"Ow!" she cried, reeling from the pain. She leaned down through the opening into the hall and yelled loudly, "C'mon up, dammit! It's open!"
Expecting Victoria and Susy, Liz was surprised when a male voice called politely, "Anybody home?"
If he was a serial killer, he wasn't a very bright one. "Up here, I said," she repeated, rubbing the goose-egg on her head. "Who is it?"
"Your neighbor to the east. Jack Eastman," he answered as he ascended the bare, varnished stairs.
The voice was rich and deep and had that touch of Ivy League affectation that Liz so disliked. Clearly he wasn't there as part of any Welcome Wagon. She wondered why he'd driven all the way around to her side of the barbed wire. It never occurred to her to climb down the ladder to greet him. Instead, she waited for him just the way she was. Upside-down. Like a bat.
She was still hanging there when Eastman reached the landing beneath her.
"I'm looking for Liz Coppersmith," he said, clearly refusing to believe he'd found her. "Of Parties Plus?"
"Yessir! May I help you?" asked Liz, snapping to attention at the magic word parties. Nuts. This was a business call, then.
"Let me just get down from here," she said hurriedly. "I'm sorry about the mess. I was poking around, and. . ."
Still gripping her red-lacquered box, she scrambled onto the top rung of the stepladder — the one all the signs said not to step on — and promptly sent it flying out from under her as she fell backward, more or less into her new neighbor's arms.
He staggered under the weight of her fall but recovered gracefully, which was more than Liz could say for herself. She felt like Lucy Ricardo after a bout with Ricky. It didn't help that her head was wrapped in a ratty bandanna, her jeans were torn, and her face was covered with plaster dust.
He held her by her shoulders longer than he needed to. "You're Parties Plus?" A half-smile — too condescending by half — relieved the sternly handsome lines of his face. "Really?"
A shiver — indignation? resentment? — rippled through Liz. "Yes. Really," she said coolly, reacting as she always did to condescension. She knew she should be used to it; Newport had more snobs per cobblestone than any other town in New England. On the plus side, they formed a solid base of customers for businesses like hers.
Smile, she told herself over the annoying hammering of her heart. You need the business.
"I tried the number in the Yellow Pages," Eastman said, "and I got a not-in-service message." His tone suggested consumer fraud.
"Oh, that," said Liz. "I was in the process of moving my Middletown office to Touro Street here in town, but a sprinkler went nuts in the new place, so I won't be able to move in for a month. In the meantime I'm operating out of my house. The business phone goes in tomorrow. All of my clients know my home phone, of course," she added, implying that she had lots and lots of them.
It was obvious to her that he wasn't impressed. Why should he be, when they were standing in a pile of construction rubble?
Liz suggested that they continue their discussion downstairs. On the way down she tried to convince herself that she was in fact wearing a smart linen suit and that he was buck naked—anything to level the playing field.
The living room, with its charming brick fireplace, was only twelve feet square. Earlier in the day Liz had been regarding the room as cozy; suddenly it merely seemed small. And that was Jack Eastman's fault. Right-side up, he looked truly formidable: six-two, broad shoulders, arms that convinced her he worked out regularly. His thick brown hair was sun-bleached and surprisingly untidy for the impeccably casual clothes he wore. He was deeply tanned.
Another rich and idle yachtsman, without a doubt.
She thought of her father, still saving up for an aluminum skiff and an outboard motor, and had to repress one of her frequent surges of resentment for the moneyed class. Why him and not Dad? was her thoroughly blue-collar thought.
"Have a seat," she said, reminding herself one more time that there was money to be made from that moneyed class.
Eastman opted for the damask wing chair that went so well with her country-cottage chintz, but — she couldn't believe it — he didn't fit. The wings crowded his shoulders.
"Maybe you'd be more comfortable on the sofa," she suggested.
"It doesn't matter," he said impatiently, glancing at his watch. "I understand from Netta that you do birthday parties. We have a five-year-old, ah, guest who's staying with us. Can you arrange a party on the premises for a week from tomorrow?"
Ta-dah! Exactly according to plan. Liz grinned broadly—and tasted plaster dust. She'd forgotten all about looking like Lucy Ricardo; it was obvious that she was going to have to go all out to overcome this disaster of a first impression. "I'd be delighted to do it," she said enthusiastically.
"I know it's short notice; are you sure you'll be able to fit us in?" he said, irony flashing in his sea-blue eyes.
Clearly he thought she had no other business at all. It stung.
"Well, that depends," Liz said, slipping mentally into that smart linen suit. "Some themes are more elaborate than others. But we should still be able to do something nice in that amount of time. I was thinking that the little girl — it is for that adorable little blonde girl, isn't it? — I was thinking that, like most kids, she's probably into dinosaurs."
It was the first thing that popped into Liz's head, but she quickly warmed to the idea. "Oh, I don't mean some big purple Barney hulking around and passing out party hats, but something more fun. Your grounds are so extensive .... maybe we could do something with big cutout dinosaurs placed all over ... a kind of Jurassic Park. We could create an entire prehistoric —"
"Hold it." Eastman stood up. Frowning, he said, "Nothing prehistoric. Nothing historic. I had in mind some balloons and streamers, that sort of thing. And a cake — even though Caroline's already had one. Some little nonsense presents. And I guess food of some sort. They eat at these things, don't they? Plan on — Netta tells me — about half a dozen kids and an average number of their parents. If you need anything else, talk to Netta." He glanced at his watch again. "Now. What's this going to run me?"
"Oh." Utterly deflated, Liz could think of nothing else to say, so she said it again: "Oh."
This wasn't exactly the commission she had in mind. Jack Eastman was not only a surly host, he was a cheap one. She sighed and thought that he must be from old money. Newport had plenty of that.
Still, it was a start. She did some quick calculations and came up with a rock-bottom estimate.
He frowned and cut it in half.
"Oh, I don't think so," Liz said, breathless at his insulting counteroffer.
Eastman shrugged. "I'm sorry to have taken up your time," he said, and he headed for the door.
It was all happening so fast. Her entrée to Bellevue Avenue — boom! Gone! Just like that.
"Wait!" she cried.
He turned around. Liz swallowed hard and said, "Okay. Since you're a neighbor. But I don't mind admitting —"
"Oh, don't do it as a favor to me, Miss Coppersmith," he said quickly. "Do it because you want the business."
She did. Damn him. She did. "I'll do it," she said with a tight, offended smile.
"Fine I'll leave you to it, then. G'day."
He let himself out. Liz marched up to the door, threw the bolt, and muttered, "G'day yourself, you cheapskate."
The whole interview was too embarrassing to dwell on; Liz pushed it from her mind and went back to retrieve the red-lacquered box from the floor of her bedroom, where it had landed after flying out of her hand when she fell from the ladder. She carried it over to the west-facing windows for a closer look. How odd that her visitor hadn't been the slightest bit curious about it. Or perhaps he was, but was too well-mannered to show it.
It was a beautiful box, lacquered to a slippery, brilliant finish and covered with an all-over pattern of intricately painted flowers and twining vines, all in deeper, richer colors than the Chinese red background. It
s hinges were hidden, and its lock, the size of a fingertip, was recessed into the wood. An exquisitely made thing, and probably valuable. She would not be able to open it without damaging it unless she had a key.
Or some little tool? She held the box to her breast and stared absently out her bedroom window, trying to think of what might do.
As usual, she got caught up in the view. From her hilltop perch she could see glimpses of Newport Harbor and of Narragansett Bay beyond it. At the moment, a big freighter was picking its way through a flock of tiny, feathery sails as it headed down the bay for other ports of call. The ship was high in the water. Whatever its cargo — cars, electronics, clothing — it had been emptied at the Port of Providence; now the ship was going back, probably to Asia, for more.
Liz tried not to think of the lost jobs the freighter represented and daydreamed instead about the magic of maritime trade. She knew — every Newporter knew — that much of Newport's old wealth had come from its deep involvement in trading with eighteenth-century China. From teas to trees to silks to willoware, everything pretty once seemed to have come from the Far East. Shipowners put the best pieces aside for themselves, and sold the rest, and got richer and richer. No one begrudged them back then, not if it meant they could have pretty blue dishes on their tables and silk dress goods for twenty-five cents a yard.
And red-lacquered boxes like the one Liz held in her hands. That it came from China, she had no doubt. Probably it had been offloaded from some square-rigger right here in Newport harbor in the days when Newport was still a major port of the United States. She was cradling a small token of the commerce that had enabled more than one man to build himself an imposing mansion on Newport's Gold Coast.
She thought of Jack Eastman and wondered where his money had came from. He had a certain Captain Bligh glint in his eye that made her think he could easily take a ship around the Horn. On the other hand, he looked like he'd be just as comfortable in the give-and-take of a trading session dockside. Heck, hadn't he just proved it?
Well, he might have his empire, but she had her red box. And she had no intention of destroying it, only to discover it was empty.
But it wasn't empty. It couldn't be. What Liz needed, she decided, was a locksmith; he'd be able to pick the lock in two seconds flat. She dusted herself off, changed, and was on her way out the door when she saw Victoria pulling onto the graveled parking area in front of the rose arbor — the rose arbor that had sealed Liz's decision to buy the house.
Victoria had Susy in the back seat of her BMW. As always, Liz's heart sang a bright song at the sight of her five-year-old daughter. As always, the thought hurtled through her mind that, if Keith had had his way ....
But he hadn't, and for that, Liz was more grateful than anyone else on earth.
"Hi, honey," she said to the child. "You must've had a good time."
Her daughter waved through the open window and unbuckled her seat belt in a very grown-up way, then got out and skipped over into her mother's waiting arms for a hug.
"Aunty Tori let me get a milkshake for dessert!"
"And you were able to drink it all?" asked Liz, glancing at Victoria with amazement.
"Well, no," Susy confessed. "Aunty Tori had to help me a little."
Victoria reassured Liz by holding her thumb and forefinger two inches apart. Two inches of milkshake wasn't so awful; Susy'd have her appetite back by suppertime. "Well, just so you know you can't have a special dessert like that every day," Liz said gravely.
"Oh, Mommy," said Susy, as if she were well aware that she didn't have a prayer.
For Liz, one of the the hardest things about sharing Susy with her parents and Victoria on a regular basis was trying to keep Susy's diet honest. It was so tempting to let them ply her with treats, so tempting for Liz herself to bribe Susy whenever she had to farm her out on a sunny weekend or a big holiday, which was inevitably when Liz had to work.
Life would've been so much easier if Keith had chosen to stick around.
Susy was peeking into the shopping bag that sat on the ground next to her mother. "What's this, Mommy? A present for someone?"
Liz smiled at her daughter's subtle fishing expedition and rumpled her dark-brown hair. "It's a box I found in the attic," she said, lifting it out for her daughter and Victoria to see. "It's locked, so I'm going to take it to someone who can open it for me. Do you want to come?"
While Susy considered her options, Victoria asked, "For heaven's sake, how did you get into the attic?"
"Jigsaw," said Liz, rolling her eyes at the memory. "I made an ungodly mess; I haven't even swept it up yet. I found a trunk of old letters sealed away, and this was in with them." -
"No kidding?"
Susy was tugging at her mother's hand. "Mommy? I think maybe I don't want to go. I think. . . maybe I should have some quiet time," she said with a tentative look in her big brown eyes.
Stomachache, dammit. Liz threw Victoria a scolding glance, then said to her daughter, "Okay, sweetie. I'll take the box to the locksmith some other time."
"Liz, just go; I'll stay with Susy," said Victoria amiably. She held out her hand to the little girl and said, "You can have quiet time while I tell you another adventure of the Princess and the Magic Petunia."
Susy was all for that, which left Liz with mixed feelings. Her daughter's early years were precious ones, and on Liz's deathbed she was going to want every lost moment of them. She felt guilty for wanting to open the box ... but she wanted desperately to open the box.
"Okay, then, sunshine. I'll be right back."
****
Jimmy's Lock and Key was located in a peeling colonial house, one of the many historic buildings, most of them updated, that lined both sides of downtown Thames Street. The concept of gentrification, however, had not yet occurred to Jimmy; his ancient, tattered shop was a jumble of new brass hardware, carousels of key blanks, and boxes of mysterious metal innards. Liz laid the red-lacquered box on the painted plywood counter and said, "Can you get it open without damaging it?"
Jimmy, a bulldozer of a man who could probably pry open a locked safe with one arm tied behind his back, picked up the box in his thick, stubby hands and said, "Shouldn't be too hard. Where'd you get it — flea market, or antique shop?"
"Neither. It was in the sealed-in attic of the house I've just bought, along with a bunch of old letters. Isn't that weird? If this box were bigger, I'd be afraid of finding someone's bones in it," Liz said with a self-conscious laugh.
"Or ashes," said Jimmy, shaking it back and forth the way Liz had.
Ashes! She hadn't thought of ashes. "Can you pick the lock?" she asked with more dread than before.
Jimmy shrugged and reached under the counter. "Won't need to, maybe." He brought out an El Producto cigar box and flipped open the cardboard top. "Let's see what we got in here," he said, pushing an assortment of tiny keys around in the box. "Sometimes we get lucky."
His eye lit on a little brass key that must've looked promising. He picked it up and tried inserting it. No luck. He tried another. Ditto. Liz's hopes began to sag. Then he pulled out a third key, a tiny key turned dark with age, and tried that one.
"Well, well," he said, obviously pleased as the key turned smoothly in the lock. "Nothin's frozen."
What Jimmy did next showed he had an instinct either for chivalry or for caution, Liz never did figure out which: he turned the box around to face her so that she could open it herself.
Liz bit her lower lip and laid both her hands gently on the lid. She'd half convinced herself that there was an important letter wedged inside, or a map, a treasure map left behind by Captain Kidd. But she did not want ashes.
Slowly, expectantly, she raised the lid. Almost at once her ears seemed to ring, as though somewhere in the far, far distance, someone were playing an instrument. A chime, perhaps: a single-noted chime whose echo began to fill the room with its extraordinary tone.
She was confused; she thought perhaps the box was some sort of musi
c box or that — bizarrely — it was rigged to sound an alarm when opened. But the tone stayed with her, filling her head with its melodious note.
"Well? What've we got?" asked Jimmy.
"I ... what?" Liz asked, hardly registering the question.
The inside of the box was lined with rich black satin, and on the satin sat a heart-shaped pin. The heart itself was open and gold, shaped into a twining leafy pattern. The inside point of the heart ended in a tiny red stone sitting on five gold petals. It was very pretty, but worth less, probably, than the box it was pinned to.
"Are you all right, miss?"
The single, chiming note became more intense as Liz reached into the box and gently released the heart from its satin anchor. "A pin," she murmured. Her own heart had taken off at a flyaway rate; her hands began unaccountably to tremble. The silvery ringing in her ears ... was she about to faint? "It's a pin," she repeated in a whisper, unbelievably distressed.
"Oh, yeah," said Jimmy with a sideways tilt of his balding head. "Very nice. Got any idea how long it was sealed away?" he asked.
"I ... do not. The house was built in the thirties," Liz said, shaking her head, trying to rid herself of the ringing sound. She took a deep breath or two and looked around the shop in confusion, then said, "Do you have an appliance somewhere that makes some kind of high-pitched sound?"
"The fridge out back drives me nuts," Jimmy volunteered.
"No, no ... this is more ... beautiful, than that."
"Beautiful?"
"And scary."
"Scary?" He frowned and said, "An appliance?"
"Maybe your neighbors have chimes hanging outside?" she asked him without much hope.
"Chimes! Don't get me started on chimes," Jimmy said, snorting. "Damned clanging pipes. As if we don't have enough noise blastin' outta car speakers all summer long. The traffic eventually dies down; you can catch an hour or two of quiet at night. But chimes! All day, all night ... chimes just keep chiming. Chimes in the city," he said pontifically, "are not a good idea."
"Yes, like that," Liz whispered, ignoring his speech. "You have some nearby?"
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