Colonial Madness

by Jo Whittemore

  “No, don’t stop!” I told her. “Keep going! You can do it!”

  She froze, then clenched her jaw and nodded.

  I didn’t return to my seat, choosing instead to sit on the ground by her.

  “How much did she offer you?” asked Mom.

  “Five thousand and all bills paid,” I said.

  She snorted. “We’re worth way more than that.”

  I glanced past her to Uncle Max, who was still climbing up his ladder, and to Uncle Deke and Aunt Zoe, who were now getting ready to climb on a barrel resting on the cart.

  “Done!” said Mom, holding up her masterpiece . . . of two sheets sewn together.

  “I’m not gonna lie,” I said. “I feel slightly underwhelmed.”

  She winked at me. “Just watch.”

  Again there was a cracking and splintering sound, but this time it came from much closer. Uncle Max froze midway up the ladder and locked his knees against the side.

  “Oh, boy,” he said. “I knew that board looked a little flimsy.”

  No sooner had he gotten the words out than the board beneath his feet split in two. The sudden pressure on the board below snapped that one as well, and soon Uncle Max was tumbling onto the crash mattress.

  “And now it’s my turn,” said Mom.

  Picking up a large rock, she wrapped one end of the doubly long sheet in it and, with a loud grunt, hurled it over the top of the beam. It dropped down to the other side, taking half the sheet with it.

  “Interesting,” said Great-Aunt Muriel. Even Uncle Deke and Aunt Zoe stopped their mini circus act to watch.

  Reaching up, Mom grabbed the bottom of both sheets and began to climb, wrapping small sections of the sheet around her foot for leverage.

  “No. Way,” said Dylan.

  “Wow,” said Angel.

  “Brilliant!” I laughed, and clapped my hands.

  A minute later, a bell rang loud and clear.

  “We have a winner,” announced Great-Aunt Muriel.

  And there was much rejoicing at the future estate of Jill and Victoria Porter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dylan and Uncle Max decided not to stay after Dylan threw a megatantrum and Uncle Max finally couldn’t take any more. He literally scolded his son into silence—something I never thought I’d see. “Remind me to never get on Uncle Max’s bad side,” I’d told Mom.

  “I’m sorry y’all had to witness that,” said Uncle Max. “I try to keep a civil tongue, but . . .” He chuckled. “I reckon it’s time we hit the old dusty trail.”

  “Are you two going to be okay?” asked Aunt Zoe, taking in Dylan’s sullen expression.

  “Oh, sure,” said Uncle Max. “We’ll be doing a lot more talking, and Dylan will be getting a serious attitude adjustment once we get home. There’s a corrective program that I’ve been meaning to enroll him in. Champs, I think it’s called.”

  “Ironic,” I said, smirking at Dylan. “Oh, and instead of one of my mom’s dresses, I thought you’d prefer to remember us by wearing this.” I held out one of my colonial dresses. “You may want to run it through the wash.”

  Dylan wrinkled his nose in disgust, probably at both the thought of wearing it and the stink coming from it.

  We said our good-byes, and then Great-Aunt Muriel turned to Mom and me.

  “Why don’t we meet in my study with my lawyer.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, she hobbled up to the manor.

  Mom linked her arm through mine and then led me to Aunt Zoe.

  “We’re going to need help managing our assets, which means a nice cut of the profits . . . if you’re interested.” She offered Aunt Zoe an elbow.

  Angel and I exchanged excited grins.

  “How can I turn down an offer like that?” asked Aunt Zoe, slipping her arm through Mom’s.

  The three of us climbed the lawn, like Dorothy and company off to see the Wizard, but I heard a whistling sound that made me stop. Caleb was grinning and waving from the doorway of his craft hut.

  “Mom?” I asked.

  She glanced back, saw Caleb, and smiled.

  “We’ll be inside whenever you’re ready,” she said.

  I skipped back down the hill to join Caleb, and he hugged me and lifted me up.

  “Congratulations,” he said, giving me a kiss. “I made something just for the occasion.”

  He held out a small plaque that read PORTER ESTATES.

  I hugged it to me and beamed. “You really thought we would win.”

  “I knew you would,” he said. “Because of who you are and who your mom is.”

  I hugged him again. “Thank you for everything. For believing in us and helping me believe in us and . . . and for this.” I admired the plaque.

  “Just do me a favor and try to remember my family when you guys take over the property,” he said with a wink. “Maybe you could keep us on as gardeners or something.”

  “Oh, my mom wouldn’t let you go jobless or homeless, don’t worry,” I said. “And I actually have a good idea of how to use you guys and this place. I’m thinking we could lease it to the historical preservation society and make it a living colonial museum.”

  Caleb’s eyes brightened. “That would be awesome! And I could show visitors how to do metalwork, and my mom could show them how to cook traditional . . .”

  We talked for a couple of hours about how the museum could work. I didn’t feel the need to join Mom inside. I trusted she’d do what was right for both of us in the end.

  When it was finally time to go in for dinner, Caleb held my hand and squeezed my fingers.

  “I’m going to be sad to see you go,” he said, shoulders sagging.

  “Me too.” I squeezed his hand back. “But I’m sure we’ll be coming up here a lot to check on the property and get the inheritance sorted out.” I grinned. “And we’ll always have e-mail.”

  “E-mail?” He wrinkled his forehead. “What is this strange thing of which you speak? Are you using witchcraft again?”

  I laughed. “How do you think we won the contest?”

  The others were already seated at the dining table—Angel and her parents, Caleb’s parents, Mom, and Great-Aunt Muriel—and I took the empty space next to Mom.

  “Have a good time?” she asked.

  I nodded. “And I got our first proof of ownership.” I showed her the Porter Estates plaque, and she smiled. I told her of my suggestion for the living museum, which she deemed “brilliant!”

  “Also . . .” I said, “I was wondering if we could save some of the money for—”

  “A tiger? Tori, we know how that turns out.”

  I laughed. “No. To keep Caleb and his family here as caretakers.”

  “Actually”—Mom leaned close and whispered—“they won’t need any of our money. They’ll have plenty of their own.”

  I almost fell out of my chair. “What?!”

  “It turns out Muriel—”

  “Has remarkable hearing,” said a stout voice down the table.

  Mom and I pulled away from each other and straightened in our seats.

  “I was just telling my daughter of your kind nature,” said Mom.

  Great-Aunt Muriel gave one of her rare, rusty laughs. “Good heavens, don’t lie to the child. I just happened to realize Charity would be dead before she had time to spend even a fraction of the inheritance. Then where would my money go?”

  All other conversation came to a halt.

  “So, if you’re not giving it to Charity, then who gets it?” asked Angel.

  We all leaned forward expectantly.

  Great-Aunt Muriel crumbled croutons into her tomato soup.

  Several chairs squeaked. Eli cleared his throat and coughed in a rhythm that sounded like “Mur-i-el.”

  Great-Aunt Muriel blew on a hot spoonful, tasted it, then made a pleased sound. She raised an empty spoon to the rest of us.

  “Savory, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Muriel,” said Uncle Deke, turnin
g a little pink. “Didn’t you have something to tell us? About the inheritance?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Is that why you’re all being so quiet and polite? I assumed you’d developed manners.” She lowered the spoon. “The property will go to Jill and Tori as planned, while half of the monetary assets will be given to charity . . . true charity. And the remainder will be divided equally among my family and my staff.”

  Cheers erupted all along the table. Everyone hugged everyone. Even Great-Aunt Muriel.

  “Be honest,” I said when it was my turn. “Was your horse really the reason you did this? Or could it maybe be because we’re the most fascinating people you’ve ever met?”

  “You aren’t fascinating. You’re mildly amusing at best,” said Great-Aunt Muriel. “Henry Ford and George Patton . . . they were fascinating.”

  My smile dropped a little.

  Great-Aunt Muriel took my hands in her soft, wrinkled ones. “But they weren’t family,” she said in a quiet voice.

  I hugged her, breathing in the scent of leather and land. And then my sniffs turned to sniffles when I realized it might be the last time we’d ever meet.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said. “No tears, please. This is silk.”

  I busted out laughing and wiped at my eyes.

  “Let’s finish our dinner, shall we?” she asked. “My delicious soup will have gone cold by now.”

  We all returned to our seats, Caleb and I grinning at each other from across the table. Mom nudged me to get my attention.

  “Tomorrow all the bills will be caught up,” she said, “and we’ll start renovations on the dress shop.”

  The news just kept getting better.

  “You’re going to take my advice?” I couldn’t stop the smug grin spreading across my face.

  Mom rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing it because you’re right,” she said. “I’m doing it because if I order more supplies, I get to see Funk twice a week.”

  “When can I start calling him Daddy?” I asked with big, innocent eyes.

  But we both knew I never would. No man would ever be my dad but the original. And Mom had taken over the role just fine.

  I smirked and laid my head on her shoulder. “I love you, Mom.”

  She laid her head on mine. “I love you, Tori. Now please pass the artificially flavored soda.”

  And with that, our colonial days were over.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Always for God, family, friends, and fans.

  For my editor, Alyson Heller, who knows when I’m being funny and when I’m just being gross.

  For my agent, Jenn Laughran, who says, “Why not?” whenever I want to try something new.

  For my cover artist, Kim Smith, because, let’s face it, the cover is adorable.

  For my writing partners at the Lodge of Death (not as scary as it sounds . . . okay, maybe a little), who laughed hard enough for me to know I had something and answered questions about flying chickens.

  For Jody Feldman, the ultimate game master, who indulged my dilemmas.

  For Joshua Rivera, who helped me with the final challenge and lived to tell the tale.

  For the Boston Public Library and its endless resources, not to mention the gorgeous interior and cozy window seats.

  And for Plimoth Plantation, which made me very glad I didn’t live in colonial times.

  Jo Whittemore is the author of the tween humor novels Front Page Face-Off, Odd Girl In, and D Is for Drama, as well as the Silverskin Legacy fantasy trilogy. She currently lives in Austin, Texas, where she is an active member of the SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) and the Texas Sweethearts & Scoundrels. Jo lives off of chocolate and pizza. She would not have survived in colonial times.

  If you loved Colonial Madness, don’t miss:

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  D Is for Drama

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN

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  First Aladdin hardcover edition February 2015

  Text copyright © 2015 by Jo Whittemore

  Jacket designed by Laura Lyn DiSiena

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2015 by Kim Smith

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  ALADDIN is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc., and related logo is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  The text of this book was set in Filosofia.

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  ISBN 978-1-4814-0508-9 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-4814-0510-2 (eBook)