The Treasure Box Page 4

  When she awoke, Vita couldn’t remember the words or the tune; she could barely remember the dream, but a sense of urgency seized her. Despite all logic, she felt a sense of foreboding, a premonition of something that would happen to little Sophie—or to her father Jacob. What about the birthday party and Jacob’s gift of the Treasure Box? Was the dream some kind of omen, some— With a huff of disgust, Vita came to her senses. She got out of bed and stalked to the bathroom, carrying on an internal argument as she brushed her teeth. These aren’t actual people, Vita, she told herself. This is a story, a computer fabrication. A virus. Maybe in the clear light of morning she could find a way to get around the electronic infection, to neutralize it and get back to work.

  Back to the real world, the world of deadlines and contracts and word counts. Back to a world that made sense.

  She brushed out her hair with a vengeance, then without bothering to pull it back, threw the brush down on the dressing table and left the bathroom. Still in her pajamas and slippers, she padded downstairs, turned on the computer, and went to the kitchen to make coffee while the system booted up. When she came back to her office with a steaming mug, the monitor displayed no program icons, no desktop. Only that dark blue screen full of blinking constellations.

  Vita sat down at the keyboard and stared at the stars, and all her self-directed anger drained away. In a sudden moment of clarity she realized that she wasn’t the least bit disappointed. The Alaska project would just have to wait.

  She hit the Enter key and waited as the starry sky faded to gray and the interior of Jacob Stillwater’s house came into view. The setting was, as Vita had predicted, a party—Sophie’s tenth birthday party. What Vita hadn’t expected and couldn’t explain was that this time when the scene unfolded before her, she perceived far more than she should have. Two of the people she had never laid eyes on before, yet she knew—without knowing how she knew— that they were Sophie’s best friend Rachel and her sister Cathleen.

  She knew that Cathleen Woodlea dominated Rachel, and that Rachel, a mild-mannered child, usually gave in to her sister’s bullying. She could understand it all, without being told.

  When she had taken her first glimpse into Jacob Stillwater’s workshop, Vita had felt a twinge of shame, and wondered briefly if watching him and his little family could be considered prying.

  Now, not only could she see the faces and hear the conversations, she could even see into the minds and hear the inner thoughts of Jacob and Sophie and some of the others—like a voice-over in a movie script. She felt Jacob’s pride and loneliness, his grief over his wife’s absence, his anticipation of presenting to Sophie his gift of the Treasure Box. She sensed Bridget’s love for them both, and her longing for a family of her own. Her own heart beat in time with the rhythms of Sophie’s giddy excitement and the underlying sadness of missing her mother.

  Vita didn’t have the faintest idea how to handle this new source of information. Accustomed to a world barely wide enough for one, the sheer claustrophobia of having that space invaded by other minds and hearts and lives should have overwhelmed her.

  But her fascination was stronger than her fear. Besides, she couldn’t abort the program, couldn’t shut it down. She might just walk away, but she was certain that whenever she came back, it would still be here—asleep, on standby, waiting for her to wake it up and set it in motion again.

  What else could she do but drink her coffee, sit back, watch, and wait?

  Vita counted only five people gathered around the trestle table by the hearth. Only five, and yet the stone-walled room seemed crowded to capacity. At the head of the table sat ten-year-old Sophie, presiding over the slicing of a cream-frosted spice cake.

  Paper streamers hung from the rafters, and tiny bits of confetti and small toys from the broken silver crackers littered the table.

  To Sophie’s right sat her father Jacob, and to her left, Rachel.

  Cathleen perched primly on the rough wooden bench next to her sister, and at the foot of the table stood Bridget, beaming broadly over the celebration.

  “The biggest slice goes to Papa,” Sophie said, cutting an enormous slab and setting it in front of her father. “Thank you, Papa, for the party.” She cast an adoring look in his direction.

  “And thank you, Bridget,” she said, smiling and passing a second piece of cake down to the housekeeper. “It’s the most wonderful birthday ever.”

  She cut two more slices for Rachel and Cathleen, exactly the same size, and set them on the table in front of the two girls. Cathleen eyed Rachel’s cake and, when she thought no one was looking, switched the two pieces. But Sophie noticed, and frowned.

  “I brought you a present, Sophie,” Rachel said, her voice shy and whispery. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small battered box, tied with a piece of cotton string.

  Sophie cradled the box in one hand and fingered the string.

  Although Cathleen liked to put on airs and pretend she was superior to everybody else, Sophie knew the Woodlea family was little better off than Sophie’s own. They couldn’t afford to buy a gift for a ten-year-old. For a split second she began to protest— until she caught a glimpse of the look in Rachel’s eye. Whatever was in the box was important to Rachel—too important to be diminished by a well-meaning refusal.

  “Thank you, Rachel.” She leaned across the table and hugged her friend, then gently untied the string and lifted the lid. Nested in a bit of cotton was a small locket on a length of yellow knitting yarn. In places the silver plating had rubbed off, showing the base metal underneath, and Sophie recognized it immediately. It was Rachel’s most cherished possession, a gift from her grandmother at Rachel’s baptism. She always kept it hidden behind a loose stone in the cottage wall, where Cathleen couldn’t find it.

  Sophie held it up. “Oh, Rachel, I can’t believe it. Your locket!

  Are you sure—?”

  Rachel nodded mutely, her blue eyes shining. “Happy birthday,” she managed in a choked voice.

  Cathleen lurched to her feet and snatched the locket out of Sophie’s hands. “Rachel, you idiot! You can’t give her this! It’s special. Mama will kill you!” She reached into the pocket of her pinafore, pulled out a rumpled wad of fabric, and tossed it in Sophie’s direction. “Here, Sophie, you can have this.”

  It was a handkerchief doll, old and worn, created from a square of homespun dyed with tea. Sophie gazed placidly at Cathleen, then picked up the ragged doll and looked at it. One of its button eyes was missing, and its embroidered smile grinned crookedly on its cotton-stuffed head.

  “I didn’t expect a gift from you, Cathleen,” Sophie said graciously. “But thank you very much.” She sat down and smoothed at the doll’s dress.

  Rachel, however, was not to be denied. Sophie had never once seen her stand up to Cathleen, but clearly Sophie’s birthday, in Rachel’s mind, called for desperate measures. She forced Cathleen’s fist open and retrieved the locket. “For your information,” she grated through clenched teeth, “Mama told me I could give it to her. You’d have one, too, if you hadn’t gone and lost yours.” She turned back to Sophie and placed the locket in her hand.

  “Cathleen’s right,” she said. “This locket is special. That’s why I want you to have it.”

  Sophie took it, and with great ceremony slipped the circle of yarn over her head. The small silver oval caught the lamplight and shone like pure gold. There was no question now of refusing the gift.

  Jacob watched the scene with wonder, and with pride. How had his boisterous little girl grown into such a gracious, almost elegant young lady? It certainly wasn’t because of anything he had taught her. Elena must have instilled those qualities in the child while she was still alive, in some magical moment between mother and daughter when Jacob wasn’t looking.

  Sophie hadn’t argued with Cathleen over the locket, or insisted upon her own way. She hadn’t refused it, which would have hurt little Rachel’s feelings. She obviously cared much more for her frien
dship with Rachel than she did about any material gift. And she had a way about her of making people feel cherished and valued.

  Jacob blinked hard, and his daughter’s image cleared before his eyes. She had Elena’s looks, with that thick auburn hair and dark, intense eyes. And more importantly, she had Elena’s heart.

  She was, in all respects, her mother’s daughter.

  Sophie had been six years old when Elena had contracted tuberculosis and died. For months Jacob had wandered around in a dazed grief, barely managing to eat and sleep, let alone remember that he had a child who depended upon him for care. By the time he came out of his fog, Bridget had installed herself in the household and swept the child into a fierce embrace of nurture and comfort. But for all of Bridget’s good intentions, a housekeeper could never take the place of a mother—or a father.

  Like most men, Jacob had always left the bulk of Sophie’s upbringing to his wife. But Elena was gone. Sophie needed a parent, and Jacob was the only candidate for the job. Fortunately for him, she proved to be an easy child, open and trusting and overflowing with love. They began to take long walks along the river in the evenings after dinner. He taught her how to repair a leaky kettle and split firewood, and she instructed him in the finer points of hosting a tea party and making porridge without burning it to the bottom of the pot. They talked. They giggled. They shared secrets. And Jacob discovered, much to his surprise, that fatherhood had rewards he’d never dreamed of.

  He still missed Elena, of course, still thought of her every day and dreamed of her every night, still longed to see her smile at him over the breakfast table or feel her snuggle close for warmth on a cold winter’s night. But in her absence, he began to understand his daughter in ways that many fathers never did.

  Other men might measure wealth in terms of money or power or prestige. Jacob Stillwater’s treasure had auburn curls and sparkling brown eyes and her mother’s lilting laugh.

  Ignoring Cathleen, who was still miffed about the locket, Sophie watched with interest as Papa went to the mantel and brought down a gift swathed in the same kind of thick white paper the butcher used to wrap the pork roast for their dinner. She eyed the bright green ribbon with delight, imagining how fine it would look twined in her hair when next she wore her good green dress for church on Sunday. Or perhaps she’d put Rachel’s locket on it and tie it around her neck.

  “This,” Papa said, setting the gift in front of her with a flourish, “is for my darlin’ girl.”

  “Oh, Papa, thank you!” She loosened the bow and smoothed the ribbon against the edge of the table, then folded it carefully and laid it aside.

  “Open it, Sophie!” Rachel insisted.

  Sophie removed the paper, and for a moment or two she couldn’t speak. It was the loveliest thing she had ever seen: a small chest, crafted in tin and painted blue, with a map of the world covering its surface and delicate brass workings at the corners. She knew instantly that Papa had made it with his own hands, and that made it twice as precious.

  “Look at the dragon!” Rachel squealed. “And over here—an elephant. And the seals!”

  “Sea lions,” Papa corrected with a smile. “Where the elephant is, that’s Africa.” He extended a long calloused finger. “Here’s England. We’re right up here, amid these hills, near this little lake.”

  “Where’s America?” Cathleen asked in a surly tone.

  “All the way across the ocean, there.” Papa pointed. “Are you interested in America, Cathleen?”

  “I’m interested in anywhere but here,” she retorted. “Anywhere a person’s got a chance at a decent life. America’s rich, don’t you know? Gold for the taking, right out of the ground. Big cities with fancy homes and carriages and—”

  Papa frowned at her. “Money isn’t the most important thing in the world, lass.”

  “It is if you haven’t got it.”

  She jerked the box roughly out of Sophie’s hands and turned it around and around, scrutinizing it. “Where’d this come from?”

  “Why, Papa made it, of course.” Sophie grinned and kissed her father on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Papa. I couldn’t have imagined a more special birthday present. I’ll keep all my treasures in it.” She retrieved the box from Cathleen’s grasp, nestled the handkerchief doll inside, and laid the silver locket gently on top.

  “It’s just an old homemade box,” Cathleen muttered under her breath. “What’s so special about that?”

  Sophie didn’t answer. Cathleen could protest all she wanted, but nobody who was looking could miss the glitter of envy in her eyes.

  5

  CHILD’S PLAY

  Sophie and Rachel sat cross-legged in the shade of a tall oak tree, giggling.

  “Behold Titania, Queen of the Fairies,” Sophie declared solemnly, settling the handkerchief doll into a forked space at the base of the tree. “And these—” She lined up a semicircle of acorns in the grass, with their little hats bowed down facing the doll. “These are her faithful fairy minions, who have come to do her bidding.”

  At first Vita thought she might be viewing the yard surrounding Jacob’s cottage, for a stone’s throw away she could see a sturdy hut with a thatched roof and wild pink flowers climbing over the doorway. But a woman, younger and thinner than Bridget, came to the doorway and stood there leaning on her broom, smiling at the girls. Rachel’s mother, Rose Woodlea.

  “Where’s that sister of yours got off to?” she asked her daughter.

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t rightly know, Mam.”

  “Well, if you see her, tell her to come inside straightaway. She left without finishing her work. There’s wood and water yet to fetch, and I’ve got a colicky baby on my hands.”

  “Do you want me to do it?” Rachel got to her feet.

  “No, child, it’ll wait a while. You’ve done your own chores, like the good girl you are. There’s no point to your doing Cathleen’s as well. That girl takes on like the Queen Mother herself. She’s got to learn responsibility, or she’ll die a pauper.” She shook the dust off the broom and went back into the house.

  Rachel shot Sophie a black look. “Die a pauper? Not likely, that one.”

  Sophie reordered the fairy minions into two straight lines and then looked up at Rachel. “So where is she?”

  “I expect she’s down at the village green, making eyes at that almighty dolt, Rafe Dalton.”

  “Dalton? The landlord’s son, do you mean?”

  Rachel nodded and flopped down on the grass next to Sophie.

  “She’s been after him for weeks.” She tilted her head and took on a high-pitched, mocking tone: “Oh, Rafe, you’re so handsome!

  Oh, Rafe, you’re so smart!”

  “Handsome? Smart?” Sophie grimaced. “He’s dumb as a rock with a face like a draft horse. And Cathleen’s only thirteen!”

  “She doesn’t care. He’ll inherit his father’s money and land; that’s all she’s interested in. And when she marries him, she’ll be”—Rachel screwed up her mouth in disdain—“a la-dy.”

  “It’ll take more than a rich husband to make a lady out of Cathleen,” Sophie said.

  As Vita watched the girls playing and laughing together, an unfamiliar emotion stirred within her, something akin to spring fever. She’d once had a friend like Rachel, so long ago it seemed like a wisp of smoke on the wind—not even a dream, just the echo of a memory of a dream. Hattie, the girl’s name was—two doors down on East Chestnut Street in Asheville, in the neighborhood where she grew up. Hattie Parker . . . Parkinson. Or maybe it was Mattie. Vita couldn’t remember.

  But she could recall vague images of drawing hopscotch blocks on the sidewalk with brightly-colored wedges of chalk.

  Hiding under the porch in the cool semidarkness. Dressing up for Halloween in Mama’s high heels and a musty-smelling fur cape from an old trunk in the attic. Putting doll clothes and a yellow bonnet on Harley, the Parkers’ big gray tabby cat. Trading plastic rings from a Cracker Jack box and promising to
be friends forever.

  Forever. How long was that, Vita wondered, in Cracker Jack years?

  Sophie and Rachel, with their heads together arranging Queen Titania and her acorn fairies, didn’t see the attack coming. Suddenly a foot slammed down onto the grass, crushing several fairies and grinding Titania herself into the dirt.

  “You told, didn’t you?”

  Sophie looked up. Cathleen stood above them with both hands on her hips, her mouth twisted into a scowl and her cheeks the color of boiled beets. She glanced over at Rachel to see a look of sheer terror pass over the girl’s ashen face.

  “You told Mam where I was—with Rafe, down at the green!”

  Cathleen hauled Rachel to her feet and shook her. “You’re going to pay for this, you are!”

  Sophie jumped up and grappled with Cathleen, trying to make her let go of Rachel’s arm. “Stop it, Cathleen! Rachel didn’t tell your Mam a thing.”

  Rachel was beginning to cry. “Cath, you’re hurting me.”

  Cathleen shook harder, digging her fingernails into Rachel’s skin. “I’m going to hurt you a lot worse before this is over! Sweet little sister, who never does anything wrong! Perfect Rachel, Mam’s pride and joy!” She began to pummel Rachel with her free hand, boxing her ears with a clenched fist.

  Sophie latched onto Cathleen’s flailing arm, and the fist connected with her nose. Blood spurted out, but Sophie held on.

  “Stop! Stop it now!” She heaved with all her might. Cathleen’s grip gave way, and she reeled to one side and fell against the trunk of the oak tree.

  For a minute she lay there, stunned and panting. Sophie turned away from her and went to comfort Rachel.

  “Your nose is bleeding.” Rachel dabbed with a hand at the sticky mess on Sophie’s face.