Melanie opened her bag and pulled out one of her infamous spreadsheets. “I’ve been looking at the comps in the Faubourg Marigny . . .”
I held up my hand to stop her. “You know how you grit your teeth when you’re with a client who wants to buy a house in Charleston but doesn’t know how to pronounce the street names? They phonetically sound out Legare and Vanderhorst and it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard? So please. Locals here call it ‘the MAR-i-nee.’ No need to put ‘Faubourg’ in front of it because it means neighborhood so it’s redundant. And while we’re at it, it’s a streetcar, not a trolley, and whatever you do, do not say ‘New Orleens,’ okay? It’s all one word—‘Newawlins.’ Otherwise, people will have the same reaction you get when you overhear a tourist call Charleston ‘Chucktown.’?”
A shudder rippled through Melanie. “Got it. Since I imagine we’ll be visiting you a lot, it’s important that we fit right in.”
At my look of alarm, she quickly amended, “I mean—not too much. You’ll be busy with work, as will your father and I, and the twins have school, but I just thought . . .”
I put my hand on her arm and squeezed. Melanie, for all of her quirks and idiosyncrasies, had been my mother and fierce defender ever since I’d shown up unannounced on her doorstep at fourteen, lost and alone with only the name of my father—Jack Trenholm—as the one certainty in my life. Owing to her own shattered childhood, Melanie had recognized a kindred unmoored soul and had taken me in without reservation or conditions and proceeded to mother me long before she married Jack and the title became official.
“I’ll miss you, too,” I said softly. “And you and Dad and JJ and Sarah can visit as often as you like. And Aunt Jayne and all the grandparents. Just not too often, okay? I need to do this on my own.”
Melanie nodded, her lips pressed together, her eyes bright, undoubtedly remembering the first time I’d moved to New Orleans as an undergrad freshman at Tulane, excited and nervous at this great new adventure. Seeing only my bright new future ahead of me. Until it had all gone spectacularly wrong.
I blinked my stinging eyes as I opened my backpack and pulled out my own spreadsheet on recent sales in the neighborhood, earning me a look of approval and a little bit of surprise. I hadn’t meant to show Melanie, not wanting her to know that despite my adamant demands that I leave my home behind me, there were some things that I would need to hold on to. And because I’d realized that she might need the same thing.
“Let’s just say that after living with you for so long, a few things might have rubbed off on me. I’ve found that spreadsheets can actually be useful in situations where organization of details is important. Like house searches. Or class schedules. But not the contents of my dresser drawers.” I raised my eyebrows. “Or shoes.”
“Um-hmm.” That was the Melanie equivalent of letting me know that she was right and I’d figure that out eventually. “Anyway,” she continued. “Even in the condition this house is in, it still appears to be structurally sound. Which is why I don’t understand the listing price. It’s way below market, even lower than other homes in worse condition that were sold before being rehabbed. I just can’t figure out why. I was wondering if maybe this house sustained major damage during Katrina and that’s scared off buyers?”
I shook my head, remembering all the research I’d done before accepting my new job as an architectural historian for a New Orleans–based civil engineering firm. I knew I needed to be fully armed to talk my parents out of all of their objections. “The section of the neighborhood on the Mississippi River side of Rampart experienced some wind damage, but the Marigny is at a high enough elevation to have escaped the flooding. Most of the nineteenth century–style raised houses are elevated enough so that the flood waters didn’t do significant damage. I know you won’t admit it, but older houses are just built better.”
Melanie’s forehead creased even more. “Then why hasn’t it sold? It’s been on the market for over a year, and the price is so below market that I’m wondering if they forgot a zero.” She raised the worksheet closer to her face and squinted. “The average time on the market for this neighborhood is less than two months—even for those in need of rehab. And, according to my notes, it looks like this house has made it to escrow six times before the deal fell through.” She looked at me. “Frank or this Alison person, if they truly consider themselves real estate agents, would have done their research and figured out why.”
I kept my mouth closed, not wanting to mention that they probably had but had thought it best not to tell me. Before Melanie reached the same conclusion, I marched past her toward the back door. “Let’s check out the courtyard.”
I threw open the door and paused. “I found the toilet and sink!” Both had been planted along the fence line, a healthy sprouting of weeds spilling out of both and trailing down to the lichen-coated, brick-covered ground. Muppet hair–like spikes of grass poked out from between the worn bricks, many of them broken or missing corners. A pine coffin, questionably refurbished as a planter, sprouted surprisingly hardy miniature palm trees, while an impressive amount of something green and fuzzy covered it like five-o’clock shadow.
Melanie shuddered. “I noticed that the neighbor across the street has a coffin planter, too. Maybe they’d like a pair.”
I looked at Melanie with alarm. “Do you think . . . ?”