The House on Tradd Street by Karen White Page A

chest-on-chest drawers, feeling guilty for snooping. I was halfway into the hall when I realized that I now owned this room and all its contents and that I could not only leave the door wide-open, but that I could go in without feeling as if I were invading somebody else’s privacy.
    I forced myself to go stand by the side window, and took a deep breath, surprised to smell the roses again. I checked to ensure that the windows in the room were closed and frowned to myself, wondering how the aroma of roses two stories down and through a closed window could be as strong as if I were sticking my nose in one.
    With my hands behind my back, I walked around the room, realizing that this must have been Nevin Vanderhorst’s. On the side table by the bed and on the chest of drawers opposite, a cluster of silver-framed black-and-white photographs covered the dark wood. I moved closer, studying each one like a botanist would study butterflies under glass, examining the small details that showed the viewer the relationships between the specimens.
    With a start, I realized that the woman in many of the photos was the woman I’d seen in the garden. There were several photos of a young Nevin with the same woman, and I realized it had to be Louisa Vanderhorst. She was young and beautiful, with large dark eyes identical to her son’s, and wearing the same warm smile. There was her wedding photo with a very tall man and a picture of her holding a newborn baby. The frame closest to the bed, the one picture that Mr. Vanderhorst must have seen last thing at night before he turned off his light and the first thing each morning, was a studio portrait of him as a small boy sitting on his mother’s lap. They were facing each other and smiling, their noses almost touching. I picked up the frame to look at it more closely, realizing that the smell of roses had grown stronger.
    I squinted and brought the picture closer to my face, wishing I had my glasses to study it better. But I didn’t think I needed them to know that this wasn’t the picture of a woman who would abandon her son. I closed my eyes, recalling the words from Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter that I couldn’t seem to forget.
     
My mother loved this house almost as much as she loved me. There are others who disagree, of course, because she deserted both of us when I was a young boy. But there’s more to that story, though I have failed to discover what it is. Maybe fate put you in my life to bring the truth to the surface so that she might finally find peace after all these years.
     
I put the picture down suddenly, knocking it over. It fell facedown and I didn’t pick it up, not wanting to see the picture of mother and child anymore. I knew better than most, after all, how deceptive a mother’s smile could be.
    Turning on my heel, I ran headfirst into something warm and solid and decidedly male, and screamed.
    Strong arms gripped my shoulders. “Mellie—it’s only me. Jack.”
    I stared into his face for a long moment as I waited for my heart to stop racing before jerking away from his grasp. “What in the hell are you doing in here?” I shouted at him even though he was less than a foot away from me. I was more scared than I cared to admit, and my mother had done a good job of teaching me that anger could chase the fright away. “And my name’s Melanie,” I added, annoyed at his use of the nickname, which added insult to injury even if he was unaware of its effect on me.
    “You invited me, remember? You told me to meet you at the house at nine thirty.”
    I glanced at the brass anniversary clock sitting on top of the chest of drawers. “You’re late. It’s nine forty-five. And, besides, haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell?”
    He smiled his special smile and I had to grit my teeth.
    “Sorry I’m late. I had to help a friend at the library this morning.” He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his jeans, making me wonder what kind of “friend” he’d had to help