The Dollhouse Romance Read online

  Diana throws a tiny paper ball onto my desk. It’s Halverson in a ninja costume, squawking, “I’m the referral squad!”

  I half-turn toward her. “Thanks,” I whisper.

  “Any time.” She keeps her voice soft. “I saw your budget. You’re not planning anything silly, are you?”

  I shake my head. Nothing silly. Just desperate.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  TIME

  I decide not to implement my plan until after Mamá’s due-back date. I can’t bring myself to believe she’s really gone until Friday. I fumble my way through dessert prep, expecting her to show up and take over. Maybe fuss that I haven’t frosted the cupcakes evenly. But Friday comes and goes.

  She’s officially late.

  Maybe she’s pulling hora paraguaya, Paraguayan time, which says it’s okay to be late. Even a mañana would be okay.

  Saturday passes.

  Sunday.

  By Monday I know it’s true even if I can’t accept it. She’s missing. Gone. And… maybe not coming back.

  I don’t tell anyone where I’m going during lunchtime. Security’s pretty tight in Minneapolis, so I’m amazed how easy it is to just walk off campus. The bakery’s only four blocks away, which gives me plenty of time to present my proposal to Mrs. Nelson before I’m missed.

  “What about school?” she asks. “You can’t do much in one hour. If you’re gonna bake for me, I’ll need you for the entire day.”

  “My principal understands my situation,” I lie. “I’m such a good student they’ve agreed to let me do this until Mamá comes back. Here, see for yourself.” I hand her my report card from last year. It shows straight A’s.

  She doesn’t seem to notice the school’s address is from Minneapolis, not Otter Paw. But she’s still suspicious. “In my day, skipping school was called being truant. Kids could get arrested for doing such a thing.”

  “I told you, I’m a special situation,” I insist, hoping my voice is holding steady. I decide to try a bluff. “Would you like a note from the principal?”

  “Yes.”

  My smile freezes. I’ve just set myself up for a trap! “I’ll bring it next week.” Maybe she’ll forget about it by then. “They’ll only let me out Tuesdays and Thursdays, though. Will that be enough?”

  “Your mother really ruined things for me,” she grumbles. “Before she came, I was doing fine. Now all I hear is ‘When’s María coming back?’ and ‘Can’t you copy her recipes?’ If you were graduated, I’d hire you full-time. But yes, I can use you twice a week. Bring your own apron. I pay at the end of the month, and I pay by the hour.”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! I won’t disappoint you. You’ll see!” I launch myself at Mrs. Nelson in a quick hug, leaving her to cluck her tongue in disproval. Then I skip back to school before lunch ends and let Diana in on the secret.

  “I start tomorrow. Isn’t that great?”

  “How will you keep up with your assignments?”

  “I was hoping you’d help me. I’ve already done most of the work last year, in my old schools, so all I need to know is what’s due and when. Can you…?”

  Diana nods. “I’m good with secrets. You can trust me.”

  “I don’t know why, but I believe you. I’ve only known you for two weeks, and you’re already my favorite person in this whole school.”

  “It’s because I’m gorgeous and smart,” she says, “and nobody can resist my charms!” Then she gets serious. “What’s your backup plan, in case this one doesn’t work? Do you need me to loan you some money?”

  “Never. I take care of myself. Always have, always will.”

  “Well, I know of a nice bench in the park, if you lose your apartment… Warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Let me know and I’ll point it out to you.”

  I smile, hoping the joke never comes true. “You’re a good friend.”

  “The nicest you’ve ever known.”

  Skipping school is too easy. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I just slip out in the mornings before English and return when everyone’s in the bus line. I always think someone will notice and I’ll get caught. Diana says she’s got me covered. So far, she’s doing great.

  Mrs. Nelson doesn’t say anything. But I can tell she’s glad I’m here. I do odd jobs like sweeping and mopping. I even clean the restroom – cheerfully – to show her what a hard worker I’m willing to be. It only takes a few days for word to get out: María Segovia’s bite-sized dainties have returned. They’re so popular, Mrs. Nelson decides to include them in the big Oktoberfest celebration next month.

  But skipping school to work at the bakery has its price: time. Usually I can get my work done in class or during lunch. Now I have to get it all done in the evenings somewhere between dessert prep and visiting the Whitmans.

  David’s warning about absorbing the curse still scares me, but I don’t think it’s accurate. It seems like the sort of thing that would be more binary – either you’re cursed, or you’re not cursed. No middle ground. For a week after our failed escape, I spend as little time with the Whitmans as I can. Drop off food, go away, just like he told me to. But the lure of friendship is too strong. After too many nights of smelling Eleanor’s burnt dinners, mercy moves me to fulfill my promise of giving her cooking lessons. So that’s an hour a day, followed by her promise of sewing lessons, another half hour each day. Add that to Nathaniel’s friendly banter and an occasional game of chess or billiards with Henry, and I’m already spending two hours a day in a place that might never let me leave.

  David remains steadfast in his refusal to contaminate me further. Whenever we catch sight of each other – in the kitchen, on the staircase, in the gallery – he glares at me and spins on his heel in the opposite direction.

  I get the hint. He doesn’t want me in his house.

  And he clearly doesn’t want to be friends.

  So why do my eyes seek him out first thing when I arrive? Why does my stomach clench in anticipation until I know he’s there? Even a cranky hello is better than nothing. It’s pathetic how much I think of him through the day. He’s on my mind during the ride into town and all through school. Sometimes the thought of seeing him is the only thing that gets me through my day. Sometimes I try really hard to accidentally pop into his bedroom, but that trick doesn’t work anymore. I’m too good at getting straight to the kitchen now.

  “We’ve known each other for three weeks,” Nathaniel informs me when I pop in to deliver the night’s meal. “I’ve planned a surprise in your honor.”

  “That’s sweet, Nate, but I have to submit a proposal for a science project. Tomorrow’s Friday – how about then?” I rush to transfer the tray’s contents to the kitchen countertop: apples and bananas to the fruit basket, sugar cubes into their glass bowl.

  He helps me sort the groceries into the pantry, putting the canned goods up on the top shelves I can’t reach. “It shan’t be any good tomorrow.”

  I toss the cheese and butter into the refrigerator and knock the door closed with my hip. “How about I go finish the paper and come back when it’s done?”

  His blue eyes fill with so much disappointment, I may have just broken his heart. The idea of a crushed Nathaniel, moping around the house, forces me to relent. “Fine. But only for a little while.”

  It’s back – the signature grin, all mischievous and playful. He drags me into the parlor. All the furniture’s been pushed up against the walls, leaving the center empty except for a leatherbound journal with gold edges in the middle of the floor. “Go ahead,” he tells me. “I marked the pages.”

  I kneel and scoop it up. The first bookmark, a red velvet ribbon, lies on a page covered in elegant cursive writing. September 24th, 1892, it reads. Phoebe finally started bringing us the things we’ve been asking for. Her parents still haven’t found out about us…

  I look up to Nathaniel’s face, surprised he’d share something so intimate. But he seems to have come to terms with the horror of his kidnapping.
/>   “When I could, I kept a journal of what we did each day. Wouldn’t you know it? I had twenty-four entries for September 24th. Today! I wanted to show you how my family spent our time.” He points to twenty-four different stations he’s arranged around the room. Handwritten cards lie on or near each station, explaining the importance of each date. “Where do you want to begin?”

  It looks like a lot of work. I’m flattered he’d go to so much trouble for me – or perhaps it was for him, since he’s bored to tears here. Regardless of the reason, though, and regardless of the fact that I really have to start my science paper, I’m curious about his life. I walk to a pile of costumes that lay neatly folded by the hearth.

  1899, says the card. Typical Sleepover: Tea Party, Costume Judging, Storytelling.

  “That’s the year her parents found us,” he murmurs, walking up behind me. “Usually she swore her friends to secrecy about the dollhouse, but one of them broke her word. When her mother realized who we were and how we had been living for the past eight years, she gave Phoebe the scolding of a lifetime.”

  “And that’s when Phoebe turned her mother into a statue.”

  He nods. “No more sleepovers after that. No more zoo animals on display.” His voice grows hard, surprising me. Until this moment, he’s been such a fluff-brain, so playful and fun, that this edge of anger seems out of place. Still, it makes him more human. Less shallow. How much of the Musketeer is just a way to deal with his captivity?

  The next station is a pile of magazines with a card that reads September 24th, 1904: News from the Outside World. I flip to the corresponding diary page. Ever since Alexis started sitting with us for hours each day, it feels like we have normal lives. I’ve been painting a lot… There’s a sketch on the page, his early work. It’s not very good. But it’s distinctively Pre-Raphaelite.

  “Check out the next station.” He points to 1905, where a dozen sketchbooks lay piled on top of each other next to several How To Draw books. “Mr. Akakios brought those for me. All I did that year was draw, eat, and sleep. I improved a lot.”

  I flip through his collection. He’s not exaggerating. Faces and settings become more lifelike with each new sketchbook. “No wonder you’re so good.”

  “Want me to teach you? Some of the basic skills?”

  “No, thanks. I really don’t have time.”

  “Maybe tomorrow, then.”

  He won’t take no for an answer when we reach 1913. Nothing’s at that station, so I read the diary. Alexis taught us the Bunny Hug today. Like the Turkey Trot and the Grizzly Bear, it’s causing a scandal all over the country. President Wilson banned his own inauguration ball for fear his guests would break into inappropriate romps. I can’t wait until I have my own girl to dance with! Henry doesn’t share Alexis much, and Mother’s only happy when she’s dancing with Father...

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What was so wrong about those dances?”

  “Nothing, if you compare them to the jitterbug or some of the dances that came later.” His blue eyes take on a wicked sparkle. “You should have seen Henry that day – a grin the size of the ballroom. Alexis may have been a lady, born to proper society, but she knew how to have fun. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  I try to wiggle out of his grasp, but he claims my hand and hauls me to the center of the floor. My heart skips a beat at his touch. Once again, I find myself in the awkward position of being thoroughly attracted to him on a purely physical level.

  His voice drops to a mischievous whisper. “Ready for something… indecent?”

  I brace myself, setting mental boundaries and getting ready to punch him if he happens to cross any of them. But his idea of scandal turns out to be goofy, not inappropriate. Within minutes, I’m giggling like crazy.

  We start with our hands up, fingers outstretched like claws, and then we circle each other back-to-back. Because he’s so tall, it’s hard to rest our chins on each other’s shoulders – he has to bend down and I stretch up on my toes. But we manage, keeping our claws out. By the time we’ve made it to the step-hop-step-hop, I can barely breathe through my laughter. It’s such a stupid dance. Fun, though. Hard to believe this sort of thing made a president cancel his own inauguration ball!

  We end by stepping away from each other and holding a bear pose.

  “You’re a fast learner,” Nathaniel says. “Now let’s do it to music.”

  “Aw, Nathaniel. I really can’t. I shouldn’t have stayed this long.”

  “Okay. What about the Bunny Hug? It’s another quick one. Just one more. Please?”

  Handsome. He’s too handsome to say no to. And this is much more fun than homework. I don’t stop him when he plays an Irving Berlin record on the old gramophone.

  Although the whole sequence is barely a minute long, it takes me twenty minutes to get the steps right. By that time, I’ve laughed myself to dehydration, and I’m grateful when Eleanor delivers a tea tray. She gives me a quick hug before she leaves. I suspect Nathaniel has asked everyone to stay out of the room for his special exhibition. After I gulp a quick drink, we perform the entire dance from beginning to end without a single misstep on my part.

  It’s my first full dance, short as it may be. I’m so proud of myself! Instead of letting me enjoy my victory, however, Nathaniel presses for the next new thing – the Turkey Trot.

  “I can’t, Nate. I have a paper to write.”

  “What about the rest of the stations?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But all my work…”

  “Will still be there tomorrow night, when I have more time to enjoy things. Thank you for the evening. It was fun. Now I really have to go.”

  “Fine. I understand.” But the way his jaw starts to clench, the way he stiffens to full height, tells me he doesn’t understand at all. I can’t tell if his blue eyes are filled with anger or frustration – he won’t look at me, even though he escorts me out to the hallway. When I call goodnight to Eleanor, he mutters, “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “There’s always time for good manners,” I reply through a frown of my own. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He exhales a harsh sigh through his teeth. “I worked all week to get it just right. Now it’s ruined. Your paper will take forever. You shan’t be returning tonight.”

  “I have a life. Responsibilities.”

  “And I have none! We have to make our own purpose here in the dollhouse. Learned that a long time ago – you’ve got to set your own purpose or you’ll lose yourself.”

  “I’m not your purpose,” I say in a low voice.

  “I know that.” His face softens. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll be more considerate of your schedule next time. Forgive me?” The playful Musketeer lurks behind his gloom, released as soon as I nod my head. “Tomorrow then?”

  “Alright. Tomorrow.”

  As I head back to my room, I can’t chase these clouds of frustration out of my head. As much as I love being around Nathaniel, as much as he brings fun to everything he touches, he’s also terribly controlling. It borders on desperation. Not that I blame him – after a century of being stuck in one house, I’d probably be planning activities, too. I just wish he’d have picked September 25th instead of tonight.

  Worse, I had no idea friendship could be so demanding. But if there’s one thing Diana’s teaching me, it’s to try to go out of my comfort zone. “To have friends, you must be a friend,” she keeps chanting whenever I reject an invitation to join my classmates at their lunch table. She’s popular. She should know. But it’s a lot of work to do what other people want me to do all the time.

  Anyway, first things first. I’ll deal with the Nathaniel-shaped corner of my heart – as soon as I finish my stupid paper.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  SOOTHED

  Writing is impossible with Nathaniel’s Irving Berlin song rattling around inside my head. It’s a ragtime tune with a catchy beat that drowns my ability to collect my thoughts. Even my pencil tap, tap, taps to the
rhythm no matter how many times I try to hold it still.

  Outside my room, a dozen convention guests chatter noisily in the billiards room. It’s a Thursday meet-and-greet, since their presentations will start tomorrow morning and last through the weekend. Their music buzzes into my room, adding to the noise in my head. If only there were a quiet place to go study!

  The only quiet place I can think of is inside the dollhouse. Shoving my laptop and textbooks into my backpack, I sneak back there, careful to avoid stepping on the loose, creaky floorboards that will tell the Whitmans I’m coming for a visit. Once I’m inside the dome, I head for the space under the porch stairs. It’s poorly lit, but my laptop is bright enough for me to read my textbook. There’s even internet access, so I can research last-minute questions.

  Darn. I may have run away from the noise outside my bedroom, but Nathaniel’s dance music repeats on a loop inside my head. Those eyes… his smile… Concentrate, Zenia! Grizzly bear claws and laughter…

  I slam my laptop shut and sit there in the dark, trying to get my thoughts under control. There’s something sexy about those animal dances. The brief embraces, the way Nathaniel stares into my eyes like I’m the only thing in his world.

  Who can write a boring paper that doesn’t make any difference, when real life is so much more important?

  But good grades lead to scholarships and grants. If I’m ever going to pay for college, I need to focus.

  Poof! Surprise for both me and David – I’m on the rug in David’s floor, my knees pulled to my chin.

  “Miss Zenia?” David’s in the rocking chair near his window, a ball of yarn dancing in a basket by his feet. The oil lamp next to his rocking chair paints his face in dancing orange flickers. Rather than highlighting his scars, however, they seem to blend dimness and light together. He’s beautiful in the shifting shadows.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, rising to my feet in a clumsy hurry. I barely catch my laptop and textbook as they drop to the floor. “I was thinking about someplace peaceful and… Are you knitting?”