Hidden Treasure Read online

  Maudie sighed and shook her head. “You’re right, and I should remember it more often. Celia has a good heart.”

  I smiled. “One woman’s worrywart is another woman’s devoted niece.”

  “Perception is all.” Maudie turned to Julie. “Julie, you know these old knees of mine … Would you do me a favor and get my sweater? The air conditioning … I’m chilly.”

  Julie popped up. “Of course.”

  Maudie watched her hurry across the lobby. After a moment, she said, “I feel bad for her. She’s estranged from her family because, if you can believe it, she’s going to college.”

  “Oh, how sad!”

  “I agree. At least she made the right decision—not to sacrifice herself to suit their prejudices.” She drank some coffee. “It has to be hard, doesn’t it, to step into a close-knit community like Rocky Point and find where you fit. You know what I’m talking about … you moved to Rocky Point as a stranger, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and it was tough, just like you said. Finding your place is always hard, even in the town you grew up in.”

  “Only if you’re an independent thinker.”

  “True. And I am. Once I connected with like-minded people, I was home free.”

  “I think I’m especially sensitive to the issue because of my mother. She didn’t have any of Julie’s moxie. Just the opposite, in fact. She had a terrible time finding her way. She was an immigrant, from Ireland. The kindest woman in the world, but so timid someone once asked my father if she was mute.”

  “The poor thing.”

  “I always wondered what had happened to her to make her so fearful, but she never would say. She insisted she was simply born that way.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Maudie folded her napkin. “No, I don’t. She wouldn’t ever speak of her father, so it made me wonder if he’d been a yeller, or maybe even a hitter.”

  “You can’t ever really know what’s going on with other people, can you?”

  “No.” Maudie smiled. “I’m not even sure about myself a lot of the time.”

  Julie returned, sweater in hand. She draped it over Maudie’s shoulders.

  I pushed my coffee cup aside. “May I ask another question, Maudie, about how you came to own the trunk?”

  “It was a flea market find. My sister, Vivian, and I used to love going to flea markets. Your tag sale was always on our list of stops. You do a wonderful job.”

  “That’s great to hear. Thank you.”

  “Vivian came for a visit every summer. She died last year.” She stared into her coffee cup for a moment. “No one teaches you how to gracefully outlive the people you love, just as no one tells you that the hardest part of their dying is that they’re gone.” She raised a fluttering hand. “They’re simply gone. The point is, I bought the trunk at a small outdoor flea market somewhere near Portland, Maine. Vivian was with me.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your sister.”

  “Thank you. The human spirit is resilient … most of the time, anyway. What else would you like to know about the trunk?”

  “It looks like it originally included shelves. Do you know where they might be?”

  “No. I never had any shelves.” She laughed a little. “At least that I remember. What do you think it’s worth?”

  I smiled. “I can’t put a price on an object I haven’t appraised, but I can give you what I call a guesstimate. A guesstimate is part estimate based on experience and part guess based on instinct. I’d peg it at around a thousand dollars.”

  A gleam came into Mrs. Wilson’s eyes. “I don’t mean to boast, but I only paid thirty-five dollars for it—I don’t want to tell you how many years ago.”

  “And you enjoyed it all this time.”

  “And I used it to store my most precious items.”

  “I must say, the presentation box and cat seem very special.”

  “Oh, they are. Not so much the objects themselves. I never displayed them because, well, frankly, they’re not to my taste. But they hold great sentimental value for me. Vivian gave them to me.”

  “Even though they aren’t to your taste?”

  “It was the only thing of value she had to give. Vivian’s husband died when her daughters were in elementary school. It was so tragic. A heart attack. He was only forty-two … can you imagine? From that moment on, Vivian struggled to make ends meet. Luckily she was in a rent-controlled apartment. We helped with the girls’ education, paying for music and dance lessons, even their college tuition. After the girls finished school, Vivian gave me the objects as a thank-you.”

  Tom appeared at the doorway. Julie spotted him, smiled, bounced up, and ran to join him. He touched her cheek, then came to the table. Maudie invited him to have a cup of coffee.

  Tom looked at the big schoolroom clock mounted on the wall. “Thanks, sure. We have a few minutes.”

  Maudie poured him a cup.

  I said hello, adding, “If I’d known I was going to see you, I’d have brought your new key.”

  “That’s okay. I can come to you.”

  “I left it with Cara, in the front office.”

  “You have class today, don’t you, Julie?” Maudie asked.

  “Yes.” She touched Tom’s wrist. “Seeing me enjoy my classes has Tom thinking about going back to school, too.”

  “No way.” Tom laughed. “Julie is thinking of my going back to school, not me. I never much liked school when I had to go, so there’s no way I’m going back voluntarily. I like what I do now.”

  “It’s like leaving money on the table.”

  Tom shot her a look charged with annoyance and shook his head, silently asking her to leave it alone.

  Julie ignored his unspoken entreaty. “It’s not so easy after you’ve been out for a few years. I know. It takes a lot of discipline.”

  “Enough,” Tom said.

  “It’s a good idea,” she said, sounding peevish.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Tom said to Maudie, standing. He nodded in my direction, then frowned at Julie. “Let’s go.”

  Julie stood, thanked Maudie, smiled at me, and hustled after Tom, who was already halfway to the door.

  I stared at the doorway long after they’d left the room, turning back in time to see Maudie shake her head.

  She pushed her coffee cup aside. “It’s not good for one person in a relationship to be so much more ambitious than the other.”

  “Sometimes people lack confidence. They need to be bolstered.”

  “I don’t think Tom lacks confidence. If people are content with the status quo, it’s logical they resent anyone who tries to change it.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I suppose it could be that Tom is scared of failing,” Maudie mused, thinking aloud. “If you don’t try, you can’t fail. Especially if you were reared to be a rule follower, not a risk taker. I was always a good girl, which in my case meant letting other people tell me what to do, first my father, then Eli.”

  “It was a different time.”

  “Do you think so? I don’t know about that. I mean, of course it was, but I still see people doing things they don’t want to do all the time. Lainy, for example, the receptionist here … she told me that she wanted to move to New York, to see if she could make it as an actress. Her father told her that was stupid, to get a job like everyone else.”

  “And she did.”

  “And she did.”

  “Do you think Tom and Julie’s relationship will survive?” I asked.

  “It depends on what’s more important to Julie—her aspirations or Tom.”

  “It’s awful to have to choose.”

  “Very much so. I picked Eli, but I’ve always wished I hadn’t had to choose.”

  “What was your dream?”

  Maudie lifted her eyes to a spot somewhere above my head. She smiled slightly. Whatever she was seeing in the past, it was pleasant, a good memory.

  After a few seconds, she lowered
her eyes. “Travel writing. When I was fifteen, I went with a school group to visit New Orleans. I wrote an essay about the experience. It won a national award.”

  “Wow! What an accomplishment! Why didn’t you continue?”

  “I didn’t have the money to travel. Later, after I got married, I thought I might take a writing course. Eli asked who’d take care of the house if I went back to school.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “I think about that now and my blood boils. One course. I didn’t even argue with him. I just did as I was told, which is all on me.”

  “And now?”

  She tilted her head, her eyes on my face. “Believe it or not, it never entered my mind that I might try writing again, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I’m still doing what Eli told me, three years after his death, shame on me.” She slapped the table. “I moved to Belle Vista because Celia and Stacy pecked at me and pecked at me until I gave in. They were right that the Gingerbread House was too much for me to handle on my own, but I could have hired help or moved into a condo on the ocean.” She smiled. “Don’t misunderstand—I’m fine here. Except for all these old people sticking their noses in other people’s business, I’m perfectly content. All I’m saying is that if Tom doesn’t want to go back to school, he shouldn’t let Julie make him.”

  “Relationships are complicated.”

  “You started your own business. You didn’t let anyone keep you down.”

  I smiled. “It didn’t come up—but I can’t imagine anyone in my orbit trying to stop me. If they were the kind of person who tried to keep me down, they wouldn’t be in my orbit.”

  “Didn’t your parents worry about the risk?”

  Now it was my turn to endure hard memories. “My mother died when I was young. I wasn’t that old when my dad died, either. His death—or rather, my reaction to not having him anymore—was one of the reasons I moved to New Hampshire. He used to say that when you feel as though you’re at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on, and if you can’t hang on, move on. I lasted in New York City for a little more than a year after his death … then I moved on. I’m only sorry my dad can’t see me now, can’t see how well I’ve done.” My voice cracked. “Sorry. It’s been nearly twenty years, but I still get emotional.”

  “Your father is looking down on you right now.” She patted my hand. “He’s very proud.”

  I blinked away an unexpected tear. “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

  We stayed talking for another half hour, mostly about the differences between a travelogue and travel writing. At first Maudie claimed that she wasn’t an expert, but I managed to put that contention to rest.

  “Who’s your favorite travel writer?” I asked.

  “Oh, I could never say just one.”

  “Say more than one.”

  She rattled off some names. “Nancy Wigston. Sara Wheeler. Mary Jo Manzanares.”

  “All women.”

  “Nick Haslam. Joe Cawley. Paul Theroux.”

  “Want to tell me again that you don’t know the difference between a travelogue and travel writing?”

  Maudie leaned back and smiled. “You’re sneaky.”

  “Deft, not sneaky.”

  “A travelogue is to travel writing what an autobiography is to a memoir. A travelogue is a chronological recounting of a trip. Travel writing is a themed slice of the overall experience.”

  I smiled. “I knew you knew.”

  “I didn’t ever play dumb. It was more complicated than that.” She paused, searching for the words. “I’ve spent a lot of my life pretending I was happy. No, that isn’t fair. I was happy. Or at least, I was happy enough. I spent a lot of my life pretending I was satisfied. I sublimated my needs to keep the peace.”

  “All to meet someone else’s expectations. It takes time and energy to throw off that mantle. And courage.”

  “I don’t feel courageous. I feel a certain desperation—I’ve been pretending everything was hunky-dory for years, forever, and now, for whatever reason, I just can’t fake it anymore, but I don’t know what to do instead. Maybe moving out of the house, out of Eli’s shadow, did it for me. I don’t know. My frustration with Stacy and Celia continuing to try to dictate to me, my anger at myself for not telling them to go jump in a lake—excuse my French—well, I’ve felt increasingly disheartened ever since I moved. Everything is coming to a head because I’m no longer willing to simply go along with things. I want to be in control.”

  “I’m sorry you’re struggling, but”—I raised my cup for a toast—“here’s to your emancipation. Here’s to self-direction.”

  Maudie lifted her cup, and we clinked. “Here’s to you.”

  We sipped our coffee to seal the toast.

  “I hope you get back to writing, Maudie. With the kind of clarity you displayed about the genres and the authors you admire, well, I bet you’ll win another essay contest.” I tapped my phone to check the time. It was almost eleven. “I can’t believe how the time has zipped by. Thanks again for the coffee, and for the conversation.” I stood. “And for telling me what you knew about the chandelier and trunk.”

  “I’m glad I remembered.”

  We left the café together. Outside, I took a few steps down the walkway, then looked back. Maudie was leaning against the lobby wall staring at nothing. Just as I was about to turn away, she turned toward me. Our eyes met, and we smiled. She waved, and I waved back.

  My smile remained intact all the way to my car. I had a new friend, a woman of depth and intelligence, and I felt exhilarated.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I met Lenny DeVito in the front office at one, as scheduled. Lenny was fortyish, only a couple of inches taller than me, totally bald. He was a marketing whiz and branding expert, a one-man band with clients around the world.

  “Josie!” he said, smiling and extending both hands for a clasp.

  “Lenny!”

  He kissed my cheek, then greeted my staff one by one. He asked Cara how her grandson, Patrick, was doing with crew. Patrick had been elected captain of his team, go Hitchens! He asked Fred, one of Prescott’s most experienced antiques appraisers, how his wife, Suzanne, the general manager of my favorite local restaurant, the Blue Dolphin, was handling their expansion into breakfast service. Suzanne, it seemed, was in the final stages of hiring a new assistant manager. I admired everything about Lenny, from his genuine interest in people to his devotion to his wife, Aileen. As I listened in, I realized I’d been so absorbed with buying the house and getting the renovation started, my outside focus had narrowed to a pinprick. Lenny also asked Sasha, my chief antiques appraiser, about the lecture on Victorian seal rings she’d mentioned she planned to attend at a Boston antiques auction house. Sasha reported that she’d fallen in love with an 18-karat-gold and agate ring.

  She laughed and extracted it from her desk drawer. “It had an S on it, so needless to say, I had to bid on it.” She tucked her baby-fine brown hair behind her ears. “And I won.”

  She placed the ring in the center of her hand to show it to us. The stone was pale blue and oval. The carved letter S was backward so when it was dipped in molten wax and stamped on paper, it would read properly. A minuscule latch revealed a tiny gold frame for a photo and a miniature cubbyhole for a keepsake, like a lock of hair. The picture frame hidden in the lid was ornate. The secret compartment was lined in the same blue agate.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Cara marveled.

  “Thanks. I’m looking for the perfect photograph; then I’ll decide if I want to display it under Plexiglas or wear it like a pendant around my neck.”

  “Either will work,” I said.

  “And how about you, Josie? Did you close on the house?”

  As I told him about the architectural details Ty and I were determined to retain, I couldn’t stop grinning. “But enough of this,” I said after a one-minute recounting of the high points. “Tell me what we can do for you.”

  “Buy back everything we’ve bought from you
over the years.” He must have read the bewilderment on my face because he added, “We’re moving to London.” He held up a hand. “I know, I know, I’ve always said I’d never leave Rocky Point, but this client I’ve been working with is relentless. They’re moving into entertainment, building or buying everything from video gaming to online gambling to movies, and they want me to commit to a multiyear contract to help them create a cohesive brand. They made me an offer I simply can’t refuse. The work sounds terrific, the pay is to-the-moon, and Aileen loves England, so off we go.”

  I’d known the couple for years, ever since Aileen had discovered we carried a wide range of art deco objects at our weekly tag sale, including fashion plates. Over the years, Aileen had amassed a world-class collection of pochoir prints—a stencil-based printmaking process popular with architects and fashion designers in Paris from the late 1800s to the 1930s. The fashion plates featured meticulously executed details and vibrant colors. In today’s market, they’d retail for as much as eighty dollars each.

  “Why wouldn’t you simply put everything into storage? I can recommend an excellent temperature- and humidity-controlled facility in town.”

  “We talked about it, but it turns out that Aileen likes the hunt more than the boodle.” Lenny smiled. “Since most of those fancy prints she likes come from Paris, she’s like a dog with two tails, on the scent, with money to burn. How does it work? Do you buy things outright or do we give them to you on consignment?”

  “Both options are fine with us. You’ll make more money if we take everything on consignment, but you’ll get your money quicker if you sell it outright.”

  “Let’s sell it, done and done.” He laughed. “I moved the whole kit and caboodle into the living room. Aileen doesn’t want to know from no-how. She’s meeting with the relocation team as we speak, so if you can come now with a van … hell, what am I thinking.” He laughed again. “If you can come with a truck—we can take care of it without anything troubling her.”

  I exhaled loudly. “You are a man of action, Lenny.”

  He winked at me. “That’s my brand.”

  I was sad that Lenny and Aileen were leaving, but I was jumping-out-of-my-sandals excited at the prospect of acquiring, in one fell swoop, a truckload of high-quality antiques, a coup because it’s far harder to buy antiques than it is to sell them. Nonetheless, I managed to keep my tone even and calm. “We’d be happy to zip over immediately. I’m going to ask Sasha to take charge of it. She’ll be able to make you a firm offer on the spot.”