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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Louisa Leaman
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover art © Maja Tomljanovic
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Leaman, Louisa, author.
Title: The lost and found necklace : a novel / Louisa Leaman.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020058173 (print) | LCCN 2020058174 (ebook) |
(trade paperback) | (epub)
Classification: LCC PR6112.E245 L67 2021 (print) | LCC PR6112.E245
(ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058173
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058174
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Danae & Thom
Chapter One
Behind the heavy oak doors of Hutchins Auctioneers lies a necklace in a glass cabinet, waiting for the touch of warm skin and the eyes that will admire it in its next cycle of life. Like all good heirloom jewelry, this art nouveau beauty holds more energy than its small, exquisite form would suggest. Jess Taylor, nearing thirty and frequently fearful of her expanding quarter-life crisis, has little idea what the necklace might do for her, but nevertheless feels rather sentimental as she stares at the glossy auction catalog photo and its accompanying description:
An emblematic art nouveau design comprising a silver neck chain with a central butterfly pendant and moonstone. The wings are a fine example of the “plique-à-jour” enameling technique, embellished with mother-of-pearl and set within a delicate silver frame. A combination of twentieth-century craftsmanship and the allure of one of nature’s most enchanting creatures make this a perfect addition to any collection or an ideal gift for a loved one.
She spins back to the one childhood memory in which the necklace features: herself in her mother’s bedroom, maybe five years old; the pine dressing table with its tantalizing three-way mirror, hair straighteners, a bottle of CK One, that hardened pool of spilled nail polish in the corner. Then, in the drawers, the lipsticks, the hair-spray cans, the homemade Mother’s Day card from Jess and her sister, Aggie—and best of all, the velvet jewelry box.
This, Jess remembers vividly: the allure of the box, a magnet for her magpie soul; her pudgy hands hovering over the lid, her anticipation as it lifts. That tang of metal, silver chain links running cold and loose through her fingers; the candy-like beads and glass gems. And then the butterfly necklace, the iridescent wonder of its plump, pluckable moonstone; the enamel of its wings glowing like a miniature cathedral window, emerald green.
Jess remembers her mother warning her not to touch the wings, saying “very old” and “art nouveau” with a smile and a faux French accent. Jess looks once more at the catalog photo, imagines the actual necklace in her hand; how it will feel to have it resting in her palm again, so light and delicate, as though it could flutter away at any moment—rather like her mother did.
***
“Is it usually this rowdy?” Aggie asks, snatching Jess back to the moment. “Feels more like a sweaty boxing ring than an antiques auction.”
The room is hot, made worse by the number of people spilling in, coughing, fidgeting, swapping seats, checking their phones, flapping their catalogs, talking loudly.
“Just wait,” says Jess. “Some dealers play dirty. I’ve seen fistfights before.”
Aggie eyes her.
“Not me. There’s an unspoken etiquette if you’re into it. When someone else clearly wants an item, don’t deliberately bid it up to make them pay more than they need to and definitely don’t cut in at the last moment.”
Aggie fans herself with the bidding card, then nods at the catalog photo.
“It’s pretty, but I’d struggle to find something to wear it with.”
Of course Aggie would struggle, thinks Jess. She’s a functional dresser. She only has three colors of clothing in her wardrobe: black, white, and navy. Today, it’s the crisp white blouse and jeans. She wears the same every Friday, almost as though it’s her getting-ready-for-the-weekend uniform, a conscious effort to dial it down. Except there’s no dialing down involved. That shirt, not a mark on it, has been starched and pressed to perfection, probably at 5:00 a.m., which is Aggie’s “me time.” Her jewelry item of choice, aside from her wedding band, is a watch. Very occasionally she’ll wear a set of pearl earrings, but always removes them halfway through an evening, because they “irritate” her. Jess, by contrast, plans her clothing around jewelry, sometimes plans her days around it. Life lesson: When wearing long pendants, avoid activities that involve leaning over gas cooktops.
“It’s too stylized—”
“It’s typical art nouveau, Aggie, which is all about flowing, sensuous lines and whiplash curves.”
“Okay, expert, so what exactly is the art nouveau?”
“A short-lived but influential design movement,” Jess explains.
Having trained as an art teacher, then built a small online jewelry business, she knows her way around Victorian diamond cuts, Edwardian filigree, and art deco geometry; but it is this, art nouveau, that she loves most of all.
> “It lasted from around 1898 to the start of World War I. Essentially it was about good design and craftsmanship, an attempt to backpedal away from the growing taste for mass-produced, machine-made goods.”
“Bulgari versus Primark?”
“Something like that. In the simplest terms, think of it as a reaction to the industrial revolution of the nineteenth century—”
“Smelting and slums? Little Victorian kiddies getting their hands trapped in weaving looms?”
“You’ve watched too many costume dramas, Aggie.”
“Why a butterfly?”
“Nature was a hot theme, lots of flowers, insects, and birds. And women. Women seem to feature a lot, either as sexy, naked nymphs or…something scarier.”
“Very Freudian. Designed by men, no doubt.”
“Well, here’s the thing,” says Jess, eyes glinting. “Not our necklace. Apparently this one was designed and made by our great-great-grandmother, Minnie Philomene Taylor. Cool, huh? I mean, back then, female jewelry designers were a rarity.”
“Very cool,” says Aggie, somewhat unconvinced, “but that dangly moonstone will break off in seconds.”
She tenses her shoulders, furrows her brow.
“Really, Jess? Are we really going through with this? A thousand pounds for something you’ll never dare wear because it’s too flimsy?”
“It’s survived a century so far,” Jess argues, knowing she’ll pay five thousand if she has to. “I have faith.” She shuts the catalog. “Besides, it’s not for me, is it? We’re doing this for Nancy.”
“Oh yes, dear, sweet grandma Nancy.”
“Whatever you think of her,” says Jess, eyeing her sister, “she’s our only remaining family on Mum’s side. When she goes, all our history goes with her. This necklace means something to her. If getting it back into her hands is the one thing I can do, then I’ll know I’ve done my duty.”
“Okay, but just so we’re clear about the limit––”
Jess feels her eyes roll up in their sockets, her eyelids flicker. How is it, she wonders, that she and Aggie always slip so readily into their little and big sister contours?
“Since the necklace has a reserve price of one thousand, we go no further than that, agreed? Ed wants a skiing trip next February. Steph’s broken her phone screen for the millionth time, and Marcus is demanding every game console under the sun. If I blow the contents of my rainy-day jar on a piece of unwearable costume jewelry—”
“Heirloom jewelry.”
“Yes, that.”
“A piece of heirloom jewelry that represents our family’s heritage, Aggie. These things matter.”
“Not as much as my desire for the new-range Mercedes S-Class.”
“You are so shallow.”
“And you are so…”
Aggie exhales, clenches her fists.
“Can’t think of anything, can you?”
“You’re so…”
“Well?”
“Nostalgic!”
“Is that all you’ve got?”
The man in the row behind them leans forward and berates the sisters with a sharp Shh!, causing them to fall together and giggle like schoolgirls. When they’ve recovered, they realize the auction team—the caller and the lead men—are gathering at the front.
“I need the toilet!” says Jess, a rush of nerves aggravating her bladder.
She rises, spies the exit to the lobby at the other end of the hall. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“But—”
“Save my seat.”
“Well, hurry, or we’ll miss everything and dearest Nancy will never be reunited with her long-lost bloody necklace!”
Jess shrugs and starts to move off, but as her left leg trails, she is reminded that the journey to the lobby and back will not be as speedy as she’d like, as it used to be. A quick “pop to the loo” is no longer in her body’s vocabulary. With big sister sovereignty, Aggie passes Jess her walking cane, watching protectively as Jess leans heavily into the pole, wincing with pain.
The bidders in the front row take care to clear the path of bags and coffee cups. They smile as Jess passes—and out of politeness she smiles back, but inside, she would rather not play the game of pity tennis. Sympathy, she’s discovered, has a way of feeling oppressive. She knows people mean well, but concerned looks are a painful reminder of her how her life has changed. Because before that dreadful day, she’d had no need for help or pain medication or rest breaks. She’d been independent, self-assured, full of spirit and curiosity.
***
The lobby, like the auction room itself, has a certain classical elegance. Its mint-green walls are adorned with stucco plasterwork and gilt-framed oil paintings. Jess makes her way to the toilets, but once she’s done, with that same nostalgia Aggie has just critiqued her for, she dials her grandmother Nancy on FaceTime. She knows the connection might not happen quickly, that she needs to allow for those eighty-two-year-old fingers to fumble around the device, but after a minute Nancy is there, looming into the screen with her thin, white hair and papery skin.
“Hello, you,” says Jess warmly.
“Jessy!”
“How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you know, so-so. Went in the gardens, did some digging. Damn foxes have been soiling the lawn again.”
“Those foxes! Listen, Grandma, I’m here to get your necklace.”
“You are?”
Her eyes brighten, the “Nancy twinkle.”
“I’m at the auction. Aggie is here too. Front row. Don’t worry. We’ll get it for you. I caught a glimpse of it in the catalog. It’s so beautiful! And you really think it was made by my great—what is it?—great-great-grandmother?”
“Minnie Philomene Taylor. A trailblazer, Jessy, just like you.”
“I’m no trailblazer, Grandma.”
“Well, you were.”
“I’ve had to calm down.”
“Never calm down.”
Jess smiles.
“We all have to calm down at some point,” she says. “I’d like to hear more about Minnie though.”
“I have a photo of her in my bureau. I’ll show you when you next visit. There’s lots I want to tell you, Jessy. Minnie’s necklace binds us all. If it wasn’t for”—she sighs, half closes her eyes—“for all those years we were without it.”
“Yes, I’ve been dying to ask, what happened to it, Grandma? Why did it leave the Taylor family?”
Jess ponders the possibilities. Was it stolen? Was it lost? Was her mother somehow responsible? Did she take it out of the velvet jewelry box one day, then lose it at a party? So many questions, but before she can get them out, Nancy shuts her down.
“Never mind the why,” she says sharply. “The important thing is you’re now bringing it home. And how are you feeling? How are your legs?”
Jess nods, realizing she’ll have to pick her moment if she’s to unearth the family gossip. Nancy has always been prickly around talk of the past. In her spritely days, she had a few anecdotes: her brag about being “born in Hollywood,” her travels as a punk rock fan, and her pride in the fact that following convention had never been the “Taylor way.” There’d been the occasional reminiscence from Jess’s estranged father, Richard, but he’d never welcomed questions. In fact, he’d never really welcomed the Taylors, period. In recent years, he’d pretty much washed his hands of them. So Jess learned not to probe but to live, instead, with a certain thinness of heritage.
“I saw a specialist last week,” she explains, indulging Nancy’s change of subject, “who thinks he can get rid of the worst of my back pain. With an epidural, like they give to women in childbirth.”
The phone crackles.
“Childbirth?”
“Sorry, Grandma. Signal’s terrible.”
“Are you
telling me you’re pregnant? With that Tim?”
“No, Grandma. No babies. Not yet. Tim and I are happy as we are, one step at a time. I’ll bring him to meet you, so you can see for yourself. Anyway, I better go because they’re about to start the auction. Wish me luck. I promise I’ll make it happen. Love you.”
“You too, Jessy.”
***
As Jess hobbles back to the action, she is shocked to see the room is now full. Standing room only and even this is in short supply. The wide oak doorway is crowded with hawk-eyes, arms folded, acting casual. She knows the sort: the Rolex-wearing old guard, a club of retired men in their sixties who do this for sport. They study the catalogs, home in on a particular item or lot. They always arrive late, then stand at the back, hiding their intentions from the rest of the room and, more importantly, from each other. There’s banter to begin with, but when the bidding opens, the camaraderie drops. It’s every silver fox for himself.
Jess moves past them uneasily, praying their interests lie in the array of Victorian hair brooches and model trains that precede item twenty-two, the necklace. She doesn’t want to go up against them, have a bidding war or, worse, have them win her item. Unease, however, is not a good mix with a dodgy back and a walking aid. She places the tip of her cane awkwardly, feels her leg buckle as she stumbles into the person in front of her.
“Sorry…so sorry!”
The person, a man, unexpectedly youthful for this auction room, helps her steady herself. Their eyes meet fleetingly. His dark sparkle, beneath hooded lids and a mop of chestnut curls, startles her. Immediately she is drawn to the rest of his face, to his arched nose and full lips. There is something endearingly boyish about his mouth, but those eyes, they hint of an old soul. She goes for a smile, but then she spots it, the emergence of that spark-killing pity gaze as he glances at her walking cane. She can practically feel the question surfacing in his mind: What’s with the stick?
Then, smooth as silk, he leans toward her, whispers in her ear. “That’s one accessory I could make use of right now.”
She blinks.
“To help me fend off these tyrants,” he says, nodding toward the hawk-eyes. “Lend it to me. So I can pin their thieving arms to their bodies, and stop them from doing their usual trick of bidding up everyone else’s items.”
The Lost and Found Necklace Page 1