Genre Fiction
![Karen White - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000APPP00.jpg)
The Attic on Queen Street (Tradd Street)
An instant New York Times bestseller!
Return to the house on Tradd Street one last time in this hauntingly spectacular finale to the bestselling series featuring psychic medium Melanie Trenholm.
After the devastating events of the past few months, the last thing Melanie Trenholm wants is to think about the future. Why, when her husband, Jack, has asked for a separation-a separation that might have been her fault? Nevertheless, with twin toddlers, a stepdaughter leaving for college soon, a real estate career to resume and a historic home that is still being restored, Melanie doesn't have much time to wonder where it all went wrong-but that doesn't stop her from trying to win her husband back.
Their relationship issues are pushed aside, however, when longtime nemesis, Marc Longo, comes to them with a proposition: allow their Tradd Street house to be used as the filming location for the movie adaptation of Marc's bestselling book, and he will help Jack re-establish his stalled writing career. Despite Melanie's hesitation, Jack jumps at the chance. But Melanie's doubts soon prove to be well founded when she uncovers ulterior reasons for Marc wanting to be back in their house-reasons that include a hidden gem so brilliant that legend links it to the most infamous jewel of all, the Hope Diamond.
But Melanie has an unexpected ally in protecting the house and its inhabitants-the ghost of a Civil War era girl warns her of increasing threats to her family. But she's not the only spirit who is haunting Melanie. A malevolent ghost seems determined to stop Melanie from investigating the decades-old murder of a friend's sister, and this spirit will stop at nothing to protect its secrets-even from beyond the grave.
Melanie and Jack must work together to find the answers before evil spirits of past and present destroy everything they love.
Return to the house on Tradd Street one last time in this hauntingly spectacular finale to the bestselling series featuring psychic medium Melanie Trenholm.
After the devastating events of the past few months, the last thing Melanie Trenholm wants is to think about the future. Why, when her husband, Jack, has asked for a separation-a separation that might have been her fault? Nevertheless, with twin toddlers, a stepdaughter leaving for college soon, a real estate career to resume and a historic home that is still being restored, Melanie doesn't have much time to wonder where it all went wrong-but that doesn't stop her from trying to win her husband back.
Their relationship issues are pushed aside, however, when longtime nemesis, Marc Longo, comes to them with a proposition: allow their Tradd Street house to be used as the filming location for the movie adaptation of Marc's bestselling book, and he will help Jack re-establish his stalled writing career. Despite Melanie's hesitation, Jack jumps at the chance. But Melanie's doubts soon prove to be well founded when she uncovers ulterior reasons for Marc wanting to be back in their house-reasons that include a hidden gem so brilliant that legend links it to the most infamous jewel of all, the Hope Diamond.
But Melanie has an unexpected ally in protecting the house and its inhabitants-the ghost of a Civil War era girl warns her of increasing threats to her family. But she's not the only spirit who is haunting Melanie. A malevolent ghost seems determined to stop Melanie from investigating the decades-old murder of a friend's sister, and this spirit will stop at nothing to protect its secrets-even from beyond the grave.
Melanie and Jack must work together to find the answers before evil spirits of past and present destroy everything they love.
Editorial Reviews
"White finishes her Tradd Street series with panache…Charleston and its rich history provide a lovely backdrop to this tale of mystery, romance, and danger."-Kirkus Reviews
"The blend of supernatural elements, mystery, and Southern women's fiction reads like a combination of Victoria Laurie and Mary Alice Monroe."-Booklist
"The blend of supernatural elements, mystery, and Southern women's fiction reads like a combination of Victoria Laurie and Mary Alice Monroe."-Booklist
Readers Top Reviews
Avid ReaderCarla J S
Excellent writing, great well written characters that you become attached through reading the books. The emotions and story lines are amazing. I also enjoy the characters and twists in her other books are really interesting. I will miss the characters in this series but happy to hear that a new series of one of the characters, Nola, is being written.
Rose Griffin
I have read every one of Karen White's books and gone to many of her book signings in South Carolina. She is my favorite author of all time, I am a senior citizen and have been an avid reader all of my life. This book was certainly one of her best, but I always say the same thing when I finish one of her books. I look forward to what comes next, just wish it would be here sooner!
Kindle
SPOILER: There were two major ghosts in this book which Melanie needed to help, her house STILL under renovation, Jack's enemy, Marc Lingo's, movie being filmed in her house, as well as her marriage to Jack being on the rocks from the end of the last book. But as badly as the last book ended, this final book in the series didn't disappoint. Just like a fairy tale...happily ever after, well, mostly.
jack gruenbergwizkid
Skip this book if you are a fan of the Tradd Street Series……I believe the book was ghost written (literally, by a benevolent spirit) who took over Karen White’s body & had fun turning this book into a farcical romance book: focusing on: will Melanie & Jack get back together…of course you know they will…...Everything is predictable & as the reader you are always steps ahead of Melanie who doesn’t bother checking out all the obvious clues…the clues even have extra clues pointing to an object: that are never followed up….the clues have to keep showing up : as if to say: “wake up: what else do we need to do to get you to solve this….???!!!!” If a pillow continually shows up & you know the owner had seamstress skills: wouldn’t you look inside the darn pillow?? This ghost writer brought Melanie Down!!!!!! Tons of errors & Sappy sappy sappy a Big Dull Dud!!!!!
Genie Hepler
Mrs White, it has truly been a privilege to be able to read this series. As a Charlestonian, it was fun traveling down our history filled streets, looking for clues and solving ghost mysteries with Mellie, Jack, Ginny, Jane, and Yvonne. All of your characters have been so much fun to watch. I look forward to watching Nola grow into a young woman and can't wait to see how Beau develops. Thank you for sharing your talents with us!
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
Snow in Charleston is as magical as it is rare, the icy white dusting on palm trees and church steeples, ancient statues and wrought iron fences transforming the Holy City into an enchanting snow globe. Snowmen sprouted like weeds in lawns and parks, and snow angels spread their wings on every flat spot of ground as children and adults alike ran outside to play in an exotic frosty playground.
For nearly three days after the record-breaking snowstorm as the temperature began to rise, patches of white clung desperately to every surface, gradually shrinking as the world thawed, leaving only trickling eaves and slushy puddles as a reminder that they had ever been there at all.
I watched it all from inside my house on Tradd Street, my heart seemingly as frozen as the icy stalactites dripping from the Pineapple Fountain in Waterfront Park. In less than a week's time, my life had flipped itself upside down as if it had decided to accept the wintry invitation to glide on the ice without benefit of skates. Or any kind of padding that might soften the inevitable fall.
I had somehow managed to go from being a very happily married mother of three to being a seemingly single mother with an estranged husband and a marriage as precarious as the melting ice. And all because I had made the simple mistake of breaking my promise to trust Jack enough to share everything with him. To be a team in all things.
Despite what everyone seemed to think, it wasn't entirely my fault. Jack-a bestselling author of true-crime mysteries-and I had been working to solve the mystery of where a Revolutionary War treasure was hidden, before Jack's nemesis, self-proclaimed author and all-around jerk Marc Longo, discovered it first. Marc had managed to steal Jack's book idea about the disappearance of Louisa Gibbes, who'd once lived in our house on Tradd Street and been murdered by Marc's ancestor Joseph Longo. Marc not only made the book an international bestseller but also scored a major movie deal. And then he somehow managed to manipulate us into allowing the movie to be filmed in our house. For Jack's sake, I couldn't let Marc win again.
It wasn't my fault that Jack had had a bad case of the flu at the same time I'd figured out that the treasure was buried in the cemetery at Gallen Hall Plantation-owned by Marc Longo's brother, Anthony-and that I hadn't had time for Jack to get better. It wasn't my fault that Marc and Anthony had anticipated my solving the mystery and were waiting for me to point the way to the hidden treasure. Nor was it my fault that my half sister, Jayne, had told Jack what I was up to and that he had then insisted on going to the cemetery. And it was definitely not my fault that he had happened to step on an old grave full of crumbling coffins that collapsed under him, nearly burying him alive.
As far as I could tell, my only mistake was believing that Jack would be so happy that I'd found the treasure that he'd forgive me for everything else. But, as I'd discovered, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and it turns out that asking for forgiveness is not necessarily easier than asking for permission.
I'd rushed through the snow-covered landscape of my Charleston neighborhood to tell Jack that I was sorry, that I'd made a mistake and wouldn't let it happen again, and found him packing his bags. His response had been telling me good-bye, followed by a decisive snap of the front door as it closed in my face.
For three weeks I didn't leave the house, not wanting to be absent when Jack decided to return. Friends and family came and went in various attempts to rouse me, to try to coax me outside with promises of doughnuts and coffee-neither of which seemed appealing to me anymore.
Christmas passed almost as a nonevent. My stepdaughter, Nola, had outdone herself by going against her own dietary preferences and making my favorite gluten- and carb-filled desserts and other dishes that I'd done my best to pretend to eat. She and my twenty-one-month-old twins, JJ-for Jack Junior-and Sarah, saved the entire holiday by being the only bright spots of joy.
Their nanny, Jayne, had bundled them up to take them to Jack's parents' house, where they would celebrate Christmas for the second time on the same day. Nola and the twins hadn't seemed to be nearly as upset as I had been at the prospect of their opening more gifts without me there. Gifts that no doubt had been wrapped haphazardly instead of their every corner being measured for preciseness and each dab of tape being exactly the same size since apparently only their mother knew how important those kinds of thi...
Snow in Charleston is as magical as it is rare, the icy white dusting on palm trees and church steeples, ancient statues and wrought iron fences transforming the Holy City into an enchanting snow globe. Snowmen sprouted like weeds in lawns and parks, and snow angels spread their wings on every flat spot of ground as children and adults alike ran outside to play in an exotic frosty playground.
For nearly three days after the record-breaking snowstorm as the temperature began to rise, patches of white clung desperately to every surface, gradually shrinking as the world thawed, leaving only trickling eaves and slushy puddles as a reminder that they had ever been there at all.
I watched it all from inside my house on Tradd Street, my heart seemingly as frozen as the icy stalactites dripping from the Pineapple Fountain in Waterfront Park. In less than a week's time, my life had flipped itself upside down as if it had decided to accept the wintry invitation to glide on the ice without benefit of skates. Or any kind of padding that might soften the inevitable fall.
I had somehow managed to go from being a very happily married mother of three to being a seemingly single mother with an estranged husband and a marriage as precarious as the melting ice. And all because I had made the simple mistake of breaking my promise to trust Jack enough to share everything with him. To be a team in all things.
Despite what everyone seemed to think, it wasn't entirely my fault. Jack-a bestselling author of true-crime mysteries-and I had been working to solve the mystery of where a Revolutionary War treasure was hidden, before Jack's nemesis, self-proclaimed author and all-around jerk Marc Longo, discovered it first. Marc had managed to steal Jack's book idea about the disappearance of Louisa Gibbes, who'd once lived in our house on Tradd Street and been murdered by Marc's ancestor Joseph Longo. Marc not only made the book an international bestseller but also scored a major movie deal. And then he somehow managed to manipulate us into allowing the movie to be filmed in our house. For Jack's sake, I couldn't let Marc win again.
It wasn't my fault that Jack had had a bad case of the flu at the same time I'd figured out that the treasure was buried in the cemetery at Gallen Hall Plantation-owned by Marc Longo's brother, Anthony-and that I hadn't had time for Jack to get better. It wasn't my fault that Marc and Anthony had anticipated my solving the mystery and were waiting for me to point the way to the hidden treasure. Nor was it my fault that my half sister, Jayne, had told Jack what I was up to and that he had then insisted on going to the cemetery. And it was definitely not my fault that he had happened to step on an old grave full of crumbling coffins that collapsed under him, nearly burying him alive.
As far as I could tell, my only mistake was believing that Jack would be so happy that I'd found the treasure that he'd forgive me for everything else. But, as I'd discovered, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and it turns out that asking for forgiveness is not necessarily easier than asking for permission.
I'd rushed through the snow-covered landscape of my Charleston neighborhood to tell Jack that I was sorry, that I'd made a mistake and wouldn't let it happen again, and found him packing his bags. His response had been telling me good-bye, followed by a decisive snap of the front door as it closed in my face.
For three weeks I didn't leave the house, not wanting to be absent when Jack decided to return. Friends and family came and went in various attempts to rouse me, to try to coax me outside with promises of doughnuts and coffee-neither of which seemed appealing to me anymore.
Christmas passed almost as a nonevent. My stepdaughter, Nola, had outdone herself by going against her own dietary preferences and making my favorite gluten- and carb-filled desserts and other dishes that I'd done my best to pretend to eat. She and my twenty-one-month-old twins, JJ-for Jack Junior-and Sarah, saved the entire holiday by being the only bright spots of joy.
Their nanny, Jayne, had bundled them up to take them to Jack's parents' house, where they would celebrate Christmas for the second time on the same day. Nola and the twins hadn't seemed to be nearly as upset as I had been at the prospect of their opening more gifts without me there. Gifts that no doubt had been wrapped haphazardly instead of their every corner being measured for preciseness and each dab of tape being exactly the same size since apparently only their mother knew how important those kinds of thi...
