The Master Craftsman, page 11
“Three months seems like it should be more than enough time.”
Carol shrugged. “Nick’s trips could last half a year or more.”
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive him, Mom?” Ava asked, leaning her head back against the seat and looking at her mother’s profile.
Carol drove in silence for several minutes before answering. “Honestly, honey, I think I have forgiven him. I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward him.” She paused for a moment. “I pity him, really. His travels may have been exciting, and I suppose his work was fulfilling, but he missed out on the most magical parts of his life when he left us behind.”
Ava nodded and shifted her gaze out the window as she and her mom merged onto the highway that would take them back to Lakeland. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I guess.”
They drove in silence the rest of the trip. When they pulled up in front of Sylvie’s house, Ava felt her stomach do a flip. She was finally going on the adventure she’d dreamed about since she learned what her father did for a living. She was going to live the dream.
“I wonder who’s here,” Carol said as she parked the car on the street. A black Mercedes sat in the driveway. Carol and Ava stepped out of the car and stretched for a moment.
“Let’s leave our suitcases in here for now,” Carol said. “If Sylvie has a guest, she won’t like us barging in with our bags, inviting questions from her friends.”
Ava nodded.
They walked up the front porch, and Carol knocked tentatively on the front door. Padded footsteps beat a rhythm on the other side, and a moment later the door swung open. Sylvie blinked at the two of them for a brief moment. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
“Sylvie, is everything okay?” Carol asked.
Sylvie shook her head. She opened the door farther and let them step inside.
“Nicky had a bad night,” she said, her eyes glancing at Nick’s bedroom door. “The doctor is here now with him.”
“Is he . . . okay?” Ava asked.
Sylvie turned to her with narrowed eyes. “No, Ava. He’s not okay. He’s dying.”
Ava swallowed and lowered her eyes.
Carol cleared her throat. “Sylvie, we can come back another time. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
Ava looked at her mom with eyebrows raised. She was not planning on going back to Tampa any time soon.
Sylvie sighed and shook her head. “No,” she said, frustration humming beneath her words. “He wants to see you both. He’s already asked three times this morning if you had arrived.” She tossed Carol a glare, then gestured toward the kitchen.
“Just come in and sit quietly until the doctor is finished. There’s coffee and pastries on the counter. They’re store-bought. I didn’t have time this morning to make them fresh.”
“We wouldn’t have expected that,” Carol said gently.
Ava and Carol followed Sylvie into the kitchen and settled at the counter. Neither felt hungry, but Sylvie stared at them with such stern expectation that they both grabbed a pastry and poured themselves cups of coffee, avoiding Sylvie’s gaze the whole time.
“I’ll go check on Nicky now,” she finally said.
Ava and Carol nodded as she turned and retreated silently around the corner.
Sylvie tiptoed up to the bedroom door and leaned in. She could hear the murmur of voices on the other side. She gave a soft tap.
“Come in,” Nick’s voice rasped from the room.
Sylvie pushed open the door and stepped inside, shutting it behind her. Dr. Tom James sat in the chair next to Nick’s bed, writing something on a small white pad. He glanced up at Sylvie, his eyes full of sympathy.
When Nick couldn’t stop coughing at 4:00 a.m., Tom was the first person Sylvie called, and he’d been there before the sun rose above the horizon. Now Nick sat up next to him in bed sounding better, if looking weaker than before.
“How are we doing?” Sylvie asked.
Nick offered a weak smile and gave her a thumbs-up.
“Well, I gave him a breathing treatment that’s broken up the congestion in his lungs,” Tom said, “and I’m writing a prescription for an antibiotic to help with the developing pneumonia, along with a steroid and an anti-inflammatory. This should help make him more comfortable, but . . .” He paused and looked at Nick, who was now studying his hands.
“Nick has agreed that should he have another night like last night, he’ll let you take him to the hospital.”
Sylvie raised her eyebrows and looked at Nick, who met her gaze and gave a shrug. Tom stood up and walked to Sylvie. He lowered his voice and leaned into her, so close she could smell his Hugo Boss cologne. She drew in a soft breath. She found Tom James quite handsome. Immediately, a sense of guilt washed over her as Hank’s face flooded her mind.
“Pneumonia is extremely serious with his type of cancer. Make him rest, and make sure he takes that medicine.” Tom studied her. “And call me if you need anything at all.”
“Yes, of course,” Sylvie whispered.
Tom turned and looked back at Nick. “So, we’re agreed, then? You’re going to rest, drink a lot of liquids, stay on the meds, and head straight to the hospital if you get worse?”
“Agreed,” Nick croaked. His face was drawn, fatigue and pain having aged him even more overnight.
Sylvie turned and followed Tom to the door. “I’ll be right back,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at her brother.
“Hey, sis?” he said, holding up his hand. Sylvie stopped and turned to him. “I want to see them.”
Sylvie sighed and nodded her head. “I know.”
Tom and Sylvie stepped into the hallway, Sylvie pulling the door closed behind her.
“What was that all about?” Tom asked.
Sylvie waved her hand. “It’s nothing,” she said. Anger simmered inside her as she considered her brother’s foolhardy plan. “Let me show you to the door.”
Tom followed her. Sylvie could feel him watching her as she stepped to the front door and pulled it open.
“Thank you for coming so early,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Sylvie,” Tom said. “Nick is . . .”
“He’s dying,” she said, her voice flat. “And did he tell you he wants to reconcile with his daughter by masterminding one last trip? He needs to rest, not be up in the middle of the night surfing the internet and making Excel spreadsheets of some cockamamie artifact he wants them to find.”
Tom gave her a small smile. “As your friend, I want you to know I understand how straining this must be.”
Sylvie nodded. “And as Nick’s doctor?”
Tom shrugged. “I don’t have a problem with it. As long as he’s resting and taking his meds, it may actually be good for him. With his mind active and his spirits up, he’ll have the energy to fight this off a little longer.”
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything else.”
Sylvie blushed and reached over to pull open the front door. She watched as he walked down the stairs and headed toward his car. With a sigh, she closed the door behind his retreating figure and drew in a long, deep breath. She turned and walked to the kitchen.
“Alright,” she said to Carol and Ava. “Nicky is chomping at the bit to see you both. Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, the three women entered the room where Nick sat up against the pillows, his laptop on his legs, and a pencil between his teeth. A notebook full of scribbled instructions lay by his side. He looked up as they walked in, and a wide smile split his fatigued face.
“Hi, ladies,” he rasped.
Carol and Ava stared warily back at him as Sylvie clasped her hands together in frustration.
“I’ll leave you guys alone,” Sylvie said.
“Hey, sis?” Nick replied, holding up his hand. “Would you stay? I think it would be good for you to know the plans, just in case anything . . .”
Sylvie sighed, her shoulders slumping forward. She shuffled to a large recliner chair in the corner of the room and lowered herself into it, folding her hands in her lap. Nick smiled at her, then shifted his gaze to Ava.
“I’ve got the plans all set,” he said. “We just need to buy the plane tickets.”
“Plane tickets to where?” Ava asked.
“You’ll start in St. Petersburg, Russia. You’re going to retrace Alma Pihl’s final steps.”
Ava tried to keep her expression neutral as she nodded. “I found us a tech guy. He’s my neighbor Zak. He’s a total computer wiz, and a little bit of a weirdo, which should keep things interesting.”
Nick cracked a smile. “Every team needs a weirdo,” he said. “I spoke with Xander last night and he’s all in. I’ve already got his ticket purchased. He’ll land in St. Petersburg next Monday.”
“So how do we retrace Alma Pihl’s last steps if we don’t really know what they were?” Ava asked.
“We start with what we do know, and we keep going from there,” Nick said.
Ava raised her eyebrows. She glanced at her mom, who looked equally intrigued.
“And what do we know?” Carol asked.
“We know that Alma Pihl had an egg in her possession that the history books have never before recorded.”
“How do we know that, though?” Ava asked.
“Because I have a poem written by Alma Pihl that I believe speaks of the egg,” Nick replied with a coy smile.
“You . . . you have a poem written by Alma?” Ava asked. She sank down in the chair next to Nick’s bed. “How did you get that? How long have you had it? Why didn’t you say so right off the bat?” Her eyes narrowed in a demanding glare.
“This is all part of the training, young Padawan,” he said with a wan smile. “I found it last year when I went on a familial quest to Finland. I started this search for the missing egg a while back. But cancer is . . .”
Ava swallowed. “Okay. But where did you find it?”
“Well . . .” He glanced over at Sylvie, then drew in a slow breath and let it out. “I went to the home where my grandmother grew up and did a little poking around.”
“You went to Grandma Lida’s house?” Sylvie asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought we sold that years ago.”
Nick stared at his hands for a long moment before looking up and meeting her gaze, his expression sheepish. “I held on to it.”
“What does your grandmother have to do with Alma Pihl?” Ava said impatiently. “Agh! I feel like I’m talking to Yoda right now! Stop speaking in riddles!”
“Excuse me,” Sylvie said from the corner of the room, “but can someone please tell me who Alma Pihl is? And how exactly our family is connected to her? And why you never sold that house when you told me that you did?” She shot her brother a withering stare.
Nick sighed. “If you all would quit interrupting me, I promise I will get there.” He looked from Sylvie to Ava, both of whom stared back with pursed lips.
“Okay,” he continued. “Alma Pihl was one of Fabergé’s master craftsmen. Sylvie, I believe she had in her possession one of Fabergé’s eggs, a design that was never shown to anyone, and I believe it’s an egg that holds both financial and historical value.” He gazed at her for a brief moment before continuing. “Our grandmother knew Alma in Finland. She was Alma Klee then, married to Nicholas Klee. Grandma Lida’s older sister was one of Alma’s best friends.”
“So, how did you find this poem?” Ava asked again.
“While I was in Finland, I met some of the family. One woman in particular was extremely helpful—she was the daughter of Lida’s cousin, Veera. She told me all the stories she could remember about our grandmother, who was apparently adventurous in her own right. She said Lida and her sister liked to pretend they were treasure hunters, and that even when they were adults, they would lead the children on grand treasure hunts through the fields and trees near their home. And then she mentioned a little cabin on the property where she said the girls would escape to often. She said there was still a metal box hidden in that cabin with their things in it.”
“Seriously? Why would they leave it there and not go through it?” Ava asked.
“It’s their way of honoring the sisters. They feel it’s a tomb of sorts that’s not to be disturbed,” Nick said.
“So, you went through it?” Sylvie asked. “Really, Nicky. That’s terribly tacky.”
Nick smiled sheepishly. “I’m not always proud of this job.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Yes, I went through it. But the only thing I took was this single piece of paper, and I didn’t even really know what I had at the time. I just knew it had Russian writing on it. It was my launching point—the hunch I was telling you about.” He glanced at Ava. “I left all the other items there in the metal box.”
“What else was in there?” Carol asked.
“Mostly little knickknacks and toys, a few more letters and drawings. Nothing terribly interesting other than the poem.”
“So, let me make sure I understand what’s happening here now,” Sylvie said. “You two are going off on some wild search of this mysterious egg that may or may not exist and may or may not hold some kind of value?” She looked from Ava to Carol.
“Yes,” Carol answered quietly, a hesitation in her voice.
“And you’re dictating this entire trip from your deathbed?” Sylvie asked Nick.
“Yep,” he replied.
Sylvie shook her head and leaned back. “I’m in a room full of crazy people,” she murmured. An awkward pause filled the room for a brief moment before she continued. “You might as well give me a job in all this. No way you’re leaving me out of it.”
Nick grinned. “Atta girl, sis. I was hoping you’d be my wingman here stateside so if things get dicey, these guys won’t be left out to dry.”
It was quiet for a moment as they all pondered the true meaning behind his words.
“So, basically she’d be the Chewy to your Han Solo?” Ava quipped.
Nick snorted. “Yeah,” he said, giving her a nod of approval. “That’s exactly it. And I like the idea of being Han Solo better than Yoda.” He winked at her.
“I’m Chewbacca?” Sylvie asked.
Nick grinned at her as Carol groaned. “You people are going to make me watch Star Wars, aren’t you?”
“Nah,” Nick said. “It’s not a prerequisite for the job.”
Ava smiled at Nick, and he caught her eye, smiling in return. He swung his computer around to show them the spreadsheet he’d been working on through the night.
“So, here’s what we’ve got so far,” he said.
For two hours, the three went over the plans for how they would retrace Alma Pihl’s steps, beginning in Russia.
“I still don’t really understand why we even need to go to Russia, though,” Carol said as they all sat back. “If we know that Alma ended up in Finland, and we know that she had the egg in her possession, then why would we waste our time in St. Petersburg?”
“Well”—Nick turned to face Carol—“we only know that she left Russia for Finland in 1921. We don’t know for sure that she had the egg in her possession when she left. This is what you need to find out.”
“Are you absolutely positive that she ever had an egg in her possession?” Sylvie asked.
Despite her insistence that their mission was a foolish one, she had asked a lot of poignant and guided questions throughout the conversation. Ava had the distinct impression Sylvie was more intrigued than she was willing to let on.
“Actually,” Sylvie said, cocking her head to the side. “Are you even sure that there was an egg at all?”
“I’m never positive about anything, sis.” Nick crossed his arms over his bony chest and leaned back, drawing in a slow, careful breath. His skin was pasty, like the color of a hazy sky right before it rains. “But I’ve got a hunch, and in my experience, chasing the hunch has usually worked out.”
“Usually, but not always, am I correct?” Sylvie raised one eyebrow. Her eyes flicked over to Carol, then back to Nick so quickly that Ava wondered if she’d imagined it.
An awkward silence hung in the air for one long minute.
Ava let out a small, frustrated sigh. “You have the poem written by Alma, right? Is it here? Can I see it?” she said, cutting through the silence.
“I do.” Nick leaned over and pulled open the drawer of his nightstand. Reaching gingerly inside, he grabbed a plastic bag with a single, yellowed piece of paper inside. He held it out to Ava.
Ava took the bag and opened it gently, easing the letter out. The paper felt thin and soft, almost as though it would easily and readily disintegrate between her fingers if she rubbed it hard enough. Carefully, she unfolded it. On the back was a drawing. It had clearly faded and smudged with time, but the detail was still evident. It was an egg, drawn by a master hand, minor strokes of color weaving in and out.
“Do you think this is the egg?” Ava asked.
Nick nodded. “I’ve done extensive research on Fabergé and his creations, particularly his Easter eggs. There is no record of an egg that looks like that.”
“But it looks so ordinary,” Ava said, squinting her eyes at the drawing to try and make out more of the detail. “It doesn’t look elaborate at all. How do you know this wasn’t an egg he made for some wealthy merchant that came passing through? What if it wasn’t intended for the Imperial family?”
“Oh, this mystery egg was never intended for the Imperial family,” Nick said. “And it wasn’t given to a wealthy merchant.”
“But how do you know?” Ava asked again.
“Because . . . I just know.”
Ava turned the paper over and looked at the writing on the front, scrawling and faded. “What does it say?”
“I’ve already translated it.” He reached into the nightstand and pulled out a small leather-bound book, which he laid in his lap, his wrinkled fingers stroking the cover lightly.
“What’s written at the top of the page here?” Ava squinted at the top of the paper in her hands. It looked as though water had splashed on the letter at some pointed, faded ink blotches extending out in sunburst designs, obscuring some of the writing.
