Jewel of the East (3 page)

“Now wait a minute,” their mother said, worry washing over her face. “It’s my understanding that my aunt allows you to use this place in exchange for one dollar a year as long as she—”

“Exactly,” the man said. “As long as
she
lives in the servants’ quarters. Last I heard,
she
wasn’t living there.”

The Blond Woman smiled, victorious.

“Now,” the man said, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to go home. My wife is waiting for me. I want to go home and get to bed.” He turned a hard gaze on Maisie and Felix. “And I suggest you do the same.”

They stood up from the gold, brocade chair they’d been squeezed onto.

“See?” the Blond Woman said, pointing her chubby finger. “They got dirt on the fainting couch.”

Everyone except the policemen leaned forward to inspect it.

“No, no,” the man from the preservation society said finally. “I believe that’s an old stain. A Pickworth stain.”

Relieved, Maisie and Felix started toward the door with their mother. But the man stopped them.

“Mrs.…,” he began.

“Ms.,” their mother clarified. “Robbins.”

“I trust you won’t leave the children unsupervised again?” he said.

She swallowed hard. “Of course not,” she said softly.

With that, she placed a hand on each of their shoulders and steered them past the man from the local preservation society, the Blond Woman, the two policemen, and the team of security guards, then out of Ariane Pickworth’s bedroom, into the hall, and down the Grand Staircase, not letting go of them for even a second.

Thanksgiving Day was gray and drizzly, the dreariest Thanksgiving Maisie and Felix could remember. Instead of waking to the smell of a
turkey roasting in the oven and finding their father peeling sweet potatoes and their mother trimming green beans, they woke up to silence and the aroma of coffee that had been made several hours earlier. Maisie padded down the hall to the kitchen, where a note lay on the table: P
ICKING UP CHAMPAGNE, CHESTNUTS, AND
N
IÇOISE OLIVES FOR
G
REAT
-A
UNT
M
AISIE.
B
E READY TO LEAVE AT 11:30.
AND DON’T BUDGE!!!!!!!!!

Maisie sighed. She wasn’t even sure what Niçoise olives were. She just knew that Great-Aunt Maisie demanded the most unusual things, all the time. Even on Thanksgiving day. Maisie sat at the table, miserable. When Felix appeared fifteen minutes later, she pushed the note toward him.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said hopefully.

“
Un
happy is more like it,” Maisie said.

Just then the phone rang, and Felix answered it, glad to have someone—anyone—to talk to other than his sister.

As clear as if he were in the next room, their father’s voice boomed, “Happy Thanksgiving, Felix!”

“Dad!” Felix shrieked.

“Is the turkey in the oven? Your mother always underestimates how long it takes to roast a turkey,” their father said wistfully.

“Uh… actually…,” Felix said.

Their father chuckled. “She doesn’t have it in yet, does she?”

“Well, no,” Felix said. “We’re having lunch with Aunt Maisie. At the Island Retirement Center.”

“That sounds depressing,” their father said. “Can the old bird even eat?”

“Oh, she’s doing much better, Dad,” Felix said. “She walks with a walker now and bosses everyone around.”

There was silence, then their father said, “That’s impossible.”

“Maybe it’s a miracle?” Felix said. “A medical miracle.” He had a pit in his stomach as he said it, afraid that he knew exactly what was bringing Great-Aunt Maisie back to health.

“Maybe,” their father said.

By now, Maisie was practically jumping on the table to get Felix to hand her the phone.

“Maisie wants to say hi,” Felix started to say, but his sister managed to grab the phone from him before he finished.

“Daddy!” Maisie said. “It’s raining out, and Mom’s not even home because she had to go and get all this gourmet stuff for Great-Aunt Maisie because the food at the assisted living place isn’t
good enough for her, and we have to eat with all those old sick people, and you’re halfway around the world and—”

“Whoa, sweetie,” their father said. “It can’t be all bad.”

“But it is,” Maisie said.

The kitchen door opened, and their mother came in, her arms full of groceries.

“This is the worst Thanksgiving ever!” Maisie said.

Their mother’s face seemed to crumple in on itself. She slowly put the bags on the counter and, with her back turned away from Maisie and Felix, began to unpack them.

Felix glowered at Maisie, but she just tossed her unruly hair, stretched the cord of the phone as far as she could, and disappeared with it around the corner.

“Do you think it’s the worst Thanksgiving ever?” their mother asked Felix without turning toward him.

“Of course not,” Felix lied.

The dining room at the Island Retirement Center was decorated festively, with straw cornucopias filled with plastic vegetables on each table, burnt-orange tablecloths and napkins, and
a big papier-mâché turkey wearing a pilgrim’s hat hanging from the main lighting fixture.

Great-Aunt Maisie believed in arriving late and making a grand entrance. So she made them all wait in her room until they would be exactly fifteen minutes late. She and their mother had a glass of champagne and some Niçoise olives, Great-Aunt Maisie freshened up her Chanel Red lipstick, and then they finally made their way to the dining room.

En route, Great-Aunt Maisie whispered in Felix’s ear, “Where has your latest adventure taken the two of you?”

She was moving slower than last time he saw her, so he had a chance to explain without his mother, who was ahead of them by quite a bit, hearing him.

“The preservation society came in and decorated Elm Medona,” he told Great-Aunt Maisie.

She rolled her eyes. “I bet it looks just dreadful.”

“No, it’s really fancy,” Felix said. “But they put a wreath right over the wall with the staircase.”

Great-Aunt Maisie came to a stop, her hands gripping the sides of her walker so hard they trembled.

“So take the wreath down. That isn’t very difficult to figure out, is it?” she said.

“We tried,” Felix began.

She slapped the walker, hard. “Tried? You mean you couldn’t get it down?”

“I mean we got caught,” Felix said.

Their mother had stopped to wait for them, and Maisie, who had stormed ahead of her, stopped, too, her eyes on Felix and their great-aunt.

“So try again,” Great-Aunt Maisie hissed at him.

“We can’t,” Felix whispered. “They said that if we even set foot in there they’ll kick us out.”

“What? Who said that?”

“The preservation society,” Felix told her.

“Is he slowing you down?” their mother said to Great-Aunt Maisie as she hurried to help her along.

“Oh, get out of my way,” Great-Aunt Maisie said, pushing past their mother and then Maisie.

“Oh dear,” their mother said. “She’s in a foul mood.”

The turkey was dry. The mashed potatoes were lumpy. The gravy wasn’t hot. And they only served cranberries from a can. Maisie ate only the green bean casserole. Great-Aunt Maisie drank too much champagne. Felix ate some white meat but without
any gravy. And their mother ate nothing at all until the pumpkin pie was served.

“This is the worst Thanksgiving I’ve had since 1922,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

“I am sorry,” their mother said. “Maybe we should have had it at home.”

“Humph,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

A woman in a bright-orange suit stood at a podium at the front of the room and spoke into the microphone.

“For those of you who don’t know me,” she said, “my name is Abby Bain, and I’m in charge of special events here at the Island Retirement Center.”

There was a smattering of applause. Great-Aunt Maisie muttered, “Oh please,” under her breath.

“I don’t want to keep you any longer,” Abby Bain said, “but I wanted you to know that the centerpieces are yours to keep. And to be fair, they go to the youngest person at the table.”

Maisie and their mother both turned to Felix.

“Ha,” Great-Aunt Maisie said. “So you’re younger than your sister?”

“Well,” Felix said, “by seven minutes.”

Great-Aunt Maisie shook her head sadly. “Just like Thorne and me,” she said.

“And one final thing,” Abby Bain announced. “When you made your reservations for today, we put your names in this bowl, and one of you will be able to take this big tom turkey with you.” She pointed to the papier-mâché one wearing the pilgrim hat.

“This is ridiculous,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

“The lucky winner,” Abby Bain said, digging into a big fishbowl and pulling out a name, “is Maisie Pickworth. Where are you, dear?”

Their mother waved to Abby Bain. “She’s right here!”

Great-Aunt Maisie frowned at their mother and at the people smiling at her for winning and at Abby Bain, who was already cutting the turkey down from the light fixture.

Then Great-Aunt Maisie’s face softened. She looked at Felix and smiled. “Seven minutes younger,” she said. “Just like Thorne and me.”

He nodded.

“He has my shard from the Ming vase,” she said.

“Maybe?” Felix said.

“Not maybe,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

The last time they time traveled, they learned that they needed to have a shard from a particular priceless vase with them in order to do it. Great-Aunt Maisie’s piece, which she kept hidden in a
Fabergé egg, was missing. She believed Thorne had stolen it.

Abby Bain was grinning as she walked toward them holding the turkey. Their mother jumped up to meet her as she approached.

“So if you can’t get into The Treasure Chest yourselves, the solution is simple,” Great-Aunt Maisie said softly. She got to her feet and opened her arms for her prize. “Find Thorne. Get my shard back. And I’ll just do it myself.” Great-Aunt Maisie was grinning, too. “The preservation society can’t keep
me
out of Elm Medona, can they?”

Abby Bain deposited the giant papier-mâché turkey into Great-Aunt Maisie’s outstretched arms.

“Isn’t he darling?” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

Slowly, she stepped away from her walker, just enough to dip into a stiff but elegant curtsy. As she rose, she turned her icy stare to Maisie and Felix and mouthed one word:
Thorne.