The Dollhouse Romance Read online

  “That’s what Laurie – uh, Henry – told me. Didn’t work.”

  “Keep trying.” His eyes are the same clear blue as the fleur-de-lis on his silver tabard. I find myself caught in a new spell. But when I realize my lips have stretched to match his grin, I break eye contact and start rubbing my new ring. Maybe it’s like a genie’s bottle, and rubbing hard enough will get me away from this awful place.

  I squint and imagine and pretend until I give myself a headache. Still nothing. I look at Nathaniel again. “How do you do it? I’ll take any tips you can offer.”

  He shrugs. “We don’t. It’s Phoebe’s trick, something Artemics do.” He grips my hand with gentle strength, tracing my rose with one finger. “This may help, though.”

  David’s voice comes from the corner, where he’s propped himself up on a pillow on his bed. “Try to picture your destination. What it looks like, what it smells like. Something that’s important to you.”

  His voice rumbles with the quiet suggestion. When I glance at him, though, he looks away again. Is he still angry with me? If I knew what I did wrong, I’d fix it. Still, I try to imagine what it felt like when I was big, standing next to the dollhouse under the green dome. But my imagination’s too rusty. All I can manage are worried thoughts.

  Poor Mamá, all alone in the world. Who’ll massage her feet when she comes home exhausted at the end of a long day? Maybe she finally emailed. In my mind, I see myself checking my laptop.

  Poof. Just like that, surrounded by green sparkles, I’m standing outside the dollhouse.

  My new friends remain right where I left them, little wooden statues with blank expressions. Nathaniel and David in the bedroom upstairs. Eleanor with George’s arm wrapped around her shoulders downstairs in the parlor. Henry frozen mid-step as he heads up the stairs. I can still feel them, their awakeness. Arthur’s tune – no, David’s tune – creeps into my head, frustrated and dark.

  I bolt out of the dome back toward the little door as fast as I can.

  Hypothesis #1: I’m so stressed about being Mamá’s replacement, I’ve started sleepwalking.

  Hypothesis #2: Magic exists. Greek myths might be real.

  It’s freezing in the empty study, so I seek warmth from the fluffy quilt on my bed. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. That I’m cold. Not scared.

  A second scented card waits on top of my graph book. To Save the Whitmans, it reads in the same elegant handwriting as the first card. I flip it over.

  It’s another copy of the Lumberjack’s Dilemma.

  I drop the card like it’s bitten me. Amelia isn’t sending these riddles.

  Who, then?

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  MISSING

  Six o’clock comes too early. I hit the alarm twice before I can find the energy to crawl out of bed, bleary-eyed and clumsy as I dress for school. Sometimes I wish I could turn off my brain, especially when it keeps me awake at night. I’m still pondering the implications of the dollhouse. Did Henry love Alexis? If the Whitmans have been trapped since 1891, why don’t they age? The little blonde girl, Phoebe, doesn’t age. Amelia takes care of her, yet Amelia seems human enough.

  I take two bites of my breakfast and then give the rest to Mouser. She’s not a dainty eater, and she’s definitely not finicky the way I’ve heard cats are supposed to be. She eats the eggs as well as the maple-walnut muffin. Then she starts on the apple slices.

  I still haven’t figured out the stupid riddle. Usually I solve this sort of thing immediately, but this one nags at me. It doesn’t seem to matter what gets taken over first, the loon, the wild rice, or the timber wolf. One of them is going to get eaten. And I don’t see how that’s going to help the Whitmans.

  A knock. Gary’s chipper greeting: “Happy Tuesday! You ready?”

  “Be right there.”

  We speed-walk down the stairs and hustle into the limo.

  As Gary pulls into the school parking lot, I thank my stars the driving situation is only temporary. It was fun yesterday but now it’s like an elk on my shoulder. If our car hadn’t broken down the day before Mamá left on tour, I’d drive my own self to school. As it is, the shop placed a special order for a replacement axel shaft and some CV joints. Now it’s a waiting game.

  Before he can get out to open my door, I ask, “Gary, with all the cars in the garage, why don’t you pick something easier to drive? Smaller, more fuel-efficient?”

  He laughs. “How many people get to drive a limo, kid? All boys play with cars when we’re little. Some of us are lucky enough to work with them when we grow up, like mechanics, but I get to drive for a living. Mr. A lets me pick anything from the fleet. He even keeps horses in the stable for the carriage and sleigh rides. I love my job.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He glances back at me in his mirror. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s too much attention for me, that’s all. People point and stare.”

  “They want to be you.”

  I smooth the sleeve of my thrift-store jacket. “Nobody in their right mind would want to be me. Do I look like the kind of person who belongs in a limo?”

  “Who ya gonna believe, kid? You’re one of the classiest ladies I’ve ever chauffeured, and I’ve driven coast to coast. But if it bothers you that much, I’ll use the Benz tomorrow. You sure, though? Limo versus sedan…”

  “I’m a simple person.”

  He doffs his cap at me. “Well, I aim to please. Have a good day at school.”

  Right. Like that wish ever comes true.

  School happens. All I can concentrate on is my list of questions for Michael: Did the missing Alexis have a little sister named Phoebe? Who were the Whitmans? Some of my questions, though, are sure to sound crazy: Is the Ambassador over a hundred years old? Is he related to the Greek goddess Artemis? Do you know there’s an enchanted dollhouse in an abandoned study near the Alexis Suite?

  Yeah. Some of these questions had better stay inside my head for now.

  If only I could ask Amelia. Her medallion seems to work the same way my ring does. But she doesn’t seem like the sort of person who shares information. Besides, I really love my suite and I don’t want Amelia to move me out.

  I don’t make any progress solving the riddle because, to my surprise, my heart wants to focus on David and Nathaniel instead. David frustrates me. He’s angry with me and I feel awful about that. Yet his hazel eyes and his rich, rumbling voice have burrowed their way into my heart, not to mention that tune of his that goes straight to my soul. How can a person be so confusing? Nathaniel, on the other hand, came to my rescue last night, laughing away my embarrassment. I definitely want to see him again.

  By the end of the day, I’ve copied down assignments in my planner. That’s it. I don’t remember learning a single thing.

  At the mansion, Gary drops me off at the front doors. Amelia walks me to my room.

  “I don’t need an escort,” I tell her.

  “The mansion’s so big,” she replies. “I’d hate for you to get lost.”

  “I can find my way from the front door to my room now.”

  She glances at her clipboard, acting like she didn’t hear me.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve found the thing they were trying to hide, anyway, so I follow her upstairs like a meek little lamb.

  When I’ve locked my door, I dash to the dollhouse. The dolls are in the same positions as when I left them. Even my bread loaves sit on the counter. I expect them to be stale, but they’re springy and soft when I touch them – just as fresh as when I last played, if what Eleanor says is true.

  I figure I’ll pop in and visit her, but popping in doesn’t happen. In fact, the harder I try, the harder it is to pretend. I’m a tightrope walker balancing between the wish that I could just jump inside the dollhouse and live there, but unable to let go of the outside world. By the time Amelia knocks on my door to take me down to the kitchen, I have a headache from trying to use my imagination.

&nbs
p; Maybe it was all a dream? But then how could I know so much more about this house than I did last night?

  It’s pastafrola tonight, a Paraguayan dessert with a shortbread crust and a fruit filling. When we’re in Paraguay, Mamá uses dulce de guayaba, a sweet red fruit filling. Here in Minnesota, we substitute raspberry. Tonight, however, the Ambassador has flown in several jars of guayaba. It won’t be as fresh as making my own jam, but the flavor will be more authentic.

  Just as my tarts finish baking, Amelia comes into the kitchen, a somber look on her face. “Michael will take over for tonight. You have visitors.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. Has she discovered I’ve been playing with the dollhouse? I mumble serving instructions to Michael, then follow Amelia to the Ambassador’s study.

  He’s sitting behind his desk, as before. The Artemis statue is still there, behaving like a normal marble statue. But now two Navy officers in full uniform sit in front of his desk. They rise when they see me.

  It’s easy to figure out why they’re here. Why Mamá hasn’t emailed.

  My knees buckle. I barely make it to the nearest empty chair. I don’t sit in it, though. I hold onto the back for support.

  The first officer introduces himself, a name, a rank, words about how the ship that was supposed to bring Mamá from the shore to the warship got attacked by modern pirates.

  Then he introduces the other officer, who tells me the Navy will do all they can to bring her home. They’re tracking the pirates’ whereabouts. They don’t believe Mamá’s in immediate danger. They’re going to find her and get her back.

  “So they’ll keep her alive until you pay a ransom, right?” I try to calculate. How much will the Navy pay for a cook with no college education?

  There will be no ransom, the officer tells me. The Navy doesn’t encourage terrorist demands.

  Oh, my God. Mamá’s never coming home.

  This must be what going into shock feels like. The officer’s lips are moving. He’s making words. None of the sounds make sense. My imagination must be powerful, after all, because all sorts of worst-case scenarios spring to mind. All of them end in Mamá’s death.

  I force myself to focus. They’re talking about my short-term and long-terms plans. I already know the details. Mamá showed me her will last year. I’m supposed to move in with my father, my next living kin. But he’s so far off the grid it’ll take a private detective to find him. Mamá says he only works for cash jobs. Otherwise, his social security number would trigger government action and force him to pay child support. He’s avoided us for years. They’ll never find him.

  “In the meantime, you’ll be staying here,” the Ambassador tells me. “Your mother and I have an understanding. I signed her plan of action. Everything’s taken care of.”

  “You don’t have to worry, either,” my mouth says. “She’ll be home on time. She said two weeks. She doesn’t lie.” I straighten my shoulders and lean back in the chair, trying to present an outer image of confidence even though my insides are in utter turmoil.

  They all look at each other. “We’ll be in touch,” they say.

  The officers leave. The Ambassador stays behind his desk, watching me. Does he think I’m going to start crying? He’s wrong. I don’t cry easily. Besides, all military kids know about risk when a parent goes on tour. “Can I go back to my room now?”

  His shaggy white eyebrows jerk in surprise. “Certainly. Let me know if you need anything. Do you want to go to school tomorrow?”

  What good would staying back do? “I’ve got an essay due. I don’t want to fall behind.”

  “Okay. Get some rest, then.”

  It’s more of a command than a suggestion. Dismissed, I head back up to my room. Every time I climb a new step, a new scenario pops into my mind. Mamá floating on the ocean, already dead. Mamá clinging to a piece of wood for days, too far out at sea for anyone to find her. Mamá, too sassy to shut up, backtalking to a pirate – and getting shot for it. By the time I reach my room, I’ve played out dozens of ways she’s going to die.

  If she isn’t dead already.

  CHAPTER NINE:

  COMATOSE

  Mouser climbs into my lap. I’m in the bay window, staring out at the clear night sky. The stars connect to form Mamá’s frightened face. I know how she tries to be brave when she doesn’t want me to worry. Each month, when we have to pay bills, she puts on this fake smile and tries to make me believe we’re going to make it when I know we’re up to our necks in debt. I play along, too. She doesn’t trust Internet bill-pay, so she calls out the names of the companies and their amounts, and I write checks and seal them in their envelopes. We always laugh and say, “Well, there’s another paycheck gone in a flash” when we’re done, and then we treat ourselves to ice cream somewhere.

  Who will take care of bills now?

  We’re so close to paying off the car! It may be a piece of junk, but it’s almost ours. Now there’s a new bill, with the replacement axel on order, and who knows how much that’ll cost? Then there’s the landlord, who knows we’ve moved a lot so he made Mamá sign a year’s lease. We’re responsible to pay whether we’re in the apartment or not. And if her credit cards go back to the collection agency after we’ve worked so hard to get even, Mamá’s credit score will be too bad to ever buy her house. I can continue to work evenings here, but it’s only part-time. Without the money from the bakery, we’re doomed. Where will we live?

  She’ll be back on time. Two weeks, that’s how long she said she’d be gone. She’s good at keeping her word…

  More death scenes fill my mind. Even working the riddle book can’t push them away.

  Amelia delivers my dinner tray, since I didn’t get a chance to eat with the other cooks, but I’m not hungry. At all. She opens her mouth as if she wants to ask something, but then she leaves without saying anything. Maybe she’s not as heartless as she seems.

  I force myself to be hopeful. The Navy got it wrong, and it’s not Mamá who’s been kidnapped. María Segovia’s a pretty common name. She’s a strong swimmer. Maybe she just got knocked out of the boat, and she’s already swam to shore, and they’ll call any moment to let me know everything’s fine.

  The phone doesn’t ring.

  So much for hope.

  I can’t hold still. I know Mouser wants to be petted, but I shove her aside and start to pace the floor. I poke and push at the logs in the fireplace. They blaze so high I nearly singe my eyebrows off.

  Beautiful bedroom, beautiful prison? I bet Amelia would let me go outside to visit the barns or gardens – but she’d probably escort me the whole way. To keep my throat open, I start talking to Mouser. Then I figure if I’m going to talk out loud to nobody, I may as well see if I can get back inside the dollhouse.

  I’ve never been totally alone before! Even at my worst, Mamá’s always there with a hug and a comforting word. I consider running down to the kitchen to tell Michael – he seems friendly enough – but he’ll probably be finishing up our dinner duties. Gary seems nice, too, but he’s still a stranger.

  Eleanor. She’s the type of person who’d listen right now. If only I could find a way to wake her up again.

  I find myself in front of the dollhouse, blurting out everything to the wooden dolls. “I don’t care if you can’t hear me, or if I dreamed the whole thing,” I tell them. My pains start to gush out, from how inadequate and unprepared I feel to do Mamá’s job until she returns, to how hard it is to make friends when I move so frequently. Everything comes out, right back to the time I was in third grade and I didn’t know a certain curse word the boys kept using, so I asked my teacher and ended up getting my mouth washed out with soap.

  Although I start talking to everyone, I soon focus in on Eleanor. Despite her blank face, sympathy emanates from her. So I move her upstairs to her sitting room for privacy. And just that easily, in a flash of green sparkles, I’m on the floor with my head in Eleanor’s lap. She pets my hair with cool, soft fingers while I babble
on and on. I don’t cry, though. I rarely do. Eventually my agonized words slow and finally cease altogether, leaving me with hiccups. By then, music floats in, a tranquil piano melody.

  “That song!” I exclaim. I recognize it even though I’ve never heard it with my ears. It’s the one that protects me against the darkness when I slip into the verge of sleep.

  “That’s David. You called him King Arthur,” she tells me. And when a knock sounds on the door, she chuckles. “And that’ll be Nathaniel, our Musketeer. You may enter, dear.”

  I don’t tell her I’ve already met her sons. Nathaniel doesn’t, either. He brings the same tea tray she was going to serve the last time I visited – and it’s still hot, as if no time has passed. After setting it on the table near his mother, he turns to face me. “We’re all in a regular tizzy that you came back.”

  As a Musketeer, he made a handsome doll, but his trim, muscled figure is equally perfect in real life. His blue eyes and easy smile disorient me. My own face is probably blotchy. I know my eyes get all bloodshot when I hold back tears. I want to hide from him, especially when he offers me his handkerchief.

  “Thanks,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

  “I’ll be with David if you need anything,” he says.

  I know he isn’t addressing his mother.

  “Thank you, dear,” she says anyway.

  He closes the swinging doors softly behind him.

  “So I guess everyone heard, huh?” My embarrassment grows. I’ve just exposed the most intimate corners of my soul to not just one, but five strangers.

  “And we cherish you all the more for it,” she insists. “It was the right thing to do. Now, do you drink your tea with milk or sugar?”

  I sniffle into Nathaniel’s handkerchief. “Both.”

  She pours the tea. “So you found a way back in. Do you remember how to get out?”

  “I think I do. You just have to… pretend.” A goofy grin tugs at my lips. “Get lost in the play. Forget everything real - like when I was a little kid.”