A Pearl Among Princes (19 page)

He looks at Nuff and the smile they share says it all.

I hug Nuff and whisper, “I'm so happy for you, friend.

“Lu, what of you,” I say. “Do you want to come with us?”

“I may soon be off to Ashland for a visit,” she whispers. “Richard wants to show me all the fine restaurants and sweetshops.”

“Oh, really, Lu?” I hug her. “How wonderful!”

I have never seen my friend look so happy.

“But listen,” I say. “Promise me something. Keep your sea taffy recipe to yourself!”

Lu laughs. “I promise.”

Mackree lifts the purple trunk onto the boat. In it are some treasures—all the birthday gifts from Mother, a few wind chimes and sea-signs and the frayed old volume of rhymes, the history book, the satchel of papers, a purple box with a crown inside.

Tattlebug hovers in a corner.

“Good, Nell, come,” I say. “I have a gift for you.”

She takes it from my hands. “Your spyglass,” she says, her eyes widening. “But . . .”

“I figured you might enjoy it, knowing how you like to keep an eye on things.”

She laughs and hugs me. “Oh, yes, Gracepearl, thank you.” She puts the spyglass to her eye and seeks out Sir Humpty in the crowd.

“Here,” Nora Baker says to me. She hands me a basket filled with food for our trip and a sticky stack of papers with a slip of kitchen twine tied round.

Recipes, full of misspelled words, and full of love too.

“Someday you might wanna learn to cook,” she says.

Nora looks at Captain Jessie and smiles. He hugs her awkwardly. “You're a good woman, Nora,” he says.

“Get on there,” she says, shooing him off. There are tears in her eyes.

I remember the night of the Welcome Banquet when I told her a mysterious thirteenth ship had arrived.

“You knew, Nora. Didn't you? All along.”

“Yes.” She nods.

“Why did you never say anything?”

“'Twasn't my place,” she says. “I always knew my place. I served your mother and father.”

“Yes you did, Nora. So very well. And you taught me much indeed. Thank you,” I say, hugging her. “I will miss you.”

She pulls back. “Take good care of her, ya hear me,” she says to Mackree, her chin thrust up to emphasize her words and to also keep the tears from slipping out.

Oh, Mother,
I call out silently.
I don't know if I can . . .

Yes you can, Gracepearl, my girl.
Mother's voice is rock solid.
The world is your oyster. You're a pearl full of grace. You have everything you need.

“No good-byes,” Father says.

“I love you,” I say, trying to be brave. What if his heart takes him from me before I can return?

“Send word when you are settled,” Father says.

We hug for what seems like forever, until I feel Mackree's hand touch mine.

“Ready, Pearl?” Mackree says.

I find harbor in his eyes, those deep violet pools, and I know that indeed I am.

Captain Jessie pulls up anchor. My eyes sweep every face, the flowers, the trees, the gull in the tower, every inch of Miramore. I lock them safe in the trunk of my memory.

Waves of sadness crash against waves of joy, waves of excitement topple waves of fear.

“Pearl,” Mackree says.

“My heart,” I say.

He hugs me, I kiss him, and the ship sets sail as our friends cast good luck flowers, whistles, and cheers from the shore. Little Leem and Brine skip stones our way, one so far it hits the hull. I raise my fist to congratulate them.

Some who play at the forest dances have brought their fiddles for the occasion.

“Let's dance,” I say, and Mackree laughs.

He twirls me around and then I twirl him. We dance and dance and dance through the mist, till I can no longer see Miramore.

I close my eyes. I see the faces.
I am coming,
I say.

I know not what the future holds.

The House of Pine, a throne or not, much is still fog before me.

One thing for certain I know right now.

I am happy.

Happily happy.

Ever after?

We shall see.

Acknowledgments

With sincerest gratitude to:

My amazing editor, Alisha Niehaus, a particularly fine gardener, for planting the perfect seed of an idea and then giving it time to grow; my publisher, Lauri Hornik; Regina Castillo, Nancy Leo-Kelly, Lily Malcom, and all of the talented people at Dial.

My wonderful agents, Tracey and Josh Adams, for their wisdom and encouragement.

My brother Jerry for rock solid love.

My friends Pauline Kamen Miller, Kathy Johnson, Maureen Goldman, Kathi Shamlian, Ellen Donovan, Corey Jamison, Ellen Laird, Chloe Carlson, Eric Luper, Robyn Ryan, Rose Kent, Frank Doberman, Nancy Davison, Judy Calogero, Kyra Teis, Karen Beil, Mary Grace Tompkins, Ellen Snyder, Kate Sorrentino, Colleen McNulty Murtagh, Marion Hannan, and Jane Spain Ducatt for staunch support through a difficult voyage.

My son Dylan, for helping me discover
“mo chroi,”
pronounced “muh-
kree,
” means
“my heart
.”

My son Chris, for patiently teaching me how to use the sunny yellow laptop that had been gathering dust in a box.

My son Connor, for asking me daily how the writing was going and for listening with interest to my answers.

My mother, Peg Spain Murtagh, for her unwavering belief in me and for a particularly heart-expanding conversation on a winter's ride back home from Old Forge, New York, where I had spoken at the Town of Webb Schools and the Old Forge Library and where my mother and I had lunch at the Van Auken Inn, where she told me my great-grandmother Grace Pearl Cole had once worked in the kitchen. At that moment a firefly sparked inside. I now had my protagonist's name.

My “peace of the planet,” Cape Cod, where I wrote the first draft of this novel in the solitude of eight perfect February days. Each morning as I walked the beach, small treasures—an oyster shell, a purple ribbon, a pinecone, a whale-shaped rock—three or four things would call out to me and I would pocket them. Back at the cottage, I would set these “sea-signs” on the table, make a cup of tea, light a candle, and begin to type, fingers flashing furiously across the keyboard as my morning treasures blossomed into scenes, sometimes whole chapters, in Gracepearl's story.

My teachers at the College of Saint Rose, Albany, New York, where I earned my bachelor of arts degree in English, particularly Sister Elizabeth Varley, Dr. Stephen Hirsch, Sister Kitty Hanley, Dr. S. R. Swaminathan, Sr. Patricia Kane, Sr. Rose Bernard, Sr. Joan Lescinski and Sr. Catherine Cavanaugh. Thanks, also, to Dr. Lynn Levo and Dr. Patricia Hayes and to Sister Nancy Burkhardt, Catholic Central High School, Troy, New York, who stared me hard in the eyes one day after our AP English class and at a difficult time when I sorely needed it, told me I was “a writer” and encouraged me to enter a national writing competition in which I later won first prize in the playwriting category. Thanks also to my fine teachers in the graduate English program at Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut, whose names have escaped me, but not the memory of their love of literature. There is no profession nobler than that of a teacher. The seeds you plant are perennial.

Posthumously to my great-grandmother Grace Pearl Cole, whom I never met, but who through the extensive genealogical research of my aunt Virginia Spain Meyers, we have discovered was a descendant of the Mayflower Coles who trace back to the Old King Cole of nursery lore. Well, who knew?! (As my son Connor always says ☺)

Finally, thanks to my readers. I am humbled by your faith in me and grateful for your loyalty. If you enjoyed this book, please pass it along to a friend with the request that she or he repeat the favor. No book is happy collecting dust on a shelf. Books are meant to be open and read, each new reader bringing his or her unique story to the reading of it, and in this way, no book is ever read the same way twice. I find that notion so exciting.

May you find another book to catch your fancy tomorrow and make time for a walk—somewhere that speaks to you, delights you, and nurtures your beautiful soul, always keeping your heart open for signs. They are all around us.

May peace and joy be yours.

Till soon,

☺
Coleen