Mix-up in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  I noticed that Corazón hung back. When Varena was out of sight, she came up to me.

  “You might as well leave,” she told me, in a near whisper. “It will be a long while.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I said. I had miles to go in the miniature mansion. “I’ll wait.”

  Corazón leaned closer. “It’s her brother upstairs.”

  I wondered why she hadn’t announced Varena’s brother out loud, and I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to this information.

  “I’ll wait,” I said again.

  Corazón turned and left the room, clearly not happy with me.

  I wasn’t usually this stubborn, but I was buoyed by having met the real Varena Young, who seemed to value my presence in her home. I felt privileged.

  I imagined I’d make a very unpleasant rich person.

  Chapter 3

  What a day I was having. I was now alone in front of Lord and Lady Morley’s home. I thought of them as new friends, along with Varena.

  I’d sometimes worried in the past about the extent of my immersion into the world of six-inch beds and half-inch pencils, but belonging to a crafts community set my mind at ease. It was normal for miniaturists to imagine living in their creations, inhabiting the detailed replicas that gave them so much pleasure. Or at least that was what we told ourselves.

  Three floors, an attic, and a basement stretched out before me. I gazed at a lovely rose quartz floor, bordered with jade, in the Morleys’ miniature drawing room. I studied a wooden spinning wheel, an ornate upright piano with mother-of-pearl keys, and a green cloisonné chair. I peered through a window from the outside of the house to get a different perspective and marveled at the way the copious, draped window treatments spoke of opulence.

  For the first time I surveyed the life-size room I was standing in. Not only was the paneling as dark as that in the Morleys’ dollhouse study, but several elements of décor were identical. A paisley area rug under the table that supported the dollhouse bore the same pattern as a rug in the miniature study, and one wall of the room held a vertical array of swords that was mirrored by the tiny ones over the Morleys’ fireplace.

  I ran my hand over the curved metal handle of the four-foot sword on the wall, the longest in the grouping, and then along the handle of the four-inch replica in the Georgian. I was nearly dizzy, straddling two worlds.

  Crash/boom!

  Had something fallen or broken? Not by my hand, I hoped, in my trancelike state. The noise echoed down the hallway and startled me. An earthquake? A temblor was always high on the suspect list for any Californian, but nothing in my vicinity showed any signs of motion.

  The noise continued, now as loud voices.

  I stepped into the corridor that led to the entryway. I could hear the muffled sounds of two or more people arguing upstairs. The whole area around the grand staircase was open and the sound traveled easily. I singled out Varena’s rich voice, but couldn’t understand what she was saying. She sounded frustrated one moment and angry the next. At times a male voice predominated—her brother, I assumed—but his words were no clearer. I heard a pleading tone, then silence, then more subdued voices.

  I was embarrassed that I’d been eavesdropping on private conversations in someone’s home. As much as I was enjoying the dollhouse room, I decided to make an unobtrusive, unescorted exit from the property. I could always come back another day to claim the Tudor.

  Corazón had been right to encourage me to leave before the visit-cum-fight started. Had she known that Varena and her brother were about to have a knock-down-drag-out?

  I cast one last glance at the Morley mansion, glimpsing a charming shell chair with a turquoise satin cushion. I picked up my purse—the best I owned, but the least expensive item of any size, including all its contents, within miles—and left the room.

  On my way to the front of the house, I heard more of the argument upstairs, picking out odd words and phrases for which I couldn’t glean the context: “You’re not fooling anyone,” from a soft male voice; “You’ll never be more than a…” from a stronger male voice, and something like, “After all these years…” from the female voice. Possibly Varena’s. I couldn’t swear to any of it and was glad I’d never have reason to.

  The script could have applied to just about any family, I thought, at some moment in its history.

  As I entered the area at the foot of the grand stairway, the argument appeared to have stopped completely. I stood still, waiting for another shoe to drop. I heard clocks ticking and a few bird chirps from the open patio door on my right. Nothing human from upstairs. I took a few more steps.

  Still no more arguing. I considered rushing back to the Morley room to wait for Varena, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. There were so many details I hadn’t examined at the Morleys’ and I hadn’t laid eyes on the Tudor, which I now thought of as mine. In fact, I’d already begun the calculations that would tell me whether I could afford to bid on it.

  I could stay and wait, but I felt it would be awkward for Varena and me to resume our conversation as if nothing embarrassing had intervened.

  Besides that, I was already slightly behind schedule for picking up my granddaughter at her after-school computer class in Palo Alto, about ten miles away. There wasn’t a specific ending time for the extended program, but Maddie and I had agreed that I’d be there around four-fifteen. It occurred to me that I should have alerted my sister-in-law, Beverly, that I might need her as backup car pool, but I’d been too excited about making this trip to the Heights.

  I heard not another peep from upstairs, and tempting as it was to tiptoe back to the Morleys’ room and make myself comfortable, I let myself out the front door, got in my car without bumping into anyone on Varena’s staff, and drove away.

  —

  My regrets as I left Varena’s home were legion. I’d meant to ask where she kept the rest of her dollhouses. Surely, they didn’t each have their own room.

  A strange feeling crept over me and I wondered if I’d ever be back. What if Varena already regretted her promise to me and decided not to give up the Tudor after all? I should have stood my ground until I had the house in hand. A small Tudor was usually one large room with a stairway to a loft. A midsize version, which I’d been awarded, would have at least three separate rooms downstairs and two or three upstairs, plus a standard loft under a thatched roof. A midsize would just fit in the trunk of my car.

  I didn’t look forward to giving my report to the library committee. “Even though I’ve met Varena in person, and we are now on a first-name basis,” I’d have to admit, “there is no dollhouse in my trunk. All I have is a hasty promise.”

  By the time I got to sea level, I doubted even hearing the offer from Varena. I retrospectively picked apart her request for me to wait. What if she’d already regretted her offer and wanted to politely retract it? What if she interpreted the fact that I left as a refusal of her donation?

  My stellar record of “least sales” and “worst negotiator” at any age was uncontested for now.

  —

  As soon as I’d driven through the stretch of tortuous hairpin curves and was safely in the flatlands, I used my Bluetooth to call Henry.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  I gave him a brief but exuberant summary of the grandeur behind me. I tried to remember the correct names for some of the wood-crafting features I’d particularly liked in the dollhouse: carved pillars, broken (that was a good thing) pediments, and Corinthian capitals topping the pilasters.

  “So it’s not strictly Georgian,” he’d said.

  “It was sumptuous,” I said, annoyed at his critique. “I wanted to crawl inside and live there.”

  I told him about the duplicate walls of swords, and more to his interest, the metal tool rack standing in the basement of the dollhouse. Though most of the tools that hung from the two black crossbars looked modern—saws, wrenches, hatchets, long-nosed pliers, and the like—the display, with curlicu
ed ornamentation, was reminiscent of a medieval torture rack.

  “Did you get a donation for the auction?” he asked.

  Why was Henry trying to annoy me?

  “Are you hoping I’ll drive right by your street again?” I asked, sending an audible sigh toward the little green light on my Bluetooth.

  His laugh brought me back to adulthood.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m rehashing my end of the conversation with Varena and coming up weak.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself. Anyway, I’ve taken away any excuse you have for hurrying past my house again.”

  What did that mean? My one errand for the afternoon was to pick up Maddie. Her mother, my wonderful daughter-in-law, Mary Lou, was at a meeting of art gallery owners in Houston. Richard had taken the opportunity for a few days’ leave from the hospital and accompanied her. It would give them a chance to spend some time together and visit old friends who’d moved there.

  Maddie was mine for the next five days. The short commute from Lincoln Point to her Palo Alto school every day was hardly worth discussing when her parents asked if I could take care of her.

  I realized Henry had chipped in, unsolicited, to help with the car pool arrangements. “You have Maddie?” I said.

  “Yup. She was finished early and called about a half hour ago when she couldn’t reach you on your cell. I told her you were with some VIPs.”

  “I hope she was polite at least.”

  “You know she was. And she couldn’t get here too soon to suit Taylor. The two of them are collaborating on their science homework. Maddie has a great new book for a project on the conservation of energy.”

  I yawned deliberately. “How exciting.”

  “I know how that thrills you. Nice that their teachers use the same curriculum, though, isn’t it?”

  “And even nicer that they have someone who’s not hopeless at science to help them.”

  “You’re not hopeless. Just a little afraid.”

  “There’s a lot to be afraid of.”

  “Are you almost here?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “I’ll put the water on for tea, then, and start dinner. Hope chicken and dumplings are okay.”

  It hadn’t been that long since Henry and I had slid into making assumptions about our relationship. I couldn’t pinpoint a day or a date, but somehow it had evolved that on a day like this, it would be natural for Maddie to call him to see if he knew where I was and for him to pick her up, and a matter of course that we’d all have dinner together.

  I’d been a widow for several years and cherished Ken’s memory, but I also liked this new relationship more and more.

  I decided to forgive Henry his purist opening remark about the eclectic mix of styles in Varena’s mostly Georgian dollhouse, and his reminding me of my inability to strike even the smallest of deals.

  —

  “Grandma, Grandma! I missed you.”

  Maddie nearly knocked me over with her battering-ram hug. Her heavy athletic shoes, running lights and all, knocked into my ankles. It had been almost two weeks since I’d seen her, which was unusual, but a nasty bug had attacked her respiratory system and had kept her out of school and also away from me.

  “I missed you, too, sweetheart. Don’t ever get sick again,” I said, wishing I could make that happen.

  Maddie reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic bag. “I have a present for you. I didn’t have time to wrap it, but I can’t wait.”

  I took the small bag and watched her grin widen as I extracted a jewelry box, less than a quarter-inch wide. Inside were red earrings—tiny crystal and red glass beads, to be exact, but more exciting to me than genuine rubies.

  I drew Maddie back into a hug. “You know how much I need these for the top of that new dresser. They’re perfect.”

  “I didn’t make them,” she confessed.

  “We won’t tell anyone,” I said, kissing the top of her head.

  “Especially Mrs. Reed,” she said. My friend Linda would be pleased to know that her unflinching reputation for do-it-yourself, and from-scratch, had spread to the next generation.

  I didn’t look forward to the day, one I was warned by the experts to expect, when it would no longer be cool to give Grandma this kind of welcome. But, ahem, my granddaughter was special, gifted, and very mature. It was quite possible she’d skip that rebellious phase. Taylor, four months younger, hadn’t reached the coolness point either, so I had another powerhouse hug as I finally reached the front steps of her home.

  “It’s Uncle Henry’s turn next,” Maddie said. Her smile indicated that she knew exactly what she was doing.

  I responded to a longer, gentler hug from Henry. I hoped there’d be no outgrowing those.

  —

  Attorney Kay Courtland, Taylor’s mother, brought the total to five for an early dinner. Kay was still in her business suit and pumps, dressed for her San Jose office, to which she’d have to return shortly, she informed us.

  “I snuck out because I knew Grandpa’s chicken and dumplings were on the menu,” she said, looking at her young daughter. She dug into a full plate. “Don’t worry, I promised Dad I’d take him a big helping.”

  “He’s negotiating, right?” Taylor asked.

  Taylor had learned the word, plus a few manipulation techniques from Maddie, who was the best negotiator in any age group. No matter what the issue, she was somehow able to work things around to what she wanted, all the while seeming to agree with everyone else. She certainly hadn’t gotten that gene from her wimpy grandmother.

  I mentally slapped the side of my head: Why hadn’t we sent Team Maddie in to negotiate with Varena? She’d never have let Varena get away after her promise. Maddie would have walked out of the house, her skinny legs staggering under that Tudor, and plunked it in my trunk.

  Kay addressed us all. “Bill’s deep into merger negotiations with two big companies that want to swallow each other up. If we can keep them both happy, it’ll be a great coup for the firm.”

  And I thought I had it tough, assigned to dollhouse detail. I gave an involuntary shudder, as if I’d suddenly been asked to help Bill seal the deal.

  Taylor’s parents, partners in their own downtown law firm, often worked late. One of the reasons a live-in grandfather was the perfect setup. The house had belonged to the Baker family since Kay was a toddler. More than once, Kay and Bill had come close to buying a home of their own, but no one in the group of four really wanted that, and for the time being, the combined Baker-Courtland plan was serving everyone’s emotional and physical needs.

  I tried to keep my description of my best dollhouse day thus far to a minimum, not monopolizing the conversation, but I couldn’t help my verbal swooning over the Morleys’ weeping-willow fountain and pool banked with flowers, which impressed even Kay.

  “Too bad you couldn’t take pictures,” Taylor said.

  “It’d be better if you just take us all with you, Grandma,” was Maddie’s predictable solution.

  She pushed up the long sleeves of her bejeweled T-shirt, nearly identical to Taylor’s, and mopped the last of the gravy on her plate with a small, deftly managed piece of biscuit.

  Henry’s turn for attention came when his daughter began a round of compliments. “I’ve made this recipe, Dad, but it never tastes as good,” Kay said.

  “That was the best chicken ever,” according to Taylor.

  Strange coming from her, since she’d eaten only a smidgen of meat while putting away three large dumplings. The same was true for Maddie, for whom a gourmet meal was pizza followed by ice cream followed by more ice cream. Though my plain brown hair was in stark contrast to Maddie’s splendid red locks, the sweets gene was one she did inherit from me.

  Henry was by far a better cook than I was. My specialty was baking, which was a lot more fun and smelled better. I wished I’d thought ahead of time to load my car with samples of my latest output of sweet things—chocolate pecan pie from a new
recipe, and my special frosted triple-ginger cookies for which I humbly accepted prizes at bake-offs. I apologized to the group for showing up empty-handed.

  “What? No dessert? I guess we’ll all have to go to Sadie’s.” This from Maddie, the problem-solver, and the most loyal customer of Sadie’s Ice Cream Shop.

  “Or to my house,” I offered.

  “Your grandma always has tons of ice cream,” Taylor mentioned, giving Henry and Kay a hint-hint look.

  Dum, ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum.

  My cell phone, the ring tone of which was regularly reprogrammed by Maddie, who refused to clue me in on how it was done. The current lively marching tune was the result of her being enthralled by the school band in her hometown as they practiced for a parade. I could think of many less agreeable tunes I’d had to live through.

  I was tempted to let it ring through to voicemail, but saw that it was Skip. Probably June was working and he was calling around to find a good meal. Nothing would have pleased Maddie more than having her “uncle,” technically her cousin-once-removed, join the dinner party. Skip teased her that as soon as he turned thirty, she’d lose interest.

  “Hey, Aunt Gerry,” he said. Not in a happy mood, I could tell. In fact, a very serious mood.

  My throat tightened. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “How do you always know?”

  “Just tell me it’s not your mom.”

  “It’s not Mom. She’s totally over the episode from last week, good as new. She just called me from her assignment as a fake cop.”

  I breathed out and relaxed. Beverly’s chronic heart problem was at bay for now. I rushed to her defense on other grounds. “Don’t disparage your splendid corps of civilian volunteers.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “So, then what is wrong?”

  “It’s about someone else’s mom. It’s Alexandra Rockwell.”

  It took a moment to reconnect the name Alexandra Rockwell with my new friend, Varena Young. “What’s happened?” My head was dizzy with this convoluted loop, taking me back to the starting point.