The House on Tradd Street Read Online Free PDF Page B

never had, and he’s left it in your care.”
    I gripped the envelope tightly, remembering Mr. Vanderhorst standing in front of the growth chart marked on the drawing room wall. MBG. My best guy. Standing again, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “I need to be alone for a while. I’ll let you know what I decide by Tuesday.”
    “You can take longer, Melanie.”
    “No. I don’t want this hanging over my head any longer than it needs to. I’ll let you know by Tuesday.”
    I didn’t wait to hear their response. I’d already fled from the room and was running down the outside steps before I even realized where I was heading.
     
When I rounded the corner onto Tradd Street, I heard the sound of the swing again. A brewing storm whipped dirt across the sidewalk and around my ankles, making me shiver despite the heat. I noticed the cracked blue-and-white tiles in the sidewalk in front of the gate, 55 Tradd.
    I looked up at the darkening sky as I pushed open the gate, making my way quickly to the piazza and to the peeling white wicker rocker I’d spotted on my first visit to the house. I’d never been a porch sitter, could even think of about ten derogatory terms I’d probably called porch sitters in the last year, but I suddenly felt compelled to sit there now and read my letter from the dead.
     
My dear Miss Middleton,
     
I know you must be reading this with some shock. I apologize for this, but do know that I don’t doubt for one moment that I made the right decision. This house is meant for you.
    I hope you are sitting someplace calm while you read this—perhaps a chair on the piazza. During the hour of our acquaintance, you didn’t strike me as the patient sort. Your crossed leg was always twitching, and while it could be as a result of the sugar you consumed, I somehow didn’t think that was it. As the old adage says: you should stop to smell the roses every once in a while. And your new house has some beautiful roses.
    I am leaving you this house as a father would leave his child in the care of a guardian. One can’t really own a house such as this; we are only asked to be caretakers for the next generation. I saw you looking in dismay at the restoration work needed. I have not had the energy or the good health these last years to see to it myself. But I do have the funds, as I’m sure Mr. Drayton has explained to you, to restore this house to the way I remember it growing up here as a child.
    Before you reach any conclusions, you should know something of the history of this house. Yankee officers were quartered here after the fall of Charleston during the Civil War. You can still see their saber marks on the banister in the front hallway. The house was also used as a hospital during several of the yellow fever epidemics that swept through the city in the 1800s. The Vanderhorst women were too strong to succumb, and nursed strangers and dressed the dead for burial in the front foyer. They sent men off to war and kept food on the table long after money ran out. They camped out on the front porch during hurricanes and after the earthquake of 1886, armed with whatever they could find to protect what was theirs for their family. They were like the foundations of this house—too strong to be swayed by little matters such as war, pestilence, and ruin.
    You are like them, you know, whether you realize it or not. I think this is why my mother approves of you being the new mistress of the house. You remind me of her a great deal. She was a beauty, too, but never relied on her looks and instead used her keen mind to get her way while never allowing her opponent to know that the fight was over before it started. There is an unease in you, too, which I sensed. You remind me of an anchor searching for a spot to latch on to. We all must have roots, Melanie, or we are like the weeds in the garden easily plucked and discarded. Unlike the rosebush, which clings to the soil and lasts for generations.
    My mother loved