The Secret of Goldenrod
Page 29
“Harlan, please, we have servants. And I’m sure Mr. Maxwell—”
“Margaret, we can’t live here. It’s impossible. There’s no garage. Where would I store my car collection?”
“My dad could build you a garage,” Trina said, startling not only Mr. Roy but also herself. “He can build anything.” She took Mr. Roy’s hand and guided him to the dining room table, winking at her dad. “Look. We have the blueprints for the original carriage house right here.”
Trina flattened the plans on the dining room table for Mr. Roy as Mrs. Roy leaned over her husband’s shoulder.
“The stable could easily be turned into a modern garage,” Trina’s dad said.
“Oh, Harlan, no. We must leave the stable as is. Don’t you see? Annie could learn to ride. She could have her own pony.”
“I get my own pony! I get my own pony!” Annie shouted, jumping up and down as Mr. Roy paced in frantic circles. Then Annie tapped Trina on her arm and motioned her to bend down. She put her arm around Trina’s neck and whispered in her ear, “My father says my mother always gets everything she wants.”
Trina nodded, pretty sure little Annie Roy got everything she wanted too, but suddenly she felt as if someone else had tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. She turned around. No one was there. No one except Goldenrod.
Now what did Goldenrod want her to do?
Mr. Harlan M. Roy the Second stopped pacing. “My dear, we have too many houses as it is. And we travel constantly. Who would take care of this house in our absence?”
Trina felt as if she’d been pushed forward by a powerful hand. “We would.”
All eyes were on Trina.
“If my dad builds the carriage house, we could live in it and take care of Goldenrod when you’re gone.”
No one said a word. Trina figured Mr. Harlan M. Roy the Second was trying to come up with another reason it wouldn’t work, while Mrs. Roy was dreaming up more reasons why it should. The only thing Trina knew for sure was how she felt. Even though the house was in the middle of nowhere and filled with unfinished projects, she couldn’t leave Goldenrod. The grande dame had begun to feel like home. Which meant the biggest question was, What did her dad think? “Maybe we could put down roots for a little while. What do you say, Poppo?”
Now all eyes were on her dad—particularly Mrs. Roy’s eyes.
His face flushed through the silver makeup as he looked slowly from face to face, finally stopping at Trina’s. “It’s worth considering,” he said. “It might be nice to settle down.”
“The town would love to have you,” Mr. Kinghorn said.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Shegstad said.
Trina looked up at Miss Dale. Her green eyes practically twinkled as she looked to Trina’s dad and then back at Trina. “I would like it very much if you stayed.”
“But, Maggie, my dear, what if—?”
“It’s decided then,” Mrs. Roy said, patting her husband’s hand. “Annie, what do you think of your new home?”
Annie folded her arms. “If this is our house, where’s my room?”
“Upstairs,” Trina said. “I’ll show you.” She took Annie’s hand and led her up the staircase into her own room. “Once upon a time, a little girl just like you lived in this room. She was your great, great, great . . .”
Annie wasn’t paying any attention. She had let go of Trina’s hand and was running around the room touching everything in sight. “She had her own bed and her own fireplace and her own mirror . . .” Annie scrunched up her face as she reached for Trina’s Brewers cap. “And she had her own icky baseball cap—”
“That baseball cap is mine,” Trina said, and then she froze in place. Annie had put one hand on the lever so she could reach for the baseball cap with the other.
“Hey, this wiggles,” Annie said. She grabbed the lever with both hands and wiggled it again. Then she pushed on the lever until the latch clicked. “This is a door,” Annie cried as the mirrored door creaked open. “To a secret room.”
“But you can’t go in there!”
“Who says?” Annie made a mad face at Trina and disappeared into the turret room. “Don’t touch anything,” Trina shouted as Augustine’s words came rushing back to her. But she had told Trina never to open the door again, not Annie.
Annie was kneeling on the floor in a sliver of harvest moonlight that sneaked through a crack in one of the shutters, peering into the dollhouse. When Trina flipped on the light, Annie shook with excitement. “Look, Trina. There’s a girl doll and a mommy doll and a daddy doll. Just like my family.” Annie reached up and tugged on Trina’s hand. “Why can’t I touch it, Trina? How can I play with it if I can’t touch it?”
Trina crouched next to Annie. Cleaned and polished, with its whole family under its roof, the dollhouse looked as lived-in and loved as Goldenrod. Sugar crystals still sparkled in the teacups, but to Trina it already seemed as if the tea parties had taken place a lifetime ago.
Seeing Augustine dressed as Briar Rose, lying lifeless in her four-poster bed, put away in the turret room, made Trina terribly sad until she realized the little doll wasn’t forgotten—she was waiting. Her prince might never arrive, but here was a little girl who wanted to play with her—a wish come true.
Trina lifted Augustine from her bed. When the doll’s eyes blinked open, Trina’s heart gave a skip, but her blink was that of an ordinary doll. There was no wink, no glimmer of life. Trina smoothed the little doll’s hair one last time and placed her in Annie’s eager hands. “Don’t ever leave her in the yard or she might get scared.”
“She can’t get scared, Trina. She’s just a doll,” Annie said.
“But she’s not just any doll. Her name is Augustine.”
Trina sat down on the floor and felt a sharp jab in her thigh. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the packet of sea creatures. Now the little frog didn’t seem so silly. She opened the package and set the frog on Augustine’s bedside table next to her silver hairbrush.
“What’s that for?” Annie asked.
“That’s her prince.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a frog.”
“It’s an enchanted frog, like the ones they have in fairy tales.”
“Fairy tales aren’t true,” Annie said, reaching for the pony.
“Fairy tales are true if you believe in them,” Trina said. “Would you like me to tell you a story? Augustine loves stories.”
“Yes, but only if it’s true,” Annie said.
“All stories are true if you believe them,” Trina said.
Trina leaned back on her elbows as Annie made the pony gallop around the floor of the playroom with Augustine bouncing on its back, arms flopping and hair flying. “Once upon a time there was a little doll.”
Psst, psst, the radiator hissed gently.
Annie’s eyes widened and she sat right down in Trina’s lap. “What was that?”
“The radiator,” Trina said. “It does that once in a while, but you’ll get used to it.” But really, she knew it was Goldenrod whispering in her ear, saying thank you for the fire in her hearth and the music and laughter within her walls. And a new family. The same things that made Goldenrod happy made Trina happy too. For the first time Trina could ever remember, she had a real place to call home.
“Once upon a time,” Annie said, bouncing in Trina’s lap. “Keep going.”
“Once upon a time,” Trina continued, “there was a little doll. She was made of white porcelain and she had fine little jointed arms and legs. She was French, and one amazing thing about her made her different from all other dolls.”
“What?” Annie asked, holding very, very still.
“She could talk.”
“That’s not true. Dolls don’t talk.”
Trina looked into Annie’s sparkling blue eyes and smiled. “They do if you’re lucky enough to hear them.”
Acknowledgments
The route to Goldenrod has been quite an adventure, but clearly it was a pat
h sprinkled with magic—the magic of love, friendship, family, and story. I have many people to thank for reading early drafts, for listening, or for simply believing in me. I thank them here for all of the above and then some:
Al Sicherman, for steadfast support, both technical and emotional, and for teaching me to make chocolate ganache in the middle of everything; Andy Cochran, for talking stories and for reading over and over and over again; Anne Budroe Benda, for being a great friend and an ardent fan ever since seventh grade; Ashley Tourville, for literally making it possible; Catherine Watson, for being the best lifelong mentor imaginable; Cindy Rogers and Jane St. Anthony and the rest of the gang at the Johnson Home, for sustaining me; Elizabeth Haukaas, for asking one heck of a question and also for that weekend of healing in New York; John Watson, for the extra magic; Larry Lavercombe, for terrific notes as usual; Liliana Becker, via Cindy Evensen, for wanting to know more about Trina’s mother; Maggie Morris, for the paper wishes and Steven Watson, for imparting a love of history and books.
Deepest gratitude goes to Jane Resh Thomas for teaching me to write stories, to Anne Ursu and Phyllis Root for teaching me to play, and to the wonderful Hamline MFAC program—faculty and friends—for pointing the way.
Heartfelt thanks goes to my indefatigable agent, Sarah Davies, and my incredibly insightful editor, Alix Reid, both of whom loved Goldenrod before she knew who she really was and therefore guided me to a better story.
The humblest of thanks goes to my children, John O’Reilly, Helen O’Reilly, and William O’Reilly, my biggest champions, who grew up behind the scenes, but are always center-stage in my heart. (And a special thank you to Will for some of the best writing advice I have ever received.)
The ultimate thank you goes to my husband, John, for just about everything.
About the Author
Jane O’Reilly grew up in a very old house on a Mississippi River bluff in Fort Snelling, Minnesota. The youngest of five children, she enjoyed the family’s annual, month-long camping trips, crisscrossing North America from Circle, Alaska, to the tip of the Yucatán Peninsula. Those trips sparked a love of travel, adventure, cultures, language—and coming home. Jane is the recipient of a McKnight Fellowship in Screenwriting and holds an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Hamline University. She lives in Minneapolis with her husband, dog, and cat in a hundred-year-old house that creaks in the night. The Secret of Goldenrod is her debut novel.