Chapter One - Felicity Stockwell's birthday morning
Felicity looked out the window at the steeple of the First Congregational Church across the street from her house. It was early June, and, as is the case in Rhode Island this time of year, fog had crept in from the bay and now lay like a thick woolly blanket over the roofs of Providence. The steeple of the old church disappeared into fog.
"Great," thought Felicity, "the first day of summer vacation and my thirteenth birthday and it's wet and foggy."
Felicity had been in a somewhat sour mood anyway upon learning that her mother and father had planned to leave for Cape Cod on Saturday. She would have to celebrate her birthday at her grandparents' "cottage" on the Cape, away from her friends. To make matters worse, there was nothing to do there.
Felicity pulled on her clothes, in the process disturbing the slumber of her cat, Marx, who was making himself quite comfortable on her jeans, which had been dumped on the floor last night.
Marx looked up at her and blinked his eyes before walking from the room.
Felicity took one more look out the window as she brushed her hair. "Well, at least the fog is lifting; perhaps it won't be such a bad day after all," she thought.
Felicity put down the brush and took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She was a slight girl, with dark red hair that fell to her shoulders. In her school's uniform she showed the beginnings of a figure, but dressed as she was today, in jeans and a University of Rhode Island sweatshirt, no one could see that. Satisfied with her appearance, she went down the stairs to breakfast.
"Good morning," her mother's voice greeted her as she came into the kitchen. The Stockwell home was an old brownstone in the center of the city.
The kitchen was small, with a table at one end looking out onto the equally small backyard. Felicity remembered that, as a small girl, she longed for a home outside the city with a big lawn. But this house was close to her father's work and there was a park nearby. As Felicity had grown older, she had come to appreciate living in the city.
"There are some waffles for you on the table," her mother said, without turning from the aging waffle iron that always burned the first two you attempted to make in it. "And I set out the real maple syrup because it is your birthday. There are some cards on the table for you, too."
Her mother turned from the waffle iron. Anne Stockwell was a handsome woman of 40 with dark red hair the same color as her daughter's. She was the music teacher at Felicity's school, St. Andrew's.
"'Oh, and Roger Williams came by this morning and brought you this," she said, handing Felicity a small box and a card in a light-blue envelope.
"What?" thought Felicity, ÔÔWhy in the world would Roger Williams be giving me a gift?"
Her mother saw the puzzlement in her daughter's eyes. Smiling, and with a slight teasing in her voice, she replied, ÔÔYou know, he has always had a crush on you."
Felicity felt her face get warm, and, being faired-skinned like her mother, she blushed easily.
Felicity had known Roger for what seemed like forever. Roger was one year older than Felicity and had attended St. Andrew's with her until last year, when he had gone to Salem Academy in the mountains of Maine. Salem Academy was her father's old boarding school, and, since Felicity was an only child, it was expected that she would be attending there, as well, in the fall.
She looked down at the box and the envelope with Roger's precise handwriting on it. The kids at school would sometimes tease Felicity about Roger, but, if the truth be told, she really didn't mind. Roger had been a good friend to her for as long as she could remember and having him at Salem comforted her about going to a strange school so far from home.
Roger was sometimes strange himself. He had a talent for being able to disappear, seemingly at will. One minute he would be with you and the next he was nowhere to be seen. And there was that time in the fifth grade when Mary and Alison were teasing Felicity, bringing her almost to tears. Roger had told her to pay no attention to those ÔÔmuggles." He said it as if she should have known what he meant, which she didn't.
She turned the card over and opened it. Inside was a card with a cat, Felicity's favorite animal, "purring" a birthday greeting. Beneath this were the words: "Happy Birthday, Felicity, I'll see you at school this fall. Roger."
"What's in the box?" her mother asked.
"Oh, the box," said Felicity, startled a bit.
She opened the box from Roger. Inside, wrapped in paper, was a ball, about the size of a baseball but harder. In the same clear handwriting Roger had printed: "To Felicity, you will understand what this is later."
"What a curious gift," thought Felicity to herself. "Roger is certainly living up to his odd reputation."
Felicity turned the ball over in her hands. It had clearly been used quite a bit. Two rather noticeable holes were in either side.
"It must be something from his school," said her mother, who had come over next to her and was examining the ball. "His mother said that he is on a team at school, you know."
"Yes, that must be it," said Felicity, still studying the ball in her hands.
"Well, you had better eat your breakfast. I have an errand for you to do this morning and there are some other cards on the table."
Felicity sat down at the table and looked over the handful of cards that were before her. One from her school principal, which she, and every other student at St. Andrew's, received, without fail, every year on their birthdays. One from her Sunday school teacher at the church across the street. And one from Aunt Joan.
Aunt Joan was her father's sister who had never married and lived in the old family home outside of Amherst. The place was a crazy collection of antiques and family mementoes dating back to before the Stockwell family came to America in the 1600s, at least that what Aunt Joan always told her. In addition to the endless collection of bric-a-brac that she kept, Aunt Joan also kept an owl as a pet.
The small bird would sit in its cage, eyes closed, looking for all the world as if it were stuffed. Once, when Felicity had been visiting, she had poked at it with a short stick she had found among her aunt's belongings. The owl had only opened its eyes for a moment before returning to its customary state.
If anything, Aunt Joan was even stranger than Roger.
"You had better finish your breakfast; your father is expecting you." Her mother's voice broke Felicity's day-dreaming.
"Expecting me?" Felicity asked while chewing on the now-cold waffle, sticky with the sweet syrup. "Expecting me where?"
"At work," replied her mother.
"But..." Felicity realized that she had never been to where her father worked. Martin Stockwell was a banker for some international banking firm downtown. To Felicity the work sounded dull and she had never had any interest in it.
"I've never been to father's work," she continued. "I don't even know where it is."
"Don't worry," her mother answered, "he said he would meet you at the bus station downtown. Now here's his lunch. If you hurry you can catch the bus in front of the church." Felicity finished what was left of her waffle and took her father's lunch.
When she opened the front door at 23 Waybosset St., she could see that the sun had come out and the fog was all but gone. She crossed the street to the bus stop in front of the great old church with its iron fence.
"How very strange," she thought to herself while standing at the bus stop. "I don't recall Father ever forgetting his lunch, or, for that matter, anything else."
Martin Stockwell was a man of precise habits. Each morning he would wake early, well before the rest of the family. His work required it, as most of the bank's transactions were done with a group of banks in Europe. The time difference meant he had to be at work well before most of the other bankers in Providence.
He would always walk or bicycle downtown. For, while the Stockwells owned a car, he seldom drove except on longer trips. Each afternoon he would return precisely at 4 p.m. He would walk into the kitchen; kiss his wife; kiss Felicity on the cheek; and go upstairs to change out of his conservative banker's clothing into a tweed sports coat and tie. Martin Stockwell always wore a tie. Felicity giggled as the thought of her father wearing a tie to bed crossed her mind.
The bus rumbled to a stop in front of her and let out a long hiss as the doors swung open.
Felicity looked out the window at the steeple of the First Congregational Church across the street from her house. It was early June, and, as is the case in Rhode Island this time of year, fog had crept in from the bay and now lay like a thick woolly blanket over the roofs of Providence. The steeple of the old church disappeared into fog.
"Great," thought Felicity, "the first day of summer vacation and my thirteenth birthday and it's wet and foggy."
Felicity had been in a somewhat sour mood anyway upon learning that her mother and father had planned to leave for Cape Cod on Saturday. She would have to celebrate her birthday at her grandparents' "cottage" on the Cape, away from her friends. To make matters worse, there was nothing to do there.
Felicity pulled on her clothes, in the process disturbing the slumber of her cat, Marx, who was making himself quite comfortable on her jeans, which had been dumped on the floor last night.
Marx looked up at her and blinked his eyes before walking from the room.
Felicity took one more look out the window as she brushed her hair. "Well, at least the fog is lifting; perhaps it won't be such a bad day after all," she thought.
Felicity put down the brush and took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She was a slight girl, with dark red hair that fell to her shoulders. In her school's uniform she showed the beginnings of a figure, but dressed as she was today, in jeans and a University of Rhode Island sweatshirt, no one could see that. Satisfied with her appearance, she went down the stairs to breakfast.
"Good morning," her mother's voice greeted her as she came into the kitchen. The Stockwell home was an old brownstone in the center of the city.
The kitchen was small, with a table at one end looking out onto the equally small backyard. Felicity remembered that, as a small girl, she longed for a home outside the city with a big lawn. But this house was close to her father's work and there was a park nearby. As Felicity had grown older, she had come to appreciate living in the city.
"There are some waffles for you on the table," her mother said, without turning from the aging waffle iron that always burned the first two you attempted to make in it. "And I set out the real maple syrup because it is your birthday. There are some cards on the table for you, too."
Her mother turned from the waffle iron. Anne Stockwell was a handsome woman of 40 with dark red hair the same color as her daughter's. She was the music teacher at Felicity's school, St. Andrew's.
"'Oh, and Roger Williams came by this morning and brought you this," she said, handing Felicity a small box and a card in a light-blue envelope.
"What?" thought Felicity, ÔÔWhy in the world would Roger Williams be giving me a gift?"
Her mother saw the puzzlement in her daughter's eyes. Smiling, and with a slight teasing in her voice, she replied, ÔÔYou know, he has always had a crush on you."
Felicity felt her face get warm, and, being faired-skinned like her mother, she blushed easily.
Felicity had known Roger for what seemed like forever. Roger was one year older than Felicity and had attended St. Andrew's with her until last year, when he had gone to Salem Academy in the mountains of Maine. Salem Academy was her father's old boarding school, and, since Felicity was an only child, it was expected that she would be attending there, as well, in the fall.
She looked down at the box and the envelope with Roger's precise handwriting on it. The kids at school would sometimes tease Felicity about Roger, but, if the truth be told, she really didn't mind. Roger had been a good friend to her for as long as she could remember and having him at Salem comforted her about going to a strange school so far from home.
Roger was sometimes strange himself. He had a talent for being able to disappear, seemingly at will. One minute he would be with you and the next he was nowhere to be seen. And there was that time in the fifth grade when Mary and Alison were teasing Felicity, bringing her almost to tears. Roger had told her to pay no attention to those ÔÔmuggles." He said it as if she should have known what he meant, which she didn't.
She turned the card over and opened it. Inside was a card with a cat, Felicity's favorite animal, "purring" a birthday greeting. Beneath this were the words: "Happy Birthday, Felicity, I'll see you at school this fall. Roger."
"What's in the box?" her mother asked.
"Oh, the box," said Felicity, startled a bit.
She opened the box from Roger. Inside, wrapped in paper, was a ball, about the size of a baseball but harder. In the same clear handwriting Roger had printed: "To Felicity, you will understand what this is later."
"What a curious gift," thought Felicity to herself. "Roger is certainly living up to his odd reputation."
Felicity turned the ball over in her hands. It had clearly been used quite a bit. Two rather noticeable holes were in either side.
"It must be something from his school," said her mother, who had come over next to her and was examining the ball. "His mother said that he is on a team at school, you know."
"Yes, that must be it," said Felicity, still studying the ball in her hands.
"Well, you had better eat your breakfast. I have an errand for you to do this morning and there are some other cards on the table."
Felicity sat down at the table and looked over the handful of cards that were before her. One from her school principal, which she, and every other student at St. Andrew's, received, without fail, every year on their birthdays. One from her Sunday school teacher at the church across the street. And one from Aunt Joan.
Aunt Joan was her father's sister who had never married and lived in the old family home outside of Amherst. The place was a crazy collection of antiques and family mementoes dating back to before the Stockwell family came to America in the 1600s, at least that what Aunt Joan always told her. In addition to the endless collection of bric-a-brac that she kept, Aunt Joan also kept an owl as a pet.
The small bird would sit in its cage, eyes closed, looking for all the world as if it were stuffed. Once, when Felicity had been visiting, she had poked at it with a short stick she had found among her aunt's belongings. The owl had only opened its eyes for a moment before returning to its customary state.
If anything, Aunt Joan was even stranger than Roger.
"You had better finish your breakfast; your father is expecting you." Her mother's voice broke Felicity's day-dreaming.
"Expecting me?" Felicity asked while chewing on the now-cold waffle, sticky with the sweet syrup. "Expecting me where?"
"At work," replied her mother.
"But..." Felicity realized that she had never been to where her father worked. Martin Stockwell was a banker for some international banking firm downtown. To Felicity the work sounded dull and she had never had any interest in it.
"I've never been to father's work," she continued. "I don't even know where it is."
"Don't worry," her mother answered, "he said he would meet you at the bus station downtown. Now here's his lunch. If you hurry you can catch the bus in front of the church." Felicity finished what was left of her waffle and took her father's lunch.
When she opened the front door at 23 Waybosset St., she could see that the sun had come out and the fog was all but gone. She crossed the street to the bus stop in front of the great old church with its iron fence.
"How very strange," she thought to herself while standing at the bus stop. "I don't recall Father ever forgetting his lunch, or, for that matter, anything else."
Martin Stockwell was a man of precise habits. Each morning he would wake early, well before the rest of the family. His work required it, as most of the bank's transactions were done with a group of banks in Europe. The time difference meant he had to be at work well before most of the other bankers in Providence.
He would always walk or bicycle downtown. For, while the Stockwells owned a car, he seldom drove except on longer trips. Each afternoon he would return precisely at 4 p.m. He would walk into the kitchen; kiss his wife; kiss Felicity on the cheek; and go upstairs to change out of his conservative banker's clothing into a tweed sports coat and tie. Martin Stockwell always wore a tie. Felicity giggled as the thought of her father wearing a tie to bed crossed her mind.
The bus rumbled to a stop in front of her and let out a long hiss as the doors swung open.
