“Why am I not serious?” Reg objected. Addie couldn’t tell if he really meant what he said or was just teasing his mother. “Why wouldn’t I go fight for freedom and democracy? Not to mention to stop people from murdering our citizens in cold blood? Someone has to do it, don’t they?”
“But that’s Mrs. Turner’s point,” Addie said. “It’s not about freedom and democracy. The politicians just say that.”
“So young and yet so cynical.” Reg grinned at Addie. “In case you’re confused on this point, it wasn’t the oil companies that declared war. It was Congress.”
“Congress didn’t declare it,” Addie protested. “They hardly ever do. Not since—”
“You think the president would commit troops without congressional approval? All for the benefit of Wall Street and a few bellicose millionaires? That’s ridiculous. Didn’t you read the speech he made when he introduced the war resolution?”
Mrs. Powell leaned in toward Reg. “Our president gives an impressive speech and you’re off to solve the problems of the world with a machine gun? You’re the mainstay of your widowed mother, remember? I expect help running the theater once you graduate.”
“Why can’t Charlie do that?” Reg groaned. “I keep telling you, I’m no good at business. I edit a student paper—and that’s all. I couldn’t keep the Daily going financially if someone threatened to draw and quarter me.”
Addie hid a smile. It was clearly well-trodden ground. So much so that Mrs. Powell—just like Dad!—seemed not to hear Reg at all and simply continued with her thoughts. “Charlie can’t, that's all. Your brother is quite happy in his law office. He’d be out of his depth dealing with late nights and temperamental actors and freethinkers!” Her expression softened, and she shaded her eyes from the bright sunlight to look in on Frida. “And I don’t know how he’d cope with the waifs that pitch up on our doorstep. We’ll have to find her parents, you know.”
“Her father’s in jail,” Addie said, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Jail?” Mrs. Powell turned to Reg in alarm. “Not one of that Everett mob, is he?”
Addie wanted to ask what the Everett mob was, but kept quiet.
Reg shrugged and looked away.
“Reg! I know it’s out of the goodness of your heart, but why must you always get tangled up in lost causes? You only make life hard for yourself.”
You’re just making life hard for yourself. That was exactly what Addie’s school adviser had said about her getting mixed up with Whaley.
Reg caught Addie’s eye and winked. “My life is so difficult,” he murmured, surveying the beautiful house and garden.
“All right,” his mother said. “Point taken. But still!” She sighed. “Well, it’s not the girl's fault. We’ll just have to locate her mother. Out by the mills in Ballard, I suppose. She must be worried sick.”
Guilt stabbed into Addie. Her dad would be worried sick. How long had she been here? She pushed back her chair. “Thanks for the drink. But I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t have stayed this long. And—” The unsettling feeling rippled through her again. “I’m sorry. That was just weird about your being blind.”
“Don’t apologize. We’re in your debt. Honest.” Reg grinned mischievously. “You’ve given us something to entertain our guests with tonight: What did Meg Turner mean by her fabulous fib?”
“That’s not gentlemanly, Reg.”
“Oh, come on, Ma. What good is being a gentleman around theater people?”
“I suppose you have a point.” Mrs. Powell turned to Addie. “I own and manage the Jewel. Did Reg tell you that?”
Addie, about to stand up, found herself sinking back in her chair. “You’re so lucky,” she said, trying not to sound envious.
Mrs. Powell smiled and stretched her arms up to the sky. “I know! I’m the luckiest woman in this city, Miss McNeal. Not the richest. Not the prettiest. But the luckiest. Because I have work that I love.”
“I wish I could work in the theater,” Addie said, a bit wistfully.
“How old are you, dear?” Mrs. Powell asked.
“Seventeen—just.”
“Well, seventeens quite old enough. What kind of work are you interested in? Costuming?”
“No!” Addie replied so vehemently that Reg gave a surprised bark of laughter, and she looked down in embarrassment at the dirt-streaked dress. “I mean, wardrobe and makeup are fun, but they’re not what I want. Though from the way I’m dressed, I can see why you would think that.”
“You don’t want to act, do you?” Reg inquired in mock horror, leaning back in his chair.
“Oh, shush, Reg. Don’t tease.”
“Well.” Addie hesitated. “I thought that might be what I want.”
“Find out if you’re any good at it first,” Mrs. Powell said, and Addie was struck by how her gentleness was instantly replaced by a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Because most people aren’t.”
“I know that,” Addie said, her face falling.
“Have some cake,” Reg said solicitously, mimicking Addie’s downcast expression so exactly that she had to smile. “It’s perfectly safe. Mother had no hand in its making, in case you had any delusions to the contrary.” He cut a slice and passed her the plate. Addie took it and had a bite. It tasted sharp and full of lemon, surprisingly less sweet than she’d expected.
Mrs. Powell was peering through the windows of the French doors into the study again. “Oh, dear. She’s tossing and turning. Reg, did you say you gave her something for the pain?”
“Miss McNeal did.”
That's right. Addie frowned to herself. Ibuprofen rather than morphine, fortunately! Reg couldn’t possibly have a drug problem, could he? No. That was ridiculous. It was more as if—
Mrs. Powell stood up abruptly. “I’ll feel a lot better once the doctor’s had a look at her. How long has it been since you spoke to him?”
“Half an hour. He said he had to see another patient first.”
Half an hour? Anxiously, Addie tugged back her tight sleeve to check her watch again. But it must have broken in the earthquake somehow, because its hands were still stubbornly stuck at 11:49. It had to be a lot later than that. Quickly, she pulled her sleeve down and sprang out of her chair. “I’d really better be going. I’ll tell Mrs. Turner not to worry about you, Mrs. Powell.”
“I can't imagine why she would.” Mrs. Powell regarded Addie with gentle curiosity. “You know, I think I’ll telephone Meg myself once I see how that girl is.” She put her hand on the doorknob and then paused, as though debating something. “Would you like to come to a rehearsal sometime, Miss McNeal?”
“A rehearsal?” Addie had been pushing her chair in, but stopped short. “You mean at the Jewel?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Powell gave her an appraising look. “If you’re genuinely interested, perhaps I could find some work for you. And not in costumes or makeup, though those are very useful skills, if you ask me.” She smiled. “We’re doing the Scottish play, of all things. Lots of drama. Lots of scenery-chewing. You’lle njoyi t.”
“Work—in a professional theater? Really?” Mrs. Powell nodded. Addie had to restrain herself from jumping up and down. A rehearsal of Macbeth—and the possibility of being part of it! “Oh, thank you!”
“My pleasure.” Mrs. Powell turned and went into the house, calling over her shoulder, “Charming to have met you, Miss McNeal.”
Addie turned back to Reg. “Where is the Jewel, anyway?” She was so happy she thought she would float up through the blossoms and get caught in the branches of the cherry tree.
“Second and Pine.” Despite all his teasing, he looked pleased for her. “You can’t miss it. Don’t you want to finish your cake?”
“No, I’d better run. I have to get home and make sure my dad and my brother are all right. When should I come by the theater?”
“Not tomorrow. The crew’s working on the set. Tuesday? Rehearsals start midday and go until the wee hours.”
“Will
you be there?”
“Maybe.” He grinned. “After all, I am the mainstay of my poor widowed mother.”
Addie couldn’t help grinning back. “Thanks for the cake. It was great to meet you and your mom. I’ll see you soon.”
She turned and walked off the porch onto the lawn, intending to go around the side of the house, but before she made it that far, Reg caught up to her.
“Sorry. I have to ask: Why are you worried about your father? He wasn’t at the jail, was he?”
It was such an odd question that Addie gave a surprised laugh. “No, of course not! He was dropping my brother off at a class, and then the earthquake hit. I mean, I’m sure they’re fine. Everyone in my neighborhood was. But I just want to make sure.”
She turned to go again. But, to her astonishment, Reg grabbed her wrist.
“What earthquake?” He smiled at her politely.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what earthquake are you talking about?”
Uneasily, Addie slid her wrist out of his grasp. “The one this morning.”
“This morning? I don’t follow you.”
“What’s to follow? The earthquake this morning!” Addie exclaimed. “Why do you think I came here? I told you, Mrs. Turner was worried about your mother getting hurt.”
He looked thoroughly puzzled. “Because she couldn’t see well? And might be unable to find her way out of the wreckage?”
Addie opened her mouth and shut it again abruptly. For a fleeting moment, she felt as if she couldn’t get quite enough air into her lungs. Was he teasing her? She wanted to tell him to stop playing games, but—she glanced at his house. She guessed he had some reason to doubt her. Nothing was damaged here. Not the delicate china teacups. Not the windows, not the chimney. Even the girl lying on his sofa had been hit by a brick someone threw, not by debris from a building cracking at its foundation.
“Miss McNeal, you must know there wasn’t any earthquake.” Now his voice had a humoring note in it, as if she were mildly insane and needed to be treated gently.
“Of course there was!” There had to be some logical explanation. “If you’d been in my neighborhood, you would have felt it for sure. Maybe it was just stronger in some parts of the city than others. Or—”
“Or there wasn’t one,” Reg said firmly.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
They stared at each other, and Addie could see her own distrust reflected in his eyes.
The sound of a doorbell startled her. “That’s probably Dr. Wald,” Reg said.
Addie stomped her foot, starting to feel angry again. “There was an earthquake!”
“A tremor, do you mean? I could imagine missing that—”
“No. Stronger. A lot stronger.”
Reg shook his head. His white dress shirt was blinding in the sun, and his voice was suddenly formal. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the habit of getting into arguments with people I’ve just met.”
“Neither am I. Why don’t you just come by our house? Once you’ve seen the mess it’s in—”
“Reg!” Mrs. Powell’s voice rang out. “Come talk to Dr. Wald. He needs to know what happened!”
“All right!” Reg called back. He turned to Addie. “Look, I’m willing to be convinced. But not now. Give me your address. I’ll drop by.”
“Do you have something I can write it on?”
He patted his pockets, turned one inside out. “Darn it! No. Just tell it to me. I’ve got a good memory.” A grin flickered across his face and Addie relaxed a bit. There was something she really liked about this guy, even if he was strange.
Hurriedly, she told him the address.
“Near Meg Turner’s?”
“That’s right.”
“Should be easy to find. I’ll see you later, then.” He turned and walked back across the garden.
As soon as he had disappeared, she took off running. She needed to see the wreckage from the earthquake. It wasn’t as if she doubted it. Of course she didn’t. But the sooner she got home, the better she would feel.
The antique dress whipped around her legs as she flew down the quiet, tree-lined street, past the mansions with the red, white, and blue bunting on their gates. It was only after she burst through the entrance to the park that she began to slow down.
Her boots hammered the asphalt drive and then crunched on twigs and stones as she darted across the grass and approached the yew hedges. She looked up to get her bearings.
And skidded to a halt.
The statue of the angel wasn’t there anymore.
She stood stock-still, staring, as though if she looked hard enough, it would simply reappear.
But it didn’t.
Slowly, Addie approached the fountain. She felt dizzy. Stunned. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the empty space where the statue should have been. And because she was staring so hard, she tripped over a tree root, pitched forward, and fell hard onto the ground. Something jolted out of her pocket and landed on the grass: the beautiful silver mirror she’d found that morning. Her hands were shaking as she reached for it.
This was insane. What was going on? Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off the ground and continued right on through the gap in the hedge. There was the little fountain and the marble bench, right in front of her. But the statue was definitely gone.
She felt her forehead, hoping—actually hoping—that she was feverish.
But she wasn’t.
What had happened then? Had she been hit by something in the earthquake? And if so, how could she have forgotten? She held up the mirror and examined herself. Same longish nose, same well-defined lips. No obvious injuries. Her eyes were green and clear, not dazed or unfocused. She pulled her coppery chestnut hair off her forehead to see if there were any bumps or bruises. But no. Nothing at all. She was fine.
Then, reflected in a corner of the glass, she caught sight of the cool white marble of the angel’s wing.
She whirled around to look again.
The statue had been there all along.
A small sound, half sob, half laugh, burbled up from her throat. The bubble of unreality burst, and the sounds of the city came rushing back to her: the shrilling of an ambulance siren, the chatter of voices from the sidewalk just outside the park, the whoosh of a car speeding by. She was weak with relief as she set off once again, heading out the side entrance, back down the slope toward the ship canal and University Bridge.
A woman in a red scarf was puffing up the hill toward her, pulling a little boy by the hand.
“Let’s just hope the chimney is still standing,” she was saying to him.
“Why?” Addie called to her. “Why are you worried about your chimney?”
The woman looked startled. “Because of the earthquake, of course.”
Addie’s heart slowed, and she drew a deep breath. “Of course,” she said. “Because of the earthquake.”
7. Damage
As she came over the hill, a block away from the house, she saw Dad standing in front of the bookstore examining a deadly-looking two-foot-long spike of glass that was all that remained of the pane in the door. He looked older all of a sudden; his shoulders were slumped, and his face was gray with worry. Addie’s throat tightened.
“Dad!” She sprinted down the street toward him. “Is Zack okay?”
He turned and broke into a smile, the age dropping away. “Of course. What do you think? He enjoyed it. At least he says he did. You were quick.”
Quick? She’d been gone for ages. Addie glanced at her watch: 12:30. That had to be wrong, but at least the watch was working again.
“Margie told me about your mission of mercy.” Dad tousled her hair. “That was good of you, Addie.”
Whaley came around the side of the building, carrying a dustpan and wheeling the garbage can behind him. He gave Addie a glum wave. “How’s Mrs. T.’s friend?”
“Fine,” Addie said, and frowned. “Better than fine.”
Whaley
looked at her curiously and began sweeping up the broken glass. The larger pieces had already been cleared away, and all that remained was this shimmering pile of broken shards.
“Owns a theater, doesn’t she?” Dad asked. “I can imagine what the quake did to it.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to get that glass in the door safely removed. Until then, go in the back way, or do like so.” He went over to the empty window frame, pulled some work gloves out of his big jacket pockets, and put them on. Then he braced himself against the sill, jumped up, and climbed into the bookstore.
Addie made as if to climb in after him.
“Don’t touch the frame! Here.” Dad stripped off the gloves, leaned out the window, and grabbed her hand. She braced a foot against the sill and let him pull her up and over. After a moment of scrambling, she found herself standing on the cushion of the window seat, which was white with plaster dust. Dad was already heading to the back of the store.
She stepped down. The front of the store looked even worse than the rear had. It had always been so inviting here, with the wool rug on the floor, the bright Ethiopian posters Almaz’s family had given them, the tinted lamps, and the brass Victrola up on the shelf. Now the shelves were broken, and hundreds of papers and books were scattered all over. The imitation Tiffany lamp was upended, a pane of its ruby-colored shade cracked. The Victrola was nowhere to be seen.
She heard the crash of glass being dumped into the can outside. A few moments later, Whaley clambered into the store as well. Addie turned to him, indicating the chaos with a sweep of her hand. “It doesn’t seem fair! Nothing was broken in the Powells’ neighborhood. Mrs. Powell’s son didn’t even believe we’d had an earthquake.”
Whaley snorted. “Theater people are so full of crap. He was just messing with you.”
“No, they’re not!” Addie hesitated. “And I don’t think he was messing.” She crouched down and began picking up books, testing their bindings. Even though she had denied it, maybe Whaley was right. Maybe Reg had been joking. But how could he have been? There’d been genuine concern in his eyes when he insisted there hadn’t been any earthquake.
The Jewel and the Key Page 7
