childhood was overgrown with brambles and weeds and littered with a junkyard of broken and rusting objects.
I spotted four bicycles that were minus wheels, a water fountain with a crack as wide as my thumb, several rakes with missing teeth, a claw-foot bathtub with a gaping hole in the side, a child’s Flexible Flyer wagon without a handle, and towering stacks of chipped terra-cotta pots. The only cheerful note in this otherwise dismal scene was the pink toilet that sat at the foot of the steps. The bowl had been turned into a planter. Inside it, red geraniums bloomed in shameless profusion.
“This is Calpurnia’s house?” Calvin asked, blinking. “Are you sure?”
I’d told him all about it: the stately house, the decorative brick arches on the ground floor, the three stories that towered above, the two piazzas—piazza is Charleston-speak for “porch”—that ran the full length of the house supported by tall white columns, the painted front door with beveled glass sidelights, the beautiful gardens, the corner lot with an outbuilding where my great-grandfather had once sold haberdashery. But the place where we now stood looked nothing like the house I’d described to Calvin. Hope fled from my body like air from a punctured bicycle tire; I could practically hear the hiss.
“It used to be,” I said.
The man standing in front of the house was tall, lanky, and oddly dressed. A good two inches of wrist was visible above the cuff of his ill-fitting suit of rusty black, too short in the arms and too wide for his waist. As we approached, he turned around and extended his hand.
“Miss Fairchild? I’m Trey Holcomb.”
I recognized his voice and slow drawl from our phone conversation, but in that cheap suit he didn’t look like a lawyer. Not a successful one, anyway. Still, I wasn’t really paying attention to that. I was focused on his face, specifically his chin.
Trey Holcomb had a beard.
Reinflated by a small puff of hope, I returned his greeting and introduced Calvin. Then, like the New Yorker I have become, I cut to the chase.
“What happened here?” I asked, spreading my arms.
“It wasn’t always like this?” Holcomb asked.
“No! Why didn’t you warn me?”
At this point, I was practically shouting and a little overwrought. I couldn’t blame Mr. Holcomb for scowling.
“Miss Fairchild, I run a one-man firm that’s about fifty percent focused on elder law and the rest on whatever comes through the door. Now and then, when a resident dies intestate, the state of South Carolina contracts me to locate the next of kin and dispose of the estate. Normally, I would come see visit the property beforehand. But I’ve been in court all week suing a nursing home for neglect and I wasn’t able to come by until yesterday. So, I’m sorry if—”
He stopped in mid-sentence, took a breath, and modulated his tone.
“I’m sorry. Especially for your loss. I know your aunt meant a lot to you.”
Trey Holcomb didn’t exactly radiate warmth, but there was something in his eyes and the set of his brows that made me believe he’d meant what he said. I’d been gone a long time but not so long that I couldn’t tell the difference between the thin veneer of good southern manners and sincere regret.
“Please, call me Celia. And I’m sorry. I just . . . I wasn’t expecting this.” I took a breath and pasted on a smile. It wasn’t sincere but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. “So. We’re just waiting for the Realtor?”
“Dana Alton,” Trey replied. “She called to say she might be late but will get here as quick as she can. I have the keys. Do you want to go inside and have a look around?”
“Sure. That would be great.”
“I’d better warn you; the inside is even worse.”
“You’re kidding.” I said.
“Worse than this?” Calvin laughed.
His expression practically glittered with prurient fascination. It was the same look that came into his eyes while engaged in one of his favorite obsessions, watching some of the less reputable brands of reality television, programs that were the modern equivalent to circus sideshows.
“Come on, cupcake,” he said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward the gate. “This whole trip just got a lot more interesting.”
Chapter Seven
Interesting was not a word I would have used to describe the interior of Aunt Calpurnia’s house. Filthy, disgusting, crammed, stuffed, bursting—any and all of these adjectives would have applied. Overwhelming was another possible descriptor, and probably the most apt.
When people return to a childhood