Chapter 20 #2
Still, as fond as everyone had been of Lottie, I hoped I didn’t really take after her when it came to obsession with handicraft. As much as I loved creating my intricate jewelry, I had more going on in my life.
“How is your dear mother? And you, Genie, are you going to stay in Cobblewood Cove? So nice to have some young blood around.”
The elderly manservant shuffled past with a silver tray full of stuffed mushrooms and fish balls.
My mouth watered. Mine wasn’t the only one.
I could see the other guests help themselves to the food as soon as it appeared.
Most of them were past retirement age. Their conversation seemed to consist of golfing, stocks, and grandchildren, going by the snippets I snatched up, but they had excellent hand-to-mouth coordination when it came to my favorite appetizers.
They’d inspired the food blog I’d started during my college years. Everything I rated had to stack up against the local delicatessen. A tough call, since Pierre, the owner of Butler’s Pantry, set the bar sky-high.
I tried not to drool. “My mother sends her regards. She’s on her honeymoon.”
“Is she going to live here?” Primrose pulled me over to a sofa.
“Probably not. But I’ll stay at least long enough to sort through everything that might be right for your exhibition.”
Cobblewood Cove, or Prescott Village as it had been called for its two first decades, until the namesake was found out to sympathize with the British during the War of 1812, sat halfway between Boston and New York.
It had now been decided to honor its not very illustrious past (apart from the infamous Prescott) with an event at the local museum.
Since the Darlings had come here not long after the Schuylers, when the ink on the Declaration of Independence was still drying, our contributions were eagerly awaited, even if they only consisted of moth-eaten clothes, an old chamberpot or two, and faded letters.
At least that’s what I supposed I would find.
Our attic was crammed with trunks and boxes that themselves were covered with quilts and tapestries.
I didn’t want to accuse my mother of scheduling her honeymoon with the intention on dumping the whole affair into my lap, but after ten years of widowhood the timing did seem a little suspicious.
“And then you’re off again?” Primrose seemed genuinely disappointed as she waved over one of the two men who reduced the average age in the room to under 60.
They were a study in contrast, with one slender and blond and blue-eyes and the other one broad-shouldered, with dark hair and dark eyes.
I had to admit that they were both personable enough, with the fair one Primrose had beckoned almost too handsome.
“Jonathan, have you met Genie Darling?” She left us standing as she joined her sister and another group.
His eyes held an amused twinkle as he handed me a glass of champagne. “You’d probably be rich if you had a dime for every ‘out of the bottle’ joke.”
“I’d be rolling in it,” I said.
He chuckled. “I think our families go way back. Harewood? Ring a bell?”
“Should it? I’m not really that well-versed in the old family lore. But aren’t all the old families somehow acquainted?”
“True enough. Except for you. How did you escape Cobblewood Cove?” He steered me even further away from the food.
“My dad worked for a company that sent him to a new city and new country every few years. That’s probably why my mother married him. She wanted to go live in a Paris that wasn’t located in Oneida County.”
He laughed at my wit, a point in his favor.
I sipped my drink and tried to make my way to the nibbles before I had more champagne on an empty stomach.
Sadly, I had underestimated everyone’s interest in me, or rather in my absent mother. My path seemed littered with well-meaning, well-dressed, well-heeled people who liked nothing better than to reminisce about days I hadn’t been around for and events happening long before I was born.
My stomach growled.
“Have some of these.” Those two wonderful words were accompanied by a plate with, yes, fish balls and stuffed mushrooms among other assorted nibbles.
“You might have just saved my life,” I said before I crammed a fish ball into my mouth.
The name didn’t do them justice. They were sphere-shaped morsels of pure, melt-in-the-mouth bliss. The recipe was rumored to have come over with a French Huguenot by the moniker of Pierre Bouteillier, who’d been fleeing persecution long before Cobblewood Cove was founded.
The exact ingredients were still kept secret by the chef and the whole town worried whenever the current Pierre had so much as a sniffle, not just because he was such a likable guy, but also because so far he was the last chef in the family, and childless.
That did not bode well for a catering company where recipes were passed down from generation to generation, in a town where family trees and inheritance established your position on the totem pole.
Not that newcomers weren’t welcome; they were.
They just were encouraged to keep a low profile until they’d been around long enough to earn their stripes after a mere four or five decades or so.
The only exception to the rule was a reclusive investor who’d purchased the most prestigious property in the area, a Palladian-style mansion on top of the cliff leading down to the cove.
His ready acceptance came thanks to his wealth, although the youth of the town probably thought otherwise.
The small sandy beach leading to the water had long been the local hotspot for romance and parties away from the parents.
Said millionaire had spoiled the fun with floodlights everywhere that blinded everyone within a mile if so much as a dog ran across the sand.
Now, the cove was only used during the day, by small children playing in the sand and jumping off the jetty.
An ice-cream van and a lemonade stall offered refreshments until the sunset.
I had fond memories of that place, in both iterations. I had long since grown out of the fun of drinking around a campfire or a few private moments with a boy, but Cobblewood Cove had lost an attraction when it gained this particular resident.
The dark haired thirty-something man who’d supplied me with the food probably belonged to the normal category of newcomer. Where Jonathan had first been claimed by a group of elderly golf enthusiasts which now merged with gardening lovers, he could move freely.
I devoured another fish ball before I remembered my manners. “I’m not usually this greedy.”
“As long as you don’t spoil your appetite, Genie, dear.
” Primrose appeared by my side. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. Not on the Wedgwood, in case you were wondering.” She’d directed the last sentence at my hero, but added for my benefit, “Matthew Blake has been kind enough to value our collections for insurance purposes. He’ll do the same with everything on loan to the museum. ”
Was that a worry line between her delicately arched brows?
“I’m sure there’s no need to be concerned about anything,” I said.
“You’re right. It’s still such a relief to have an expert at hand.”
Matt interpreted my puzzled look correctly. “I usually do appraisals when it comes to large ticket items that might tempt people. And call me Matt.”
Primrose lowered her voice. “We had to tell one donor that their Fabergé brooch was nothing but paste, but there are other objects. Matt made us update the security system.”
“You could spot it was a fake?” My interest grew.
“There’s telltale signs.” He gave a modest shrug.
“I know. I’m a silversmith.” I touched my chandelier earrings. “I mostly do modern uptakes on Art Deco and Egyptian Revival pieces.”
Sadly, we did not sit together at dinner, but with Jonathan by my side, I couldn’t complain. He regaled me with stories about art fairs and stores that might be interested in my merchandise.
I started to enjoy myself, although the wine to go with five courses might have had something to do with it. But I was also tired, and I had promised myself an early start to tackle the hoarded relics in the attic. I yawned as we finally were allowed to rise from the table.
“Thank you for a splendid evening.” I air-kissed Dahlia and Primrose in the correct manner which had taken me ages to perfect.
“Are you leaving already? I’ll take you to your car.” Jonathan seemed genuinely disappointed to see me go.
I caught a glimpse of Matt as he passed us.
He gave me a little grin.
I grinned back.
“I’m walking,” I said to Jonathan. “It’ll clear my head.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “It’s only a few blocks.”
“But you have a car? Or we could send you home in ours.” Dahlia asked.
“Thanks, but I really enjoy a stroll.” They did not appear convinced, but let me go my merry way.
The Schuyler’s lived in a red brick mansion at one of the corners of the four streets surrounding the cobble-stoned square. All the front windows afforded them a view of the peacock fountain - with good reason. The fountain had been generously donated by one of their ancestors.
Only the Harewoods lived in a taller red brick building, on the opposite side of the square. Lesser inhabitants made do with clapboard villas or smaller brick houses. The lack of uniformity added to the visual appeal.
I lingered a little. The half moon cast its weak light through a cloud but there were a few stars visible in the night sky, and the street lamps were just bright enough to add a movie-set charm to the scenery.
The April air held a touch of frost. I put up my coat collar as I turned around the corner. One hundred yards ahead lay the Darling villa, all three ivy-covered floors of it.
The bells of the Presbyterian church struck eleven.
Something behind my back alarmed me a split second before I felt a tug at my purse strings and a heavy shove. I swung my leg backwards, kicking out with all my might, while I used my handbag to roundhouse whoever attacked me. My foot made satisfying contact with a leg, and I heard a yelp.
Unfortunately I’d underestimated my own momentum. I stumbled forward.
“Are you okay?” Strong hands helped me right myself. The patter of footsteps told me that my assailant was fleeing the scene of the crime. To make doubly sure, I cast a quick glance at my supporter’s pant legs. No signs of a kick.
To be honest, anything else would have been a miracle. The nice man who gently held my arms could easily have been my grandfather and weighed around the same as me. Still, I had to check.
He peered at me with deep concern. “It’s a good thing I left the party right after you. If only my eyes were what they used to be.”
“The party?”
“I sat at the end of the table. It’s Fred Ward and I live one street over from you.”
Now I recognized him. I wasn’t normally this slow on the uptake, but then this had been my first encounter with a mugger in the nighttime. Or any other hour.
"Did you recognize the person?" I asked, although I held out little hope in this faint illumination.
"He had a mask on, at least I think so. I was more concerned with you, I'm afraid."
"I'm glad you were." I meant it. Without him, I might have taken a nasty tumble. Also, my attacker might easily have taken down my gallant hero.
Fred offered to carry my bag for me, like the old-fashioned gentleman he seemed. “Please remember me to your mom,” he said. “She used to come around to see my sister every day, just before I left for college.”
It could have been my imagination by I thought I’d heard a slight tremble in his voice. At least I knew why he was so concerned about me. Fred Ward, like many others, had been sweet on my mother.
My hands shook as I let myself into the house. I headed straight for the living room, with only the hallway light on. I flung my coat onto the rack, sank onto the armchair and kicked off my shoes.
“Ouch!” The cry startled me. I hit the light switch and stared at the face of a young woman I’d never seen in my life, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
***