If truth be told, Annaliese Easterling had once loved Throckmorton dearly. He’d been hugged and snuggled, bedded and cuddled. She’d tickled his ears and twirled his soft body by the tail. Daily they’d taken tea at the tiny lace-covered table in the corner of her room.
To his credit, Throckmorton had tried to accept his abandonment without bitterness. After all, he told himself, Annaliese was part of a very large—not to mention very wealthy—family. She could play with a doll or stuffed toy for only so long before some rich but distant relative sent her a new one.
Alas, doing time in the net had taught Throckmorton a cruel lesson. Now he understood that his love and loyalty, listening and never-ending smile weren’t quite good enough. And that someday, he’d need to do something so remarkable that Annaliese would never forget about him again.
Buoyed by his resolve to achieve the impossible, the burden of self-pity lightened a little. He barely heard the bedroom door swish open.
“I think he’s in there!” Annaliese cried breathlessly.
“Up in that smelly old net?” asked Miss Pine, the new nanny, whose voice Throckmorton recognized.
“I think so,” Annaliese answered. “I mean, I hope so.”
“Oh my,” the nanny sighed.
Miss Pine, who was very, very tall, unhooked the bulging net. The jumble of stuffed toys tumbled out and Throckmorton landed faceup on a furry rug—free at last!
Annaliese dropped to her knees. She brushed a plush pony’s tail out of his eyes and pulled him into a hug. “Oh, Throckmorton,” she murmured, “I’ve missed you so.”
Now, Throckmorton knew that his broad red smile was telling Annaliese that he’d missed her, too. However, a tad bit of resentment still lingered inside his stuffing.
“Guess what?” his fickle little mistress chirped.
She jiggled an envelope—square, stamped, and scarlet red—in front of his nose.
“A letter came for you in the mail. Special delivery! Didn’t it, Miss Pine?”
Since when does a sock monkey get a letter in the mail? Throckmorton’s spirits soared.
How perfectly intriguing. . . .
The address that Annaliese read aloud was engraved in a glorious golden script:
Mr. Throckmorton S. Monkey
Eastcliff-by-the-Sea
Bay Fortune, Maine
A perplexed look crossed Miss Pine’s face. “What does the S stand for?”
Annaliese rolled her eyes. “Sock.”
The nanny laughed.
“And what’s that?” Miss Pine pointed at a small yellow duck pinned on Throckmorton’s chest.
“A diaper pin,” Annaliese answered, stroking the little duck’s back. “He’s had it for as long as I can remember.”
“And who . . .” Miss Pine paused.
Throckmorton knew who had stuck the diaper pin to his chest: Olivia, Annaliese’s mother, who disappeared when Annaliese was a baby.
Annaliese quickly turned her attention back to the scarlet envelope. “I’ll open it, Throckmorton, if it’s all right with you. . . .”
“Not so fast,” Miss Pine cautioned. “We’d better wait until Judge Easterling gets home from the courthouse. Then we’ll open all the sock monkeys’ letters at the same time.”
All the sock monkeys’ letters?
Throckmorton could hardly believe his ears (which were pretzel-shaped, and in his opinion, extremely unbecoming).
“But where are the other sock monkeys?” Annaliese asked.
“Your father never said a thing about having sock monkeys when he hired me,” Miss Pine replied. “Children, yes. Sock monkeys, no. And certainly not sock monkeys who get mail.”
“Please, Miss Pine? Please may I take just one itty-bitty peek at Throckmorton’s letter?”
“No, Miss Easterling, you may not.”
“Well then, may I invite Mr. Throckmorton S. Monkey to dinner this evening?”
“But of course.”
Invited to dinner? Huzzah!
“And a place for you, too, Miss Pine,” Annaliese pleaded.
“Oh no, I don’t think your father . . . ,” the nanny protested.
“But I insist.”
“Well, perhaps just this once. . . .”
Egad!
Miss Pine accepted Annaliese’s invitation! Didn’t the young woman know her place?
Judge Easterling would never allow a nanny to dine with the family, would he?
“Then it’s settled,” said Annaliese smugly. “Did Mrs. Wiggins tell you what we’re having?”
“Lobster bisque, popovers, and banana cream pie.”
“How does that sound, Throckmorton?”
He imagined the enticing aroma of maple butter melting on hot popovers.
It sounds wonderful, he thought.
Simply wonderful.