“And nobody thought to call me and ask what I thought?”
She regarded me with surprise, as if this was the first time someone had considered my opinion. “Well, no. I suppose it’s because we know you have bigger worries right now.”
“Yes, but . . .”
Amelia patted my hand. “I know. You are certainly capable of taking care of yourself and your children. It’s just that as parents and grandparents we can’t stop ourselves from worrying.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Unfortunately, James and I don’t have the room, or we’d love to have you. Your parents offered for you and the children to move in with them, but we didn’t think taking the children and Nola away from everything that was familiar to them would be a good solution, either. So we put our heads together and came up with a solution that we all thought worked best.”
I leaned back, considering her with narrowed eyes. I’d never seen this manipulative side of Amelia Trenholm before, maybe because it was usually disguised by a kind smile and a Chanel suit. But she was Jack’s mother. “And?”
“We thought it best that Jack move back in. In the guest room, of course. And just until the filming is done. Or until you’re reconciled.” She smiled hopefully.
I’d be lying if I said the thought of Jack moving back in—regardless of the reason—didn’t do interesting things to my heart rate. I might even have started a mental list of all the things I needed to do—starting with shaving my legs—before he got there. Then I realized that there was one missing component to this plan, and I sank back against the sofa.
“Jack will never agree. He’ll find another solution that doesn’t involve him living under the same roof with me.”
A smile that could be described only as devious graced her face. She reached over and patted my hand again. “Leave that to us.”
The memory of Jack leaving me in the foyer of our house, the door shutting in my face, flashed across my brain. “Trust me. Jack isn’t ready. And he’s about as bullheaded as they come. He could never be talked into doing something unless he really wanted to. And he definitely doesn’t want to live with me right now.”
The pocket door slid open again, the sound of construction amplified for a moment before Veronica entered, balancing a tray with one hand, then closing the door with the other.
“Well, technically, it won’t be with you. And don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Amelia added quietly as she stood to help Veronica with the tray.
The knot that had begun forming in my stomach when Amelia first mentioned Jack returning home solidified at the sight of the cheese straws and iced tea. I looked at my watch, grateful I didn’t have to lie.
“Veronica, I have a showing, so I can’t stay. I just dropped by so I could go up to the attic again, see what else I might find. You’d mentioned that Adrienne had a Discman. Was that in the box with all of her belongings?”
Veronica’s brows knitted. “I suppose it should have been, but I don’t remember seeing it when I went through Adrienne’s box with Detective Riley. I could have missed it, though. I had to look away a few times. Too many memories.” She waved her hand in front of her face as if to stop tears. “I haven’t been up there since. But you’re welcome to go take another look.”
The tugging on the back of my dress became more insistent. “Thank you.” I walked toward the pocket doors Veronica had just closed. Turning back to Amelia, I almost said Good luck. But instead I just waved and let myself out into the foyer, knowing she would need a miracle and a bulldozer to get Jack Trenholm to budge.
* * *
? ? ?
The pressure of a pair of hands pushing me up the stairs continued up all three flights to the attic, the door helpfully opening on its own when I reached it. I turned around to see if there’d been any witnesses, and was relieved when I didn’t see anyone.
I closed the door behind me, then stood inside the gloomy space. Nothing appeared to have been moved since I’d last been up there. A dusty glass hurricane lamp with a thick red Christmas candle inside sat on one of the thick windowsills. The draped shapes of furniture still lurked against the walls, keeping company with children’s playthings, including a Raggedy Ann doll. I thought I saw something move in the black bead eyes, and turned around to see if it had been a reflection. But nothing was there except for the lingering scent of Adrienne’s perfume.
The dirty stained glass windows cast a watery rainbow across the attic’s gloom, giving it the impression of being underwater, the dust motes like tiny air bubbles floating to the surface. I held my breath for a moment, listening to the stillness that wasn’t exactly still. More like an anticipatory cessation of movement waiting for something to happen. Slowly, I exhaled with the certainty that I wasn’t alone.
“Adrienne?”
I waited for a sign: a sound, an unexpected movement of the child’s rocking chair that waited in a corner. An apparition, even. But that was the thing with Adrienne’s spirit. It was as if she was waiting in anticipation of something happening. She seemed to reserve her energy, saving it for times when she felt it necessary to be unleashed. Or whenever she needed to show me something, I thought as I remembered the red pillow and the sudden appearance of Adrienne’s gold necklace with the Omega Chi charm with the space for a missing letter. Again and again I apparently kept misunderstanding what the clues were supposed to tell me.