Shelly was quiet for a long moment. “I guess that would bring good karma, but the roof needs replacing, the heating could stand an upgrade, and the refrigerators are wheezing. And I’m driving an old clunker that dates from the last century. When do we get to benefit?”
Ivy slung her arm around Shelly’s shoulder and nodded back at the house. “We already have. The rest is just cosmetic.”
“But that was your retirement savings—yours and Jeremy’s.”
“Do I look like I’m ready to retire? We’re figuring this out, Shelly. Every single day. You’re my partner, and I kind of like that old clunker. For now, anyway.” Ivy nodded toward the group of women, who were watching the shorebirds skittering around the sand. “All we have to do is put what we’re good at out in the world. A week ago, we’d barely thought of this new idea. And now, look how much fun these women are having. They’ve made new friends, so we’ve enriched their lives. We’re doing our job.”
“I know, I know. And profit flows back to us through our efforts.” Shelly quirked up a corner of her mouth. “You have an interesting way of looking at things. But I kind of like it. Still…”
“Ari will call back if he gets a hit on his search,” Ivy said. “In the meantime, I need to tuck away that egg for safekeeping.”
After the walk, Ivy brought her laptop onto the sun-filled veranda. Though it was still chilly, the walk had invigorated her. Being outside and breathing in the cool ocean air cleared her mind. She was curious about the egg and wondered if she could find any history on it.
Once her computer was on, she typed the words, lost Fabergé eggs in the search field. Faces from history stared back at her. Romanovs, 1917, revolution. The story of lost eggs led to other headlines. Bolsheviks Nationalize House of Fabergé. Peter Carl Fabergé was a court jeweler to the Russian tsars. While he was away in 1918, his business was ransacked and his inventory crated for storage in the Kremlin Armoury, surrounded by guards.
More dates and names flashed on the screen. 1927, 1931. Stalin. A cache of pre-revolutionary Russian art. Ivy read more. Armand Hammer. Marjorie Merriweather Post. Russia needed funds for economic expansion, and Hammer brokered the sale of some valuable Russian artifacts to prominent collectors, including Mrs. Post, around the world. During the Great Depression, some of the pieces, including imperial eggs, sold for merely a few hundred dollars.
Ivy sat back, wondering. Could their Christmas egg be linked to that history?
Later that afternoon, Ivy swung open the door to the First Summer Beach Bank on Main Street. In the wood-paneled, mid-century bank, the staff had trimmed the old-fashioned grills at the two teller windows with holiday decorations.
“I’m here to access my safety deposit box,” she said to the young teller who’d helped her before. Last summer, she had rented a box for the jewelry they’d found. It was empty now, except for a few papers she had left there. Her will, the house deed, birth certificates, and car titles. She’d meant to close it, but the bank rented the box by the year.
Ivy shifted her bag on her shoulder, and the young man led her through a locked gate to a small room with rows of metal boxes. He looked to be a couple of years older than Sunny, and even though it was winter, his hair was still sun-bleached. He reminded her of a younger version of Mitch. Even surfers had to work day jobs unless they were professional surfers.
“I’m Ivy Bay,” she said, making conversation. “What’s your name?”
“Diego. And before you ask, that’s because I was born in San Diego.”
“Good name.” Ivy brought out her key. “How’s the surfing?” she asked as he sorted through the keys on his ring to open her box.
“Pretty gnarly,” Diego replied. “Excellent waves but cold, so you have to wear a full wetsuit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. The waves look great.”
His eyes brightened. “Cool. My aunt still surfs, too, though she’s not as old as you are.”
“Uh, thanks,” Ivy said, smothering a laugh. He’d clearly misunderstood her, but his aunt still sounded impressive. Anything over thirty probably seemed ancient to him. She remembered those days. Smiling, she slipped her key into the lock.
“There are still some older dudes out there,” Diego said. “Even saw the mayor on a board last summer.”
“Really?” Ivy couldn’t resist. “How did he do?”
“Not bad for an old guy who usually sits behind a desk. The mayor should keep it up so he can catch some waves before his legs give out.”
She smiled, thinking about Bennett’s reaction if she shared this with him. On second thought, maybe she’d spare his ego and keep this to herself.
Diego found the right key and inserted it into the second lock on the box. After pulling out the box, he directed her to a small, private room. Once he’d closed the door, she brought the glittery egg from her shoulder bag. Placing it on the worn wooden table, she rested her chin on her hand and gazed at the piece.
The crimson-red enamel work was fine and smooth, almost silky, with a wavy pattern and incredible brilliance. Staring at it, her heart quickened. The craftsmanship was superb, even if the actual carat weight of any one gemstone wasn’t that impressive. At least, not for a piece of this artistry.
Hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny chips made up swirled patterns that encased the exterior. Beneath that, translucent red enamel was expertly applied over guilloché metal, a technique she recalled from her art classes in college. Inside, a smaller egg held a tiny cardinal bird with ruby-red feathers worked into brilliant platinum. A harbinger of spring, perhaps. Surely this had been a gift.
She took out the little bird and cradled it in her hand. Its wings could actually flap. Beneath the bird, was a little nest with tiny, miniature eggs. She lifted out the golden nest, marveling at the craftsmanship. And on the bottom lay the image of a small child affixed to a gold pendant.
To create these nesting elements with their attention to detail must have taken a senior craftsperson a very long time. Ivy knew the value was in the artistry, not necessarily in the gemstone or gold content.
Had this been a unique gift for someone, perhaps for the child’s mother? She turned over the tiny bird in her hand. “Who treasured you, little one? Who cooed over you in delight?”
This was more than a mere objet d’art; it was a work of rarified aesthetic, an objet de vertu.
With a sigh, she returned the beautiful objects into the sanctuary of the oval case and tucked the egg into a soft cloth bag.
It was likely the last time she would be alone with the precious treasure. As she sat in the quiet room, she could hear the low roar of the ocean beyond like a constant, soothing lullaby. She wondered who might have risked their life to bring such a piece here, so far away for safekeeping? Or who might have sold it, in desperate need for cash?
Finally, she tucked away the treasure with care, sliding it into the large safety deposit box. She snapped the lid and called for Diego.
As Ivy was leaving the bank, she spied Ginger Delavie, a tall, energetic woman with ginger-red hair who was a beloved resident of Summer Beach. Her cottage—painted a vivid shade of coral—had stood as a beacon on the beach for decades, Ivy understood. Ginger’s husband had been a diplomat, and they had traveled the world, collecting experiences and stories that Ginger loved to share. An invitation to the Coral Cottage ensured an evening of laughter and intellectual conversation.