A Charmed Place

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Caroline pushed her plate away with a morose look. She was getting ready for the next phase of her tantrum: self-pity.

  Cornelius turned to his son and said, "Where's the damned breeder, anyway? Didn't you say he'd be here at six?"

  Jack glanced at his watch. "That's what he said. Well, have fun. I can't wait any longer. I'm off to the shipyard —"

  Caroline began to sniffle. "I just didn't want broccoli, because it's my birthday. I shouldn't have to eat broccoli if I'm being five years old." Tears began rolling freely. "And I don't even have a cake." She turned to the senior Eastman with big, glazed blue eyes. "Dada? Do I?"

  Oooh, she's good, thought Netta. That Dada-thing that she'd come up with: it always made Mr. Eastman melt visibly.

  He was doing it now. "Of course we have a cake for you, darling," the old man said, his face creasing into a hundred lines of happiness. "Would we forget you on your birthday?"

  "She knows we have a cake," Netta snapped. "She's already dug a trench through the frosting."

  "Forget it, Netta," said Jack tiredly. "It's not worth it." They were interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. Caroline stopped sniffling at once. Cornelius Eastman grinned broadly. Jack shook his head with wary resignation. And in the adjacent new kitchen, installed expressly so that Netta wouldn't have to fuss with the dumbwaiter and the old basement cook-area anymore, Caroline's little brother Bradley let out a welcoming shriek.

  The puppy was here.

  Cornelius Eastman himself went to get the door, with Caroline right behind him. Jack got up to leave.

  "Jack Eastman, where do you think you're going?" said Netta.

  The next sound they heard was a high and relentless arf-arf-arf-arf!

  "Oh, lord," murmured Netta, "your father really has gone and done it."

  A white ball of fluff came cannonballing through the dining room, hardly stopping long enough to pause and sniff Netta's skirt, then Jack's trousers, before racing to the nearest table leg, lifting its leg, and peeing.

  Caroline, who was in hot pursuit, stopped short with a scandalized look. "He's a boy puppy! I thought I was getting a girl puppy!" She dropped to all fours and began crawling under the table after the dog.

  Arf arf arf! Arf arf arf!

  "I'm sorry, honey, that's all they had," said her amused and silver-haired father, lifting the damask tablecloth.

  Arf arf arf!

  Netta thought that Cornelius Eastman didn't look sorry as much as glad to be done with the week-long hunt for a female Maltese. And nobody seemed sorry about the wet stain on the Oriental rug.

  "But I had a girl's name all picked out," Caroline lamented as she lurched in vain after the bouncing white mop.

  At that point Netta had to dash into the kitchen to fetch Bradley, who'd cleared his own tray of food with one sweep of his arm and was screaming incoherently. It was his way of saying, "I've finished dinner, thank you so much, and now I think perhaps I'd like to join the others."

  Arf arf arf! Arf arf arf arf!

  The elder Eastman was chuckling at Caroline's distress over the puppy's gender. "What name did you have in mind, sweetheart?"

  "Snowball," said Caroline in a pout.

  Bradley, on the loose now, went charging after the puppy and succeeded in coming away with two clumps of long white hair, which clung like angora mittens to his still-sticky hands.

  Arf. Arf arf. Arf arf arf arf arf arf arf!

  Jack, a bachelor who had never in his life been surrounded by this kind of chaos, said in a loud voice, "Will somebody please get that animal under control?"

  Netta wasn't sure which animal he meant. She grabbed the one closest to her — Bradley — and began cleaning his hands with a wet washcloth as the boy squirmed and screamed to be let down.

  Arf. Arf arf. Arf arf arf.

  "You can still name him Snowball, honey," said Cornelius Eastman over the ongoing din. "Snowball is for either."

  "Well, I guess ... but ... well, all right." Caroline sighed, then gave them all a sweeping look of wide-eyed innocence. "Can we have my party now, then?" she asked. "And my presents?"

  Arf.

  There was a pause. Even Snowball paused. Finally Cornelius Eastman said, with a sheepish expression, "You said if you got a puppy that you didn't want a party, honey."

  Caroline managed to lasso Snowball with her arms and squish him onto her lap. "No, I didn't," she murmured, studying the dog's moppy face intently. "I said a puppy and a party."

  "You said a puppy or a party, dammit!" snapped Jack.

  "'And,'" said Caroline, still studying the dog's face.

  The two men — seventy and forty— exchanged looks. Netta watched them, mesmerized by the family resemblance. Eastman genes ran true to type: the hawkish nose, the fierce blue eyes, the thick brown hair. Oh, gravity had taken its toll on the father and softened the once-square line of his jaw. But he was still a good-looking man. Paul Newman could take lessons.

  Jack began to reason with the girl in a calm, carefully controlled voice. "You don't really know anyone here, Caroline. Who would we invite? Maybe when your mother gets out of the clinic and you all go back to Aspen — maybe then would be a good time for a birthday party."

  Caroline looked up at the older of the two men. "Dada?" she whispered as a tear rolled down her cheek. "Can I?"

  "Of course you can have a party," Cornelius said gruffly. "You're only five once. By all means. Arrange one for Caroline, Jack."

  "You must be kidding. You know I'm flat out at the shipyard —"

  "Yes, I suppose you're right," Cornelius Eastman said, annoyed. He looked at his housekeeper. "Netta? Would —? No, no, you have more than enough to do already," he said quickly, withering beneath her baleful look.

  He turned back to his son. "Well, Jack, I guess you're the only one with the resources. Have Cynthia at the shipyard look into it and make the arrangements."

  "Dad, that's absurd," Jack said sharply. "She has her hands full, especially this week. We're revamping our billing system —"

  Netta leaned closer to Jack's ear and said, "If I could have a word with you, sir. I think I can help you out." She picked up her basket of broken crockery and led the thoroughly irritated son into the relative quiet of the kitchen.

  It distressed Netta to see the household in such chaos. It used to be such a quiet, well-ordered place. Too quiet, perhaps; but at least Jack could bring his work home every night as he struggled to keep the family shipyard afloat. Now, he hardly ever bothered coming home before they were all asleep.

  Could anyone blame him? His own mother had fled from East Gate, even though she and Cornelius had lived there every summer of their long marriage. Could anyone blame her? To have her husband's illegitimate daughter under her own roof, over her own objections. Well. It was all scandalous, it really was.

  Not that Netta hadn't longed for the sound of children under the old slate roof. But they were supposed to be Jack's children, happy children, nice children, and Mrs. Eastman was supposed to cherish them, the way a proper grandmother should. But she wasn't the proper grandmother! And in any case, she was in Capri. It was all such a mess.

  Netta closed the door on the barks and shouts and turned to her adored Jack. He did look bad: tired, and worn, and used up with worry over the failing shipyard and his mother's hurt. As for Cornelius Eastman, well, he was obviously slipping into dotage, insisting that Caroline and Bradley stay at East Gate.

  But that wasn't today's problem.

  "What is it, Netta?" Jack said irritatedly. "Have you found the perfect nanny for our little Caroline?"

  Netta snorted. "That machine hasn't been invented yet. No, but I do know someone who can take this birthday party off your hands. You know the little cottage to the west? It's been sold to a nice young lady named Liz Coppersmith. She designs — I think that's how she described it — events for people."

  "This is a birthday party, darlin'," Jack said, helping himself to a mug of coffee. "Not a wedding. I'm not inclined to
waste money on frivolity just now."

  "You never are, Jack," said his housekeeper with a dry look. "Not if you can pour it into the shipyard instead. But you heard your father. He wants a party for his dau ... for Caroline."

  "Yeah, well, he also wants the shipyard to stay solvent," Jack said with a black look.

  "He's on the fence about that, and you know it," Netta said flatly. "You want to keep it. But your father — he's tired of the struggle, and he'd maybe like to sell. So don't go using that as an excuse, my boy."

  Netta had no need to mince words with Jack. It was one of the perks of having basically raised him. His own mother, though she loved her son, would not have felt so free to scold.

  Jack took a sip of the just-brewed coffee, burned his tongue, swore, slammed down the mug, and said, "Fine. We'll have the damned party!"

  "It's only a little thing," Netta said, wrapping her ample arm around Jack's waist and giving him two quick squeezes. "It won't make the difference between bankruptcy or not."

  Jack laughed softly and swung his own arm around his portly housekeeper's shoulder. He turned to her with a brooding, troubled look in his deep blue eyes and said, "You understand, Nettie, that the birthday party will in effect be a coming-out party. We can't keep this charade about my 'cousin' Caroline going much longer. Especially now that everyone's up from Palm Beach for the season."

  Netta gave him a sympathetic smile. "Well, if the governor of Rhode Island can come clean about his past," Netta said softly, "I guess your father can, too. I only wish your mother wasn't taking it so hard."

  Jack's look turned bitter. "Yeah. After all, she knew she was marrying an Eastman. She was bound to have to share him with another woman sooner or later."

  "Don't be fresh!" Netta said sharply. "That's your father you're talking about."

  "My father; my grandfather; his father before that," said Jack in an even tone. "As we know, the tradition goes way back."

  Which is why you've never married, my dear, thought Netta. You're looking for the perfect wife, mother, and mistress all rolled up into one. You want to be the first in your family. Ah, you dreamer, you.

  She shook her head and sighed.

  Jack mistook her sigh and said with his old roguish smile, "I'm too old to stick in a corner, Nettie. So now what?"

  She spun him around and faced him toward the door. "I'm going to send you back to the table and stuff you with birthday cake, that's what. Maybe sugar will help."

  The swing-door opened just then, and Jack's father poked his head through it. "Netta, Netta," he said in a harried voice, "I need you out here. The kids are — the dog is — help me, Netta," he begged.

  Netta shooed both men out ahead of her and thought wearily, They're hopeless. Where are the women? Who's going to organize this foundering kingdom?

  Buy Time After Time or turn the page and read Chapter 2.

  Time After Time Sample Chapter 2

  Why can't I stay in the house, Mommy? I just got here."

  "I know; I know," said Liz, running a brush quickly over her daughter's sleek brown hair. "But it's too wet outside to play, and Mommy's going to make a big, big mess breaking through the ceiling to get into the attic. So you go on to the restaurant with Aunty Tori, and by the time you get back from lunch, I'll have the plaster all cleaned up outside your room, and you can come and go wherever you want."

  "Because I've hardly been in my own house so far, you know," Susy said, clearly feeling shunted around.

  "We've only owned it for three days, honey," Liz reminded her. "Got your money?"

  Susy opened her plastic purse and pulled out a neatly folded five-dollar bill, then put it back inside. "Yes."

  "Good." Liz turned to Victoria and said, "Thanks a bunch, Tori. I didn't expect to have to have the attic ready for the roofers so soon. But if they're really willing to reshingle the dormers this week—"

  "—they need to inspect the rafters before then. No problem. We don't want rain dripping on our Susabella, do we?" Victoria said, pinching Susy's nose lightly.

  Off they went. Liz made one last pass around the second floor, searching for some sign of an old covered-up entry to the attic. Nope, nothing: the entire ceiling was plastered smooth.

  For the life of her, Liz could not understand why there was no access hatch. Granted, the attic was no more than a crawl space, but it could provide at least a little extra storage—something the cottage had in short supply.

  The most logical place to cut the hole was over the landing in the hall between the two bedrooms. Liz wrapped a red bandanna around her hair, slipped a pair of goggles over her eyes, and did some preliminary drilling here and there to figure out where the gap between the joists was. Then she picked up the jigsaw and attacked the ceiling.

  The sawing left a thick cloud of dust and a shocking mess of plaster, lath, and horsehair on the plastic-covered floor of the upstairs hall. But as the opening began to take shape, Liz could practically hear the attic sucking in deep breaths of fresh air.

  She set up a stepladder under the new opening and popped her head into the space above. The smell of damp wood dashed her spirits; damp wood meant rotten wood. Fearing the worst, she aimed a flashlight into the recesses of the long- forgotten attic.

  Not too bad, she decided after a quick scan of the timbers. No rot, no bats, no bees. There was a little dampness along a rafter where she knew she had a leak, but that was all. Good little house, she found herself thinking affectionately. She was about to climb back down the ladder when the beam of her flashlight fell on something rectangular straddling two joists at the far end.

  It was a small, canvas-covered, metal-strapped trunk, the kind people used to haul around on steamers when they plied the Atlantic. Sealed away, who knew for how long? Here, in the tiny attic of her tiny house. A buried treasure.

  With an eager, thumping heart, Liz hoisted herself up through the opening and began crawling on her knees from joist to joist toward the trunk. It was slow going. Halfway there, an exposed nail ripped her jeans and tore her thigh. Liz let out a cry and pulled away, whacking her head on the roof's low ridgepole. Damn! Now she hurt in two places. Worse, she was beginning to feel claustrophic in the unlit space. She took a deep breath to calm herself and resumed her crawl.

  When she reached the trunk, she was frustrated once more: it wouldn't open. Liz had the sense that the trunk wasn't really locked but was simply used to being closed. She banged on the metal catch with the palm of her hand once, twice, until it hurt too much to continue.

  This is idiotic, she realized eventually. I'll haul it downstairs—somehow—and open it there. She muscled the surprisingly heavy little trunk from one joist to the next and was rewarded with the sound of the lock snapping open on its own.

  Despite her curiosity, Liz hesitated before opening the lid. The one thing she did not want was to have something fly up into her face when she did. A flashlight would help; but the flashlight was lying next to the sawed-out opening, throwing its beam only vaguely in her direction, and she hadn't the heart to go crawling back for it.

  Ho-kay. In we go, she decided. She flung the lid open with a sudden motion.

  Nothing flew out. Liz could see, by the slits of sunlight from a vent at the opposite end of the attic, that the trunk contained papers and letters. Captain Kidd's treasure, it was not.

  Obviously the contents weren't valuable enough for the owner to remember where he'd stored them before he'd had the attic sealed in. Disappointed, Liz was about to close the lid when she saw, tucked in the darkest corner of the trunk, another, smaller box.

  She reached in and took it out. It was a lacquered box, seven inches wide and three inches high, about the size of a Victorian tea caddy. Even in the near-darkness she could see that it was lacquered a brilliant Chinese red and decorated with an elaborate floral design. Still hunched over, she fumbled awkwardly with the thing, trying to open it. But it was clearly designed for a key, and she had no key.

  She shook it. It sounde
d empty. It felt empty. The chances were it was empty. But Liz had a fierce, sudden, irrational desire to believe it held treasure. She began an awkward, painful crawl back to her sawed-out opening, leaning on her forearm instead of her hand, which was holding the box.

  She was on her last joist when the doorbell — a handcranked, ear-splitting contraption from long ago — jangled loudly, jolting her upright into the ridgepole again.

  "Ow!" she cried, reeling from the pain. She leaned down through the opening into the hall and yelled loudly, "C'mon up, dammit! It's open!"

  Expecting Victoria and Susy, Liz was surprised when a male voice called politely, "Anybody home?"

  If he was a serial killer, he wasn't a very bright one. "Up here, I said," she repeated, rubbing the goose-egg on her head. "Who is it?"

  "Your neighbor to the east. Jack Eastman," he answered as he ascended the bare, varnished stairs.

  The voice was rich and deep and had that touch of Ivy League affectation that Liz so disliked. Clearly he wasn't there as part of any Welcome Wagon. She wondered why he'd driven all the way around to her side of the barbed wire. It never occurred to her to climb down the ladder to greet him. Instead, she waited for him just the way she was. Upside-down. Like a bat.

  She was still hanging there when Eastman reached the landing beneath her.

  "I'm looking for Liz Coppersmith," he said, clearly refusing to believe he'd found her. "Of Parties Plus?"

  "Yessir! May I help you?" asked Liz, snapping to attention at the magic word parties. Nuts. This was a business call, then.

  "Let me just get down from here," she said hurriedly. "I'm sorry about the mess. I was poking around, and. . ."

  Still gripping her red-lacquered box, she scrambled onto the top rung of the stepladder — the one all the signs said not to step on — and promptly sent it flying out from under her as she fell backward, more or less into her new neighbor's arms.

  He staggered under the weight of her fall but recovered gracefully, which was more than Liz could say for herself. She felt like Lucy Ricardo after a bout with Ricky. It didn't help that her head was wrapped in a ratty bandanna, her jeans were torn, and her face was covered with plaster dust.