The Jewelry Case

by Catherine McGreevy

  She'd never found time to visit the place, although Jonathan had once told her something intriguing about it. What was it? Some old family legend, something they had laughed about together and which she had promptly forgotten. A conversation which had started over something that had happened here, in this very office. Dropping the real estate agent's card in her purse, Paisley scooped up the photograph and examined it more closely. "This is it?" she asked. "This is Aunt Esther's house?"

  Barry nodded. "As you can see, the place is in poor shape. It must be nearly a century old, and it's been vacant since her death last year. The appraisal showed it's not worth much."

  Paisley stared at the photograph. The inspection revealed no secrets, but still, that odd impression of familiarity lingered. "Maybe," she said slowly, "I'll go see it before putting it on the market. After all, I'll need a place to stay until my voice comes back. I might even stay a week or two ... maybe more."

  If her voice came back. She tried not to listen to the niggling thought in the back of her mind.

  "Do you have any idea where River Bend is located, Mrs. Perleman?"

  "Somewhere in Northern California, isn't it? Not far from Sacramento, I believe Jonathan said."

  "Suffice it to say, the town is hardly New York or Paris," Barry said, leaning back in his swivel chair and crossing an ankle across a knee. "There's nothing for miles around but vineyards and rice fields. It's secluded and quiet. The closest real shopping is forty miles away, in Sacramento, or, two hours in the opposite direction, San Francisco. The settlement was built along a sharp bend in the one of the major tributaries to the Sacramento River, hence its name."

  "Secluded? Quiet?" She pounced on the words. "It sounds like a perfect retreat."

  "As long as you don't find yourself bored to death."

  Paisley was tempted to say rudely, "What business is it of yours?" Instead, she restrained herself, merely pointing out, "You did say I need to cut back my expenses. Well, I can stay there for free, can't I? Besides, I'm curious. I've never owned a house before."

  "As you please," Barry said, scooping the papers back into the file, but the taut muscles in his jaw told her that he felt Paisley was making a foolish choice.

  She probably was, she thought, gathering up her purse. But something about the little white house was pulling her like a fish on a line. It wouldn't hurt to take a look. No doubt Jonathan would have jeered at her sentimental impulse, but Jonathan was not here.

  After shaking Barry's hand goodbye, she slipped the photograph into her purse.

  Chapter Two

  A week later, Paisley stood next to an enormous black Ford Expedition staring at the house she had last seen in the photograph. The place was smaller than she had thought, with an untidy mass of roses blooming fragrantly in the yard. Unconsciously she touched the lace handkerchief in the pocket of her jacket. So this had been Esther's house. It was hard to believe it was now her house.

  The real estate agent Barry had referred her to, Ray Henderson, descended from the driver's seat and joined her on the curving flagstone path, gulping coffee from a heavy ceramic mug he kept in one of the car’s cup holders. He was as massive as his glossy black SUV, a little too loud, a little too hearty.

  "Just like I said in my email, ma'am. Hardly worth your flying all the way out here, now, is it?"

  She didn't respond. She had hardly heard him. An overpowering sense of homecoming inexplicably swept over her, dazing her with its intense sense of possessiveness, of belonging. The sensation was as startling and tangible as if someone had reached out and swept her into waiting arms.

  Paisley could not understand where the feeling had come from. Since their marriage, she and Jonathan had lived in a series of interchangeable hotel rooms like a pair of modern-day nomads. As a child she'd moved frequently as well, as her father's series of ever-changing jobs took his family around the country, from city to city. Why, then, did she feel this odd sense of connection with the run-down old place? A psychologist might say she had secretly been wishing for a home all this time, but Paisley knew better. She'd felt no urge to visit this one until she’d had that odd reaction seeing the photograph on Barry's desk.

  Chiding herself for her fancifulness, Paisley shoved the lace-edged handkerchief back into her handbag. She was no sentimental homebody, nor did she watch decorating shows on TV or subscribe to magazines on gardening and cooking. She didn’t believe in the supernatural, either.

  It must be the scent of roses that had made the scene seem so familiar and compelling, she thought. It matched the fragrance on the handkerchief that Esther had given Paisley at her wedding. Perhaps the romanticism of all those operas had rubbed off, making her find too much significance in minor things.

  The real estate agent drained his coffee and set the big mug back in the cup holder by the driver’s seat, then turned back to her, his broad chest expanding under the gold polyester blazer. With his wide shoulders, thick neck, and buzz haircut he looked like a former football player or ex-Marine. Certainly he seemed more fitted to sell cars or a membership at the local gym than this delicate, white-painted Victorian house with its intricate molding and pink-and-white snap-dragons vying with the weeds in the overgrown flower beds.

  "I told you the place was in bad shape, didn’t I? The utilities were turned off when the old lady went into the convalescent home, and no one’s been keeping things up. Looks like there may have been some vandalism as well. See that broken window on the side?" He pointed to a pane with only a few jagged shards remaining in the frame, then cocked an eye at the cloudless sky. "Lucky it hasn't rained lately or you could have ended up with water damage. Fact is, it sure would have been a lot simpler if you'd just accepted the neighbor's offer. We would have faxed you all the paperwork."

  Paisley reluctantly nodded. Repairs were obviously needed, yet she still found the structure's overall appearance appealing. Delicate tracery lined the eaves of the porch, and old-fashioned casement windows peeped out of a mass of untrimmed bushes like a shy girl hiding from visitors. A branch of the enormous oak growing by the front door, presumably older than the house, curved protectively over the front porch. The place must have been a suitable setting for Jonathan's great-aunt, she thought: old-fashioned, charming, private.

  However, cold-eyed objectivity told her that Ray was right: the place was sadly run-down, perhaps not even livable. The thick growth of ivy failed to hide the missing bricks in the chimney, the front porch sagged alarmingly, and the roof tiles curled. But it was not likely to fall down this week, nor the next.

  "I really don't know why you bothered coming all the way to River Bend," Ray Henderson said, as if responding to her thoughts. He stroked his chin with stubby fingers that sported not one, but two massive gold rings. "Any particular reason you decided to come out here, ma'am?"

  Paisley shook her head. No reason to tell him about that odd feeling of homecoming that began in Barry's office and which now surged through her body stronger than ever. She started toward the front door of the little white house.

  Ray followed, still talking. "Your late husband grew up in this house, didn’t he? Before the old lady bought it. Must be a sentimental journey for you, seeing it for the first time. Did he tell you much about the place? A building this old should hold some interesting stories."

  "All I know is that the house has been in the family for several generations,” she said. “I believe Esther bought it from Jonathan's parents when they moved to Palm Springs. You probably know more about it than I do. Didn't you say you grew up in River Bend?"

  Ray shrugged his massive shoulders. "I didn’t pay attention to any of that. All I know is Steve's doing you a quite a favor, offering to take a piece of junk like this off your hands."

  She turned. "Steve?"

  "Steve Lopez." From the overly patient expression on his broad face, she realized Ray must have mentioned the name before. "Your neighbor. He's looking to expand his vineyard, remember? That’s why he wants to buy the plac
e."

  She remembered seeing a sign as they drove past the house next door: a depiction of lush purple grapes and curling vines forming the words "Lopez Winery." So her neighbor was the interested buyer her lawyer had mentioned last week.

  Instead of responding to Ray’s comment, she tilted her head back and squinted at the shake-tiled roof. The structure appeared salvageable, but what did she know? She was an opera singer, not a building contractor.

  Had been an opera singer. Her hand rose to the rough line down the side of her throat, and for a moment she was back in the Porsche at the moment when Jonathan swung out to pass the lumbering truck, the moment he turned his angry face toward her. She could hear her own voice screaming as the oncoming car hurtled directly toward them.

  Paisley realized Ray was watching her closely, and self-consciously she dropped her hand from her throat. "The house is in better shape than I expected," she said, struggling to hide how the flash of memory had shaken her. No doubt her pallor and the circles under her eyes had revealed too much already. "The place doesn't look as if it's falling down or anything."

  Ray looked skeptical. "What about the parts you can't see? Termites, roof leaks.... Steve's had his eye on this property for a long time: not the house, you understand, that's obviously worthless, but the land. No one else is likely to want the place. It's too far from town, too isolated, for a family or even for a bed and breakfast."

  Ray wasn't much of a salesman, she thought. She hoped he hadn't pointed out all those little details to her prospective customer.

  "I told you, I haven't decided yet what to do with it yet," she said, a little too sharply. Suddenly she was determined to stay. Why should she sell just because a handful of overly controlling men, including her financial advisors, Ray Henderson, and this Steve person, wanted her to? With Jonathan gone, she was answerable to no one. She could stretch her visit to a few days, maybe even a few weeks. It wasn't as if she had anything important on her schedule: just months of recovery and doctor-ordered peace and quiet. For the first time, the prospect sounded heavenly. A little lonely, perhaps ... but maybe being alone for a while would do her good.

  She turned and met the burly real estate agent's dark-brown eyes straight on. "I want to sleep on the decision of whether to sell or not. And that's what I'll do, even if it takes me all summer."

  Ray did a good job of controlling his disappointment, although she saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. "Sure. Whatever you want. Although over the phone you gave the impression that…."

  Paisley saw no reason to tell him why she had changed her mind. The fact was, she didn't know. She'd planned to do nothing more than take a brief look at the old Perleman home, visit the cemetery, and mutter an ecumenical prayer on Auntie Esther's behalf over her grave. And leave.

  But something was at work here, a subtle but powerful force that wanted her to stay. Not just her innate stubbornness, although that surely played a role. Most of all, it was that invisible something that had been pulling her here like a magnet ever since she had seen that photo of the house on Barry Klein's desk. And she had no intention of turning away and driving back to the airport.

  Then a wave of her old depression washed over her as she remembered she had nothing to go back to. She'd even had the foresight, if that was what it was, to bring along a flight bag with her nightclothes, a toothbrush, and a couple of changes of clothing. One thing Paisley was sure of: she would not sell the house in this condition, to be knocked over by a bulldozer by a greedy neighbor. The lovely thing deserved better.

  She turned toward the realtor. "The house can be fixed up, can't it?"

  "Anything can be repaired, for a price." Ray hesitated, twisting one of his massive rings, as if trying to find tactful words. "But I, er, thought money was a bit of an issue."

  Barry Klein must have spilled more of her personal information to this agent than he'd let on, she thought, fuming. Weren't there laws against that? She'd speak to Barry about that later.

  "Don't worry. I can always sell the family jewels to pay for the repairs if I have to," she said. She meant to head off the topic with a light joke, not let him know how serious her financial situation really was.

  When Ray's eyes widened, however, she quickly realized that her words might be taken as a double entendre, and she felt herself blush. "Oops. I didn't mean it that way. I only meant.... "

  What had she meant, exactly? An elusive memory jangled tantalizingly, and she suddenly recalled that Jonathan had once used the same expression. in her presence. But at that time, she'd had the impression he'd been referring to real jewels, like rubies and diamonds. What on earth had he been talking about? A memory began to surface, vague and flimsy as a ghost, but she could not remember the details. Still, it was strange, how those words had burst out of her mouth.

  "That's just a saying," Paisley said quickly to cover her embarrassment, as Ray's face began to crack into a grin. "You've heard it before, haven't you?"

  "Why, yes, ma'am," Ray drawled in an exaggerated Southern accent, winking. "Although I don't think that would be downright legal, if you'll excuse my saying so."

  She fought down her exasperation. "I mean I'll do anything to get the house in shape, make any necessary sacrifices," she said with asperity. "This place has far too much character to just knock it down. If we're patient, I'm sure we'll find someone who will cherish it, who will restore it to what it must once have looked like. The place is quite beautiful, really, under all that ivy and peeling paint. A ... a ... diamond in the rough."

  Ray looked back at the house as if seeing it for the first time. A flitting expression crossed his face that she could not identify. Then he shrugged. "Diamond in the rough? Maybe you're right. Forget what I said about Steve Lopez's offer. Take all the time you need to see the place. All summer, if you want." He repeated to himself, "Family jewels," and chuckled. Without warning he launched into song, an unexpected rich, smooth baritone pouring out of his barrel chest: "Some women are dri-i-ipping in diamonds, some women are dri-i-i-pping with pearls...."

  She stared at him, as surprised by his about-face as by his sudden singing. The notes from the Broadway musical Annie echoed incongruously in the rural clearing. No one in the world could have looked or sounded less like the greedy orphanage director Miss Hannigan.

  Ray glanced at her, and his face turned red. His hand self-consciously went up and adjusted his gold-colored tie. "Sorry, ma'am," he muttered. "Incurable shower singer. My ex-wife used to drag me to musicals at the Mondalvi Center, and I guess some of the songs got stuck in my head."

  Paisley found herself smiling, a surprisingly painful process; the muscles in her cheeks felt atrophied. It had been a long time since she had found anything humorous, but the thought of the ultra-macho Ray Henderson fidgeting through an endless season of musicals at the behest of an insistent wife tickled her funny bone.

  "You must have been in the military," she guessed with certitude. "No one else uses 'ma'am' these days.

  "Why, yes, ma'am, that's right. Came home from Afghanistan three years ago. It's hard to break old habits."

  If she'd been less tired, she'd asked politely about his military experiences, but the truth was, all she cared about was exploring the house. They hadn't even been inside yet. She felt like a little child on Christmas morning, waiting for Grandma and Grandpa to arrive before unwrapping her presents.

  Sensing her impatience, Ray produced a key, unlocked the lock-box, and waited for her to precede him. "Let's take a look-see, shall we?" he said cheerfully.

  The house smelled musty but not unpleasantly so, like dried rose petals. Ray had told her the place hadn't been lived in for nearly a year, ever since Esther had gone into the nursing home. Sunlight shafted through unwashed windows which, once cleaned, would afford a nice view of the lowest branches of the towering oak tree out front, with the dangling hummingbird feeder that, in the old days, would have been filled with cherry-red liquid.

  Dominating the room was a black Yamaha
baby grand piano, its sleek lines softened by a gray layer of dust. This must be the piano Jonathan had learned to play on. She experimentally plunked a few keys and determined it was badly out of tune. That was no problem. With the right tools, she suspected she could tune it herself, a skill she had learned at the conservatory before meeting Jonathan.

  Jonathan. It must have been a sacrifice for his parents to afford the instrument, she thought, looking around at the middle-class furnishings, which were comfortable but inexpensive. Most families of their class wouldn't have bothered to buy a piano, or would have settled on a cheaper brand, but music had always been important to the Perlemans. He had once talked of a famous singer in his lineage, back in Poland.

  A cabinet-style hi-fi from the late 1960s along one wall retained a certain mid-century chic, and she thought with a new sense of pragmatism that it might be worth a couple of hundred bucks at a vintage store. Then her gaze fell on a bookcase crammed with LP albums, and she forgot everything else.

  At her gasp, Ray folded his arms across his barrel chest, looking bored. "Yeah, must be a few hundred records there. Some probably belonged to Jonathan's parents, the rest would be Esther's."

  "Uh huh." She was not really listening as she kneeled to sift through record covers. There were enough to stock a small shop. Pulling out a 1960s Carmen, she ran a finger over the image of a sloe-eyed, black-haired prima donna on the cover. "Did you know Maria Callas never played Carmen on stage, although she was famous for singing the role?"

  "No kidding." Ray glanced at his thick gold watch, but she refused to be hurried. Feeling a new rush of gratitude to the old woman she had hardly known, Paisley moved on to a stack of CDs.