Lilah corrected.
If one of us was supposed
to find it, we would have.
Is it like a treasure hunt?
Kevin wanted to know.
Yes.
Megan drew him close to ruffle his hair.
I really don't have time right now, dear.
Coco was arguing as Amanda dragged her
into the room.
It's the middle of the dinner rush.
Sit and be quiet,
Colleen ordered.
The girl has something to read. Get your aunt a drink,
she said to C.C.
She may need it. And freshen mine, while you're at it.
She
lifted her eyes, bird-bright, to Megan's.
Well, go on. Read it.
As she did, Megan slipped her hand into Nathaniel's. She heard Coco's quick gasp and sigh. Her own throat was raw with unshed tears when she lowered the page again.
So... I went up and I pried up some floorboards. And I found it.
Even the children were silent when Colleen placed her thin hands on the box. They trembled once, then steadied as she worked the latch free, and opened the lid. Now it was her lips that trembled, and her eyes filled. She drew out a small oval frame, tarnished black with age.
A photograph,
she said in a thick voice.
Of my mother with me and Sean and
Ethan. It was taken the year before she died. We sat for it in the garden in New York.
She stroked it once, then offered it to Coco.
Oh, Aunt Colleen. It's the only picture we have of all of you.
She kept it on her dressing table, so that she could look at it every day. A book of poetry.
Colleen drew out the slim volume, caressed it.
She loved to read poetry.
It's Yeats. She would read it to me sometimes, and tell me it reminded her of Ireland.
This brooch.
She took out a small, simple enamel pin decorated with violets.
Sean
and I gave it to her for Christmas. Nanny helped us buy it, of course. We were too young. She often wore it.
She caressed a marcasite watch, its pin shaped like a bow, and a carved jade dog hardly bigger than her thumb.
There were other small treasures a smooth white stone, a pair of tin soldiers, the dust of an ancient flower. Then the pearls, an elegant choker of four delicate strands that had slept the decades away in a black velvet pouch.
My grandparents gave her these as a bridal gift.
Colleen ran a fingertip over the
smooth orbs.
She told me it would be mine on my wedding day. He didn't like her to wear it. Too plain, he said. Too ordinary. She kept them in the pouch, in her jewel case. She would often take them out and show them to me. She said that pearls given with love were more precious than diamonds given for show. She told me to treasure them as she did, and to wear them often, because Her voice broke, and
she reached for her glass, sipped to clear her throat.
Because pearls needed
warmth.
She closed her eyes and sat back.
I thought he'd sold them, disposed of them with the rest.
You're tired, Aunt Colleen.
Suzanna went quietly to her side.