TWELVE

 

Jenny admired her surroundings as Eben led them through a narrow hallway that seemed to go on and on. Her dad would have loved the place. It was a Time Warp house, a term they used to describe a house that had never been renovated, but in a good way. It had all the original details—black walnut banister rising toward an unseen second floor, parquet floors, tall ceilings and crown moldings, antique fixtures—but it hadn’t fallen into disrepair. In fact, the house seemed meticulously clean and smelled faintly of lemon oil.

Eben hung a right at the end of the hall, and they followed him into some kind of parlor. Stained glass windows depicted fields of daffodils, casting strips of yellow, gold, and green light on the floor. A massive table, covered in papers and lit by an old lamp, dominated the center of the room, while glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls. Some of the shelves held books, others china and miscellaneous treasure that glinted and gleamed.

Gesturing them to take the two chairs in front of the desk, Eben walked around and sat behind it. He slipped a pair of black-rimmed glasses onto his face and leaned back, appraising Ben and Jenny through the small, circular lenses. His eyes were a surprising light brown and very clear.

“So. Do you have the box?” he asked, creating a steeple out of his fingertips.

Ben turned to Jenny. She reached into her bag, a knot of anxiety forming in her chest. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Eben. It was just that the box felt like more than a random find.

Like something she was supposed to find.

Now that she had it, letting it go for even a few minutes felt like opening herself up to the possibility of losing it forever. If it disappeared it would be like a door closing before she really got to understand what was on the other side.

“Give it to him,” Ben prodded under his breath.

Jenny handed it over. Whatever happened, she just wouldn’t leave without it, that’s all.

Eben reached out, taking it from her. His hands were wrinkled and dotted with age spots, but his grasp was assured.

“Where did you find this object?”

“It was in the attic of this house we inherited,” Ben explained as Eben drew back the fabric. “It plays Moonlight Sonata.”

Jenny wished he’d be quiet. She didn’t care if Eben knew about Moonlight Sonata, but Ben’s yammering had taken on the tone of nervous chatter. Who knew what he’d let slip if he kept going.

But Eben didn’t seem to be listening. He’d peeled back the last layer of cloth and was inspecting the box with so much concentration that Jenny wondered if he’d gone into some kind of trance.

Finally, he reached for a magnifying glass and bent to inspect the top of it. His bracelets clanged together.

“Tell me more about this house.” He ran a forefinger over the box’s lid.

Jenny sensed Ben’s reticence as he shifted in his seat. Was it that he didn’t want to tell Eben about the house or that he didn’t want Jenny to know?

“There’s not much to tell. My mom inherited it from some great-uncle. She didn’t even know him that well. We’re just renovating it so we can flip it for some quick cash and move on, you know?”

Eben raised his eyes to Ben. Jenny had the distinct impression that Eben did not, in fact, know about flipping something for quick cash and moving on. He’d probably lived in this house his whole life, selling things carefully and only after a lot of deliberation.

Eben bent his head back to the box, lifting the lid. He tipped his head as the eerie tinkle of Moonlight Sonata emerged from within. “And is your great-uncle Russian?”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Work of this kind is often found on Russian pieces of a certain era.” He put his magnifying glass down, turning to a neatly organized bookshelf behind him. Scanning the titles, he reached for one, flipping through it until he found what he was looking for. He slid the book toward Ben and Jenny. “Like this. It’s a Fabergé egg. But if you look, you’ll notice a similarity in the coloring and materials. Especially the violet panels and the metalwork.”

Jenny leaned in, looking at the magnificent piece on the page, her eyes drawn to the name in the description.

“Fabergé?” she said. “Isn’t that really expensive?”

“As with all antiquities, it depends on the piece’s condition,” Eben said. “But yes. They tend to be worth quite a lot.”

 Ben looked up. “You think this is Fabergé?”

“I don’t see Fabergé markings, no. But the similarity in craftsmanship is astonishing. I have little doubt this box, too, comes from Russia sometime in the mid- to late 1800s. And this crown here,” he tapped the crest, “suggests it was a gift from the royal family to someone or indeed might have belonged to them.” He picked the box up, turning it upside down and opening the bottom. Jenny was glad they’d removed the mesmerization instructions. Eben continued. “It is in good working order, but sadly, the condition of the exterior leaves something to be desired.” He again studied the outside of the box with the loupe. “The cracked wood, chipped enamel, and missing rubies will all have an effect on value, I’m afraid. That, plus the missing markings.”

“So what are we talking?” Ben asked.

Eben sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking upward at the pressed-tin ceiling. “In the right place at the right time with the right buyer, I would say in the neighborhood of five thousand dollars if we can get any sense of its provenance.”

“Provenance?” Ben asked.

“Where it came from. Who it belonged to. Something tangible about its history.”

Ben sat back in the chair. “Five thousand? That’s all?”

Eben raised his eyebrows. “That’s a great deal of money for a young man your age.”

“But not enough,” Ben muttered.

Jenny wanted to ask him what he meant, but she knew this wasn’t the place.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. “It’s a lovely piece. I’d be happy to purchase it from you.”

Ben reached out and started rewrapping the box. “I’ll think about it.”

“How much would you charge to find out more about it?” Jenny asked.

“As an appraiser I charge a percentage of what a piece turns out to be worth. But I’m curious myself about this. If you’d let me take some pictures, I’d be willing to do some preliminary work gratis.”

“That would be great,” Jenny said.

But Ben was still wrapping the box.

“Ben?”

“What … ?”

 “We came here to find out more about the box. I think we should let Mr. Wozniak take pictures of it.”

It was almost as if she’d woken him from some kind of stupor. “Yeah. Sure.”

Ben removed the music box from the cloth, handing it carefully across the desk. For the next few minutes, Eben photographed the box from every conceivable angle, carefully rewrapping it when he was done.

 “It is always wonderful when you come across a find like this.” There was excitement in his voice, but a little sadness, too. “Most attics have been emptied out, their contents listed on eBay.”

Jenny reached out a gloved hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wozniak, for seeing us. It was really interesting.”

“It was just as interesting for me, I assure you.”

He led them out of the room and into the hallway. When they reached the front door, Eben disengaged the many locks before opening it to the heat of the city.

Jenny smiled at him. “Well, thanks again.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Ben muttered.

They had just stepped onto the pavement when Eben’s voice stopped them.

“Ben?”

They turned to face him. “Yeah.”

“There are many ways to assess value. In a culture bent on selling everything for a profit, sometimes an object, possibly handed down through generations, has another kind of worth.”

Ben stared at the older man in silence. Jenny wondered if he was going to mouth off or do something stupid and disrespectful. The truth was, she didn’t really know him well enough to take a guess.

But he didn’t. He just nodded that slow nod Jenny was beginning to recognize as something he did when he was actually considering something instead of blowing it off.

Ben handed her the box. She slipped it back inside her bag, her nerves smoothing out with the knowledge that it was back in their possession.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t talk until they were back on the train. It was still early. Only a few suits.

They settled into an empty car as the train idled at the platform, waiting for last-minute stragglers to board. Jenny sensed that Ben didn’t want to talk, but she was over being his silent sidekick. She wanted to know why he’d acted so strangely about the box at Eben’s.

As soon as they eased away from the station, she cleared her throat. “So … what did you mean back there? About it not being enough?”

He shook his head, avoiding her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?”

“Yeah, nothing.” His words almost took a bite out of her.

“Okay.” She turned toward the window as her temper flared. “Whatever.”

He waited a minute to speak again. “What’s your problem?”

She turned toward him, hardly believing her ears. “My problem? You’re the one with the problem.”

“Well, you seem to know everything, so why don’t you enlighten me!” He was practically screaming, and Jenny swept the train car with her eyes, surprised to see one of the robed monks who had been with them on the trip into the city. He must have ditched his friend somewhere along the way.

“You’re just … just … ” she stammered. Now that she had the chance to unload on him, she found that she didn’t want to. She kept seeing the guarded look in his eyes, the set of his shoulders, like he was bracing himself against everything and everyone in the world.

“Go ahead.” He slumped down in the seat. “I give you permission to tell me what an asshole I am.”

She sighed. “I never said that.”

“Then what?” He spoke softly.

“It’s just … back there at Eben’s, you introduced me as your friend. I know it’s just something people say, but I don’t have a lot of real friends. I thought maybe you could be one, but I don’t see how we can be friends when I don’t know anything about you and you act like every detail is a national secret.”

She studied him, the long sweep of his eyelashes impossibly dark for someone with such blond hair. She could see the struggle on his face, but when he spoke, it still wasn’t to volunteer anything about himself.

“You aren’t exactly a fountain of info, you know,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head like she just didn’t get it. “You’re sitting here talking to me about being friends and telling each other stuff, but you haven’t said a single thing about yourself since we met.”

Jenny looked down at her shorts, picking at a loose thread. “It’s just not something I do, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

She laughed. “So that’s it? Conversation over?”

“Unless you want to be friends. In which case one of us will have to start talking.”

It wasn’t an ultimatum. Not exactly. They could continue being … whatever they were now. Not-quite-friends. But she wasn’t sure that was enough anymore. In the best of lights, it suddenly seemed a lot like settling. In the worst, like cowardice.

She raised her eyes to his. “What do you want to know?”

“Well … what happened to your mom?” he asked carefully. “I heard she died.”

Jenny’s dad must have told Clare during one of their laughter-filled lemonade convos.

Jenny took a deep breath. “I was six when it happened. It was kind of random. A hit-and-run. She … ” Jenny stopped, not sure how to say the rest. Not sure if she should.

“What?” Ben prodded, his voice soft.

“She used to disappear a lot,” Jenny finished. “At least that’s what Morgan said.”

He raised one blond eyebrow. “Morgan?”

“A friend of my mom’s.”

He nodded. “Why did your mom disappear?”

“I don’t know. Morgan says she doesn’t know, either, but I don’t totally believe her.”

“What about your dad? Can’t you ask him?

Jenny tried to imagine asking her dad. It’s not like he’d be mad or anything. But she just couldn’t. She didn’t want to be responsible for the loss she knew she’d see in his eyes.

“He doesn’t like to talk about my mom,” she said. “It makes him sad and then he gets all worried and weird and stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” He surprised her by taking her hand. “That really sucks.”

She tried to ignore the flush on her cheeks at the feel of her hand in Ben’s. Floundering for something to distract her, she remembered that this wasn’t supposed to be a one-way confession.

“What about you?” she asked him. “Why did you tell Eben that five thousand dollars wouldn’t be enough?”

He looked at their joined hands like they held the answer. “My dad’s in prison,” he said simply.

Jenny made an effort not to seem surprised. “Why? What did he do?”

“He beat the shit out of my mom.” His voice was steely. “And I was too much of a coward to stand up to him before she ended up in the hospital.”

Jenny felt a moment’s shock followed by something even worse: an embarrassing awareness of her naïveté. It wasn’t like she didn’t know about domestic violence. It was just that it had never happened to anyone close to her. It was something that happened to other people. Different kinds of people. Not Clare Daulton of the shiny black hair and warm laugh. Not Ben of the soft hands and musical heart.

“When was this?” she finally asked.

“A couple of years ago,” he mumbled.

She backtracked to the start of their conversation, trying to make sense of it. “But what does this have to do with the value of the music box?”

“My dad is … well, you could say he’s connected.”

“Like … Mafia?”

“Something like that. Let’s just say he’s a bad guy in with a bunch of other bad guys. And he’s getting out in September, which means we have to be long gone and really well hidden by then. That takes serious money.”

“The house,” Jenny whispered, finally understanding. “That’s why you need to sell the house.”

“Yeah.”

“But he wouldn’t come after you, would he?” she asked. “I mean, he went to prison for it last time. Why would he risk going back?”

Ben let loose a short, brittle laugh. “You don’t understand how people like him think. He doesn’t care about prison. He cares about revenge against the person who put him there, and in his eyes, that’s my mom.”

“But that’s crazy!”

“Then it all fits together, doesn’t it?” He turned his eyes on her. “Look, the bottom line is, we have to hide deep before he gets out, and we have to have enough money to last us awhile. It’s not like I can be counted on to protect my mom.”

His cheeks flared red, and she finally understood why he’d been hesitant to tell her.

“None of this is your fault, Ben. You can’t really blame yourself for what your dad did?”

“I blame myself for not putting a stop to it when I still had the chance!” He was almost shouting.

“Okay, okay. Let’s just … keep it down, alright?” Jenny turned to look at the monk.

His eyes were shut, his hands clasped in his lap. He was the picture of peaceful meditation. She shouldn’t have gotten the chills looking at him. Not as serene as he obviously was. But suddenly, the fine hairs rose on the back of her neck.

She glanced at Ben, wondering if she should mention it to him, but he was staring out the window, his body turned away from her in a way that made it clear he wanted to be left alone.

She glanced back at the monk before turning her eyes toward the front of the train.