“All true—but I didn’t send them.”
Jack and Suzy looked at me.
“And I definitely didn’t. I’ve only ever wanted to live in my house in peace. Digging up bodies was never part of the plan.”
“Well, then,” Suzy said, a sparkle in her eyes, “I guess it’s a mystery.”
We said good-bye; then Jack joined me back on the bench, pulling the blanket over us again. I put my head on his shoulder and sighed with contentment.
“I really love what your dad did with the garden,” Jack said. “What is it he calls this type of design?”
“A Romantic Garden.” I frowned. “I’m not so sure I like it. It seems so . . . unplanned. None of the paths have right angles or straight lines. And he’s placed tall plantings so that it’s impossible to see what’s around the next turn. I find it . . . unsettling.”
Jack chuckled, his hand reaching for mine under the blanket. “That’s sort of like life, though, don’t you think? As long as you have a partner to walk with, you won’t get lost.”
I nuzzled my nose into his neck. “True. And I think the garden will make a beautiful backdrop for Thomas and Jayne’s wedding.”
“What? They’re engaged?”
“Not yet. But Mother and I see it coming. I’ve already started planning the matching wedding outfits for Sarah, JJ, and Nola.”
Jack gave me a sideways glance but was smart enough not to comment. Instead, he said, “Have you decided what you want for Christmas?” He leaned forward to kiss the tip of Sarah’s nose before giving her swing a push.
I thought for a moment. “To be honest, there’s not a single thing on this earth that I need. Everything I need in my life is right here in this house.”
“Me, too.”
Our lips met, and I lingered there, too content to move. In just a few short years since I’d unwillingly inherited my house on Tradd Street, so much had changed in my life—a husband, children, dogs, a sister, and a renewed relationship with my parents. But so much remained the same. The old house still stood proudly, its windows peering out at the same street it had been facing for more than one hundred and seventy years. Her cornices were no longer cracked, and her new windows sparkled beneath the eaves and columns wearing fresh coats of paint.
The shuffling feet of an old man had been replaced by the running footsteps of toddlers and the bounding energy of a teenager. Mr. Vanderhorst had been right when he’d told me that a person couldn’t really own an old house like ours, but merely acted as guardian for future generations. I closed my eyes, remembering my first meeting with Nevin Vanderhorst, when I’d hoped to get the listing to sell his house. I had seen his mother, Louisa, in the garden by the rope swing, and that was all he’d needed to know that I would be its next guardian. And I would never forget what he had told me.
This house is more than brick, mortar, and lumber. It’s a connection to the past and those who have gone before us. It’s memories and belonging. It’s a home that on the inside has seen the birth of children and the death of the old folks, and the changing of the world from the outside. It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hands.
“Do you remember what you said to me when we got married?” I asked.
Jack smiled against my lips. “I do. We were standing in this very garden and I told you that I intended to live here with you forever. And maybe even longer than that.”
“Then let’s make that happen,” I said, and sealed my words with a kiss.
The sound of rope against wood drifted across the garden from the ancient oak that had stood sentinel for as long as the house had been there, the tree’s long branches reaching over the yard in a maternal embrace. And above the sounds of the rope and our babbling children, I imagined I heard the applause of a multitude of unseen hands and an unspoken chorus of a single word reverberating inside my head. Home.
NOTE TO MY READERS
When The House on Tradd Street was published in 2008, it was supposed to be the first book in a two-book series. I was busily working on the second book when the first book was published, and the love readers showed for Melanie, Jack, and the city of Charleston made it clear to both my publisher and to me that my wonderful readers wouldn’t be satisfied with just two books.
So then came The Girl on Legare Street (2009), followed by The Strangers on Montagu Street (2011) and Return to Tradd Street (2014). By the time I’d finished Return to Tradd Street it had become clear that my readers were as attached to these characters as I was. In what I thought was the final book in the series, I wrote an epilogue that would open up the possibility of more books if my readers wanted more. And they did.