Read The House on Tradd Street for Free Online Page B

window that would probably cost a small fortune to repair if it ever got broken. I wanted, for a brief moment, to see the beauty of it, but I hadn’t been able to see the beauty in anything since I was seven years old.
    Sophie ran her hands along one of the support columns, flicking away a flake of loose plaster and peering at what lay beneath. “Yep—brick. It’s brick underneath, which is a very good thing. For one thing, it’s stronger than just plaster, and for another, termites don’t like brick.” She nicked her clog against the top step and shook her head. “Which is more than I can say for this porch. It’s got to be replaced, and the columns that support the piazza need replastering. That’s a really big job.”
    She wrinkled her nose in a look I was familiar with and I answered her unasked question. “Supposedly, Mr. Vanderhorst had plenty of money—apparently all left for me so I can fix up this . . . this . . .”
    “Beautiful house.”
    “Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was going to say, but I suppose that works.”
    Sophie stepped back onto the first step and looked up at the front facade. “Wow. So you’ve inherited this great house and now you’re rich, too. Not bad for a single day’s work.”
    “Not exactly. All the money will be tied up in a trust. The trustee will have the discretion to give me money for various home-improvement projects and, if he or she is feeling generous, provide me with a salary as well.”
    Sophie smiled the smile that somehow usually melted men at her feet but right now only served to annoy me. “Mr. Vanderhorst was a really clever man.”
    “Not too clever if he made me his heir. I don’t want anything to do with this. You know how I feel about old houses. You know how I feel about owning any house at all.”
    “Yeah. And I also know why, which is why I think this could be good for you.”
    I looked away, my gaze unfortunately falling on the peeling paint on the shutters and then on the white wicker rocker I had sat in when I read Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter. Something had happened to me, then. Something that now made me listen to Sophie and my conscience rather than rejecting this whole horrible proposal out of hand. Something to do with what lay inside the heart of a seven-year-old girl before the realities of life closed in around her.
    Turning back to my friend, I reached into my purse and pulled out the letter. “Well, since I’ve probably lost all chances of an unbiased opinion, you might as well go ahead and read this before we go in.”
    I sat down in the chair and waited for her to read it, keeping my focus straight ahead toward the street and ignoring the sound of the swing once again emanating from the yard.
    “Hey—did you read this part?” Sophie moved to sit down in the chair beside me. “Listen to this: ‘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.’ ”
    “Yes, I read it. I’m not really sure what it means, though, except that he was abandoned by his mother.”
    Sophie wrinkled her nose again. “Just like you were.”
    I looked away, still unable to completely forget the overwhelming hurt in a seven-year-old’s heart.
    Sophie looked back down at the letter. “Actually, I seem to remember something about the history of this house. Like I said, I’ve seen this house in so many books, and there’s some story. . . .” She tapped an unmanicured finger on the paper, her forehead wrinkled in concentration.
    I watched her, the sound of the swing louder now.
    “Do you hear that?” I asked.
    “Hear what?”
    “The sound of that rope swing against a tree branch?”
    She shook her head. “No. I don’t.” She studied me