Inside was a carved wooden box.
A breathtaking box. A work of art. Made of pale ash wood, it had been carved with acanthus leaves, flowers, and swirls; it was lacquered, polished, and sealed with a brass lock.
Who would hide a box within a carousel rabbit? And why? If she broke the lock, would she be destroying a piece of history? Or . . . could there be something inside that was worth real money? Something that might finance a trip to Paris, or even allow her to move and reestablish herself, as she’d hoped selling Gus would do?
Could this be the little piece of magic Olivia insisted Cady would find someday?
No, she reminded herself. Things like that don’t happen to me.
To hell with history. Cady grabbed a spackling knife, shoved it into the seam of the lock, and tapped the end of it with a hammer. She had to pry the box in several locations before the lock finally snapped.
She opened the lid.
A childish part of her hoped for a cache of jewels or gold, as though a pirate might have concealed his booty within this children’s amusement. Instead, she found an ancient sepia-toned photograph of a woman, a tightly braided plait of dark brown hair, an intricately carved wooden rose, and a note written in slanted letters. The ink had faded to a light brown and the script was hard to read, but she made out: Je t’aime toujours, et encore. Souviens-toi de moi.
“I love you forever, and still,” Cady translated aloud. “Remember me.”
She checked the box for a false bottom, just in case, but there was nothing else. Certainly no treasure. Disappointment washed over her.
“That was it? That’s your big secret?” Cady glared at the rabbit. “I gotta tell you, Gus, after all these years you’re really letting me down.”
Still, she snapped several photos of the hidden cache.
Unless . . . the man at the antiques fair had told her establishing a provenance might increase Gus’s value. Were there clues that could reveal where the rabbit figure had come from?
Stroking the silky plait of hair, Cady inspected the intricately carved wooden rose, complete with tiny thorns. It reminded her of the flower on Gus’s side that had so offended Scott Ripley. There was no signature or marking of any kind, certainly no brass plaque indicating provenance.
She picked up the photograph. The woman stood stiffly in front of a carousel, unsmiling, looking directly into the camera. She appeared to be young, probably in her early twenties. Her hair was piled on her head, with several strands escaping to frame a heart-shaped face. She wore a dark high-necked dress that fell to her ankles and was topped by a work apron. No visible lace or other embellishment. Cady was hardly a fashion expert, but she guessed it was from around the turn of the twentieth century, certainly before World War I.
The photograph was slightly fuzzy and crooked, as though taken by an amateur. But a professional-looking photographic stamp on the right lower corner read: Château Clement.
Cady opened her computer and searched, but she found no results for that name. She read that only a few dozen historic châteaus still existed in good repair; most had been too expensive to renovate after being abandoned during the French Revolution and then further damaged over the course of the two World Wars. The great majority had fallen into ruin.
The woman didn’t appear to be the lady of the manor—surely she would have donned her finest gown for a photo session? In fact, with the apron and the messy hair, she looked like a servant. Which led to the next obvious question: Who would have taken a servant’s photograph and then tucked it away in a box along with a love note? And why?
Cady brought out her photographer’s loupe to study the fuzzy details of the carousel in the background. She made out two carved horses, a carriage, and a rabbit that looked a little like Gus.
Gus. She gazed at her poor gutted rabbit.
“I’m sorry, little guy. Let’s see what we can do about fixing you up.”
She lifted him onto the big project table and turned on some Édith Piaf to get in the mood.
When Cady first started working for Maxine to repay her for items she had pilfered from the shop, she had simply cleaned and straightened and organized. But over time Maxine taught Cady how to do some basic repairs on antiques and how to make new things look old with crackle paint and sandpaper and rubbing the contents of the vacuum bag into crevices and voids. She learned how to apply gold and silver leaf, how to execute a proper French polish, and how to use glazes to suggest antiquity and increase value. At the flea market on weekends, Maxine pointed out what was valuable, what was cheap imitation, and how to tell the difference.
Still, Cady wasn’t a trained conservator, so she had always hesitated to work on the rabbit, afraid her efforts at repairing him would decrease, rather than add to, his value. But now, since Gus wasn’t who she’d thought he was anyway, she figured she could at least piece him back together. Cady enjoyed using her hands and getting back to basics: sanding and scraping and laminating. The process was calming, healing.
As Piaf crooned her love for Paris, Cady’s mind cast about, pondering the woman in the photograph. Was the note written for her, or by her? And how could Cady track down Château Clement? Might it be the name of an old photography studio, rather than a true “château” per se?
The phone rang. Lately Cady had been ignoring phone calls, but this was from Olivia. If she ignored her calls, Olivia would show up in person.
“Hey,” Cady answered. “What’s up?”
“Remember a couple of days ago, how I was saying you should hold out for a little magic in your life?”
“Yeah . . . why?” Had Olivia somehow intuited what Cady had found in Gus’s belly?
“Addison Avenue Books wants to offer you a contract for a photo book of Parisian carousels.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Which part didn’t you understand?”
“They’re offering me a book contract? Who are these people?”
“They’re a small press based in San Francisco, but they’ve been around for a long time. They publish big, glossy coffee-table books. It’s a niche market, but a profitable one. One of the senior editors plays golf with Sebastian, and he pitched her the idea. I sent her a link to your website, and she checked out your online portfolio. I told her the magazine loves working with you—you’re so professional and exclusive and very much in demand, blah blah blah.”
“Basically, you lied.”
“I did not lie. I enhanced. Anyway, since you don’t have an agent, I told her to send me the contract so I could look it over for you. Legalese and all that.”
“I don’t . . . I mean . . . I really don’t know. . . .”
“Cady, the universe is handing you a huge gift. Accept your landlord’s offer to take over the lease, sell off Maxine’s inventory, store your stuff in my garage, and go to Paris.”
“Speaking of gifts from the universe, listen to this: Gus fell over—to be honest, I kicked him—and broke open, and—”
“You kicked him? Poor Gus.”
“Yes, but listen: There was a box hidden inside.”
“What was in it? Gold coins? Diamonds? Scads of old-fashioned currency?”
“No, unfortunately. Just a photograph and a lock of hair. And a love note, and a wooden rose.”
“How cool! Are there any clues about where Gus came from?”
“Not right off the bat, but I did find the name of a château. I have no idea where it is, though. It doesn’t come up on the Internet.”
“Well, the book offer specifies photos of Parisian carousels, but there’s no reason you can’t wander a little farther afield once you’re in the country,” said Olivia. “You could track down that château. You and I both know you’re going to become obsessed with your mystery box anyway. It’s what you do.”
It was true: Cady was already rereading the note, gazing
at the photo, stroking the plait of hair, wondering about the significance of the rose. Maxine used to say that once something had caught Cady’s interest, she was like a dog with a bone. On the one hand, her single-mindedness had helped her in her photography; on the other, her obsessions sometimes drove a wedge between her and others.
“Seriously, Cady,” Olivia continued. “Take the leap. You know what they say: The world’s your oyster.”
“I don’t like oysters.”
“Have you ever tried oysters?”
“No.” Cady liked things to be predictable. Running off to Paris for a photography assignment felt . . . reckless. Just the prospect gave her a dizzying sensation, like the first time she had seen the ocean, standing on the edge of a very steep cliff.
“The pay’s not great, but you’re not a big spender, so it’ll be enough. Honestly, Cady, what do you have to lose?”
Cady gripped the telephone so tightly that her knuckles hurt. Even she had to admit: It felt like the universe was giving her a big old shove in the direction of la Belle France.
“You don’t have any room in your garage,” Cady said. “Everyone else’s stuff is jammed in there already.”
“I’ll make room,” Olivia answered, a triumphant tone to her voice. “So, is that a yes?”
“Mais oui,” Cady said, surprising them both.
Photo © Joseph Schell Photography
Juliet Blackwell was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, the youngest child of a jet pilot and an editor. She graduated with a degree in Latin American studies from the University of California–Santa Cruz, and went on to earn master’s degrees in anthropology and social work. While in graduate school, she published several articles based on her research with immigrant families from Mexico and Vietnam, as well as one full-length translation: Miguel León-Portilla’s seminal work, Endangered Cultures. Juliet taught medical anthropology at SUNY–Albany, produced a BBC documentary, and served as an elementary school social worker. Upon her return to California, she became a professional artist and ran her own decorative painting and design studio for more than a decade. In addition to mainstream novels, Juliet pens the New York Times bestselling Witchcraft Mysteries and the Haunted Home Renovation series. As Hailey Lind she wrote the Agatha Award–nominated Art Lover’s Mystery series. She makes her home in Northern California, but spends as much time as possible in Europe and Latin America.
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The Vineyards of Champagne Page 35