“I found somethingmysteriousthat might be valuable.”
“Hmm?” The movement of the rolling pin ceased and her mom regarded her quizzically. Maddie displayed the brooch, cushioned on top of the bag it had come in.
Her mom’s features slackened with surprise. “Oh my goodness.” She extended a hand. “I’d forgotten all about that.”
Maddie passed over the brooch and took a seat on one of the island’s barstools. Mom smiled at the piece of jewelry with nostalgic affection.
Her mom’s face was as familiar to Maddie as her own, and still, Laura Winslow’s prettiness always seemed fresh. Her mom’s thick, white-gray hair ended in a crisp line near the base of her throat. Her strawberries-and-cream complexion shone with health. And her blue eyes were surrounded by wrinkles that looked wise and beautiful rather than haggard. She wore an apron that saidKiss the Cookover her jeans and cotton top.
“Where did the brooch come from?” Maddie asked.
“Grandma gave it to me when I graduated from high school.”
They called Maddie’s paternal grandmotherNonni. They called Fleeta Chapin, Maddie’s maternal grandmother,Grandma. “Is the stone real?”
“Yes. It’s an amethyst.”
“Then it must be worth a considerable amount of money, right?”
“Possibly. Since I never planned to sell it, I never had it appraised. It’s a family heirloom.”
“It is?”
“Oh, yes. It’s been passed down by the women in our family for generations.”
Maddie raised her eyebrows.
“The women are all noted on the bag, if I remember correctly.” Mom donned her reading glasses, which had been lying next to the cherry pie recipe. “Yes. See here? Each womanin our family who’s owned the brooch has been added to this list.”
“Those are their initials, I’m guessing. And what, their birth dates?”
“Those are theirmarriedinitials, I think. And their wedding dates.”
“Wow.” It appeared that the same woman had stitched the first several lines because they were all in the same color and style. “Why does the fourth lady have four initials and two dates?” Maddie asked. “Was she married twice?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said.
The other lines had been sewn with different colors of thread in varying styles. The last inscription,FBC 1959, was overlarge and lopsided. “Wait a second. Is FBC Grandma?”
“It must be. Her married name is Fleeta Brady Chapin, and she married Dad in 1959.”
“Grandma isn’t the neatest seamstress.”
“She’s always been better at shooting than sewing.”
“Why aren’t your initials on here?”
“I meant to sew them on.” She gave an airy shrug. “I just never got around to it.”
Maddie positioned the brooch next to the bag on the island. “Why was this brooch in a box in the attic markedSave for Maddie?”
“Well.” Mom resumed rolling out the circle of piecrust. “I packed it away in that box to save it until the time came to give it to you. For your high school graduation or college graduation or on some other special occasion. But, goodness, I must’ve packed that box back when you were ten. The brooch never crossed my mind when you graduated high school and college. I haven’t thought about it in ages.”
Mom was loving and social and cheerful but not necessarily the most detail-oriented of women. Her relaxed approach to lifeled to a high degree of contentment and a high number of things that fell through the cracks. Leaving a valuable piece of jewelry in the attic for years—typical.
“Sorry I forgot, honey,” she continued. “This isn’t as sentimental a moment as I might have hoped, but here you are.” Her eyes glittered with humor as she brandished a flour-dusted hand toward the brooch. “From me to you! Mother to daughter. Enjoy!”
“Thanks, Mom,” Maddie said dryly.
