Mix-up in Miniature (2 page)

I was so
giddy on the drive to the Rockwell Estate, I needed to share my delight. I called Henry.

“I’m on my way to see Alexandra Rockwell,” I said through the Bluetooth device clipped to my car’s sun visor. “I told you about the novelist Varena Young, who’s also a miniaturist. I’m passing right by your street.”

“Why would you do that?” he asked.

“Remember I mentioned we want her to donate a dollhouse to the bookmobile auction?”

“I meant, why would you
pass by
my street?”

“I can stop on the way back.”

For some reason I felt a blush coming on.

—

I’d
taken the route through town, with streets at sea level at first, then, heading upward abruptly soon after I passed Henry’s neighborhood. The first sign that I was leaving the part of town inhabited by ordinary folk was the immaculate, sprawling Lincoln Valley Country Club and Golf Course. Its vast, high-maintenance lawns were surrounded by trees, a few of which had turned a golden yellow and remained so even this late in the year.

A poor excuse for fall, my late husband, Ken, would have said.

With only two weeks till Thanksgiving, it was well past the height of the foliage season that Ken and I had enjoyed every year when we lived in New York. Each October, we took a foliage-and-picnic cruise to Bear Mountain, fifty miles north of our Bronx apartment. I missed the breathtaking vistas along the Hudson, the glorious red maples, the orange ash, the yellow poplars.

On this otherwise perfect, crisp fall day in California, I decided it was time to plan a picnic somewhere nearby, even if we couldn’t reproduce the Adirondacks. I was sure I could talk a few relatives and friends into it.

I started the mental organization of the event as I drove. The weekend after the holiday should work, before the Christmas rush took over completely. I ran through the guest list as I drove past the fairways. My granddaughter, Maddie, of course—she who would miss nothing. Her best local friend, Taylor, who was Henry’s granddaughter and Maddie’s peer in the pre-teen set. My dear sister-in-law, Beverly, who was Skip’s mother. Beverly’s friend (as Henry was mine), Nick. Maybe Skip himself and his girlfriend, June, whom I’d ask to make her special potato salad.

Too many details to handle without paper and pen. And not enough seat belts—my little blue Saturn was filling up fast with my projected picnickers. We’d have to take Henry’s van. Or charter a bus.

The road became dangerously curvy after the country club so I left my virtual party planning and focused on the sharp switchbacks. I wound my way up into the hills north of town, and reached a cul-de-sac with an imposing black wrought-iron fence at the end. The tips of the fence posts were sculpted into unattractive mythical creatures I didn’t recognize. I thought normal birds or flowers would have been more welcoming, but then that wasn’t the primary purpose of the fence.

A fancy check-in booth with a tiled roof stood to the left of the gate. I lowered my window and gave a uniformed middle-aged man my name.

“I’m here to visit the Rockwell residence,” I announced. It sounded even better to me than the vainglorious “I’m with the band.”

With no acknowledgment from the portly sentinel, the gates swung open and I drove through. More hills and more winding turns. I was at the edge of a nearly five-thousand-acre country club community, one of four such groupings in the upper regions of Lincoln Point.

The Rockwell residence was in Robert Todd Heights, site of the largest homes of the four neighborhoods. The other compounds were, in descending order of price tag, Edward Baker Heights, William Wallace Heights, and Thomas Heights. All named after Abraham Lincoln and Mary Todd’s sons, in accordance with an unwritten town rule that, whenever feasible, we’d name buildings and properties after people and events in Lincoln’s life.

I was now less than seven miles from my home, but light years away in terms of socio-economics. I’d tutored the son of one of my former Abraham Lincoln High students at their home in Thomas Heights, so I had some idea what was behind the ornate doors I was passing. Some were fronted by stained glass worthy of a church in Venice and fountains reminiscent of the plazas on the postcards of European vacationers.

Skip had said it more exactly when I told him where Ms. Rockwell lived. “From here to there, it works out to about a half million dollars a mile,” he’d said. “And that’s for the smaller homes. Figure twice that for Robert Todd Heights, where you’re talking twelve, fourteen thousand square feet of living space.”

The data were enough to intimidate me as I pulled into a circular drive in front of an enormous mansion in light stucco. The Rockwell Estate.

Before I got out of my car, I checked my hair in the visor mirror. Too late now for a salon poof-up procedure. The famed novelist would see my ’do at its limp best. In my good slacks and a relatively new sweater set, all in shades of brown and beige, I matched the stucco exterior of the house. And the dead leaves on the path.

I was a bit disappointed that I had to park my own car and open its door myself. I pictured a valet looking out a window at my Saturn and deciding it wasn’t worth special handling.

On the way to the front door, I was newly overwhelmed by the size of Ms. Rockwell’s home. My own residence, yard and all, would fit into one wing, like a dollhouse. At times like this I missed being able to hear the inevitable lecture from Ken, who was a respected architect. He would have pointed out the wise choices of curves on one element of the structure or the poor slant of roof on another. Sometimes his critique enhanced my enjoyment of a building; other times I wished he’d simply let me enjoy it in my own way, even if I liked something that was wrong about it.

The only feature of the Rockwell home that I recognized was the grand double set of curving steps that led to the front door, a conceit commonly seen in the Regency period.

I wondered if there was a protocol for climbing the left or the right steps to the front door. Was someone watching and judging? Deciding whether I was left- or right-leaning? Left- or right-brained? I took the steps on the right since they were closer to where I’d parked my low-end car. So much for heavy-duty analysis.

I used the high brass knocker, a lion’s head, making my presence known. Descriptive passages from the latest romance novel by Varena Young,
The Rake in the Garden
, flitted through my mind. I imagined I’d soon be led through rooms filled with detailed marquetry on walls, end tables, and curio cabinets. Perhaps a snuff box here or there. Certainly a dark-paneled library with matching leather-bound classics.

As I recalled the adventures of Felicity, the heroine who fell in love with the Rake, the door opened. A tall, thin woman in casual business attire that included a sweater set much like mine except in shades of blue, stood there, smiling slightly. So far, so good. My clothes weren’t out of line. Or did this mean I looked like a servant?

She held out her hand and gave me a practiced, controlled smile. “Laura Overbee, Ms. Young’s personal assistant.”

Not a servant. Overbee was a great moniker for a romance heroine, I thought. Maybe Ms. Young changed her staff’s names to fit her world.

I shook Ms. Overbee’s hand. “Geraldine Porter, from the library committee. Ms. Young is expecting me.” I was surprised how easy it was for me to switch back and forth between the great lady’s names, following the lead of her staff.

I knew I sounded too formal, but the bright, two-level entrance hall in front of me nearly took my breath away. A double set of curved marble treads and risers grew seamlessly from the marble floor and then met at the same point on the upper level. I stared at the white filigree newels and banisters on both sides of the stairs. A repeat of the pattern of the exterior steps.

Ken would have been impressed, especially at the openness of the hallway and the airy, modern look. Not at all what I had expected. No dark corners for trysts or nefarious deeds, just endless air and sunlight.

Ms. Overbee looked to be mid-thirties, the same age range as my only child, Richard, Maddie’s father. She had a much stiffer, nervous air about her, however. She kept perfect posture while looking over her shoulder a couple of times during our brief introduction, as if I’d walked in on her attempt to steal tiny diamonds from the legendary dollhouse, wherever it was in this enormous modern palace.

Or, perhaps the important job of personal assistant to a famous writer was more stressful than that of an orthopedic surgeon at the Stanford Medical Center. (I’d trained myself to rattle off the details of my son’s profession as if they were one word. Not that I was overly proud of him.)

“The household staff seems to be occupied at the moment,” Ms. Overbee said, guiding me through one of three high, curved doorways to a beautifully appointed room on the left. The music room, I supposed, unless there was more than one highly polished grand piano in the house. “If you’ll take a seat, someone will find Ms. Young for you.”

I smiled and thanked her. I wanted to assure her I got her message:
Don’t think I’m always relegated to lowly tasks like answering a knock on the door. A real servant will be attending to your needs.
I sat up straight and tried not to act as if this were the first magnificent home I’d ever visited.

A faint scent of rosewater filled the space, either from Ms. Overbee’s toilette or from the many vases of fresh flowers that surrounded me.

Ms. Overbee walked away, her hands folded in front of her, in the manner of Mrs. Winfred Steeples, the dowager in Varena Young’s novel,
The Last of the Steeples
. My, I’d absorbed more of this new-to-me genre than I thought. How would I explain this to my book club friends, who shunned genre fiction and read little other than the classics and winners of the National Book Award?

In front of me, on a large, pale floral carpet, was one of several low tables in the room. I wouldn’t have described it as a coffee table, lest someone be led to compare this fine piece of furniture to the simple straight-legged version that sat in my own living room.

I thought how my dear Henry, who’d retired after a long tenure teaching shop at ALHS, and was an expert woodworker, would love to see this furniture and the light wood floors. I knew if I asked, he’d gladly make me a miniature replica of the lavish fireplace mantel that took up most of the far wall. Funny how the men in my life had the combined knowledge to build the dollhouses of my dreams—my late husband an expert on exteriors, and my new friend a master at interiors.

I might have gone on thinking about the virtues of Henry Baker, who’d gently broken through my firm belief that I’d never meet a man as wonderful as Ken Porter, but a swooshing noise interrupted.

Alexandra Rockwell, aka Varena Young, had entered the room. The faint rosewater air was replaced by a bold scent I couldn’t place at first. An invigorating, spicy aroma with a touch of lemon.

Ms. Young wore a long, flowing, soft red dress. She might have been entering the stage of a great theater. Her neck, with its telltale rings of age, supported too many jeweled chains and pendants for me to count without staring. The same for the bracelets on her arms. Her brown hair was pulled back into a chignon.

Even in the middle of the afternoon, in her own home, meeting a plebian from downtown, Ms. Young was dressed like the women on the covers of her novels. I’d had a look at her author photographs, however, and guessed it had been many years since her last photo shoot.

I stood as she arrived at the sofa, her arms outstretched, offering both her hands. As tall as I was, she had a couple of inches on me. Ms. Young was definitely more relaxed and confident than her personal assistant, Laura Overbee. There was a certain security that came with wealth and fame, I assumed, and this lady exuded both.

“I’m Varena,” she said, in a full, throaty voice that seemed to provide at least four-part harmony. “May I call you Geraldine?”

“Of course,” I stammered.

“Would you like to see Lord and Lady Morley’s home?”

Does a glue gun get hot?
I wanted to answer.

“I’d love to,” I said, not mentioning that I’d kept yellowing copies of every magazine spread and newspaper article written about Lord and Lady Morley’s home, and that seeing it in person had been in my dreams for decades.

“Let’s go back then, shall we?”

My friend Varena, as I now thought of her, ushered me out of the music room, across the entryway, where I stole a glance up at the sparkling crystal chandelier. This time I looked between the two sets of marble stairs, to a pair of curved arches and ultimately to immense glass doors that led outside. In spite of the brightness of the day, all the ceiling lights were lit, their circular reflections everywhere on the marble floor. The Green movement had not yet reached the lavish homes in Robert Todd Heights, but for the moment I forgave them their lack of environmental awareness.

Varena led me farther into the house toward a room at the end of a long corridor. On the way we passed more vases of flowers, set into alcoves, and more rooms with no doors, but simple, white arched openings. How many sitting rooms did one family need? I pictured myself turning them all into crafts areas. One room for shadow boxes. One for my miniature shops. One for construction work. One for display. I took a breath.

“What a beautiful home you have,” I said, immediately regretting the clichéd remark. I squeezed my lips together to prevent further comments, but Varena’s thank-you smile was as gracious as if I’d been the first to notice.

I wondered at the age of the house. Ken would have been able to tell me whether this was a redone old mansion or a relatively new construction. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask. Neither would I give in to my curiosity about whether Varena was from old money or if she’d benefitted from characters like Felicity and the Rake to support this lifestyle.

Without further comment, Varena paused at the only solid interior door I’d seen. “Here we are. The Morleys have their own room,” she said.