“I think your brother there is about to tell us,” Great-Uncle Thorne said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
“It’s an anagram, isn’t it?” Felix said.
“Spoken like a true Pickworth!” Great-Uncle Thorne said with obvious pride.
Maisie took the note from her brother and stared at the letters there. Almost immediately, they seemed to reshape themselves, revealing their meaning to her.
“‘Go back alone’,” Maisie read.
She looked at Great-Uncle Thorne and said the words again: “‘Go back alone’.”
“Amy Pickworth stayed in that jungle intentionally,” Great-Uncle Thorne said. His great white brows furrowed. “The question I have is why?”
As much as Maisie wanted more duties as a junior bridesmaid, Felix wanted fewer duties as a best man. Just yesterday, Great-Uncle Thorne had handed him a dusty book that looked like no one had opened in about a million years. When Great-Uncle Thorne cracked the spine, the first pages crumbled. Undeterred, he’d carefully turned the brittle pages until he found what he was looking for.
“Here,” he told Felix, sliding the book across the table.
There, under the heading, DUTIES OF A BEST MAN, a list stretched. There were duties for planning the wedding and duties during the rehearsal and duties the night before the wedding and before the ceremony and during the ceremony and even at the reception.
“I have to throw you a bachelor party?” Felix said.
Great-Uncle Thorne grinned and nodded.
“I’m only twelve,” Felix reminded him.
“Irrelevant!” Great-Uncle Thorne said dismissively.
Felix scanned the never-ending list of duties.
“Arrange accommodations for out-of-town groomsmen?” Felix read.
“The Viking Hotel is always nice,” Great-Uncle Thorne offered.
When Felix showed Maisie the list the next night after dinner, she was dismissive, too.
“There won’t be any groomsmen,” she told Felix. “He doesn’t have any friends or relatives except you.”
“Dad does,” Felix said.
“Junior bridesmaids just walk down the aisle,” Maisie said. “Probably in an ugly dress.”
“I have to organize the wedding toasts,” Felix said. “The bride’s father gives the first one—”
“Penelope Merriweather’s father died on the Titanic,” Maisie reminded him. “And Gramps died before we were even born.”
“Then I give the second toast,” Felix continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then who should come next?”
Maisie brightened. “I’ll give the toast after you.”
“Really?” Felix said, checking at least that one duty off his list.
“I’d better get started,” Maisie said, her mind already swirling with quotes she could use. Her teacher, Mrs. Witherspoon, had taught them that every good speech starts with a quote.
She began to jot down the ones she knew offhand. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country . . . Four score and seven years ago . . . Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears . . .
“What?” Felix asked her.
Maisie glanced up at her brother.
“What do you mean ‘what’?” she asked him.
“Your eyebrows are all crinkled like something’s wrong,” he said.
Maisie sighed. “I don’t know the first thing about love,” she said. “I’m going to have get a book of love poems. Who writes love poems?”
“Um,” Felix said.
“Exactly.”
The next morning, their mother did not emerge from her bedroom. Aiofe reported that she was working at home.
“‘Do not disturb,’” Aiofe announced as she refilled Maisie’s hot cocoa. “That’s what she said.”
“I don’t think Mom has worked at home since we moved here—” Felix began.
“Ever,” Maisie interrupted.
“Should we call the doctor?” Felix asked, worried.
Just then Great-Uncle Thorne walked in to the dining room.
“She’ll be fine once the hubbub dies down,” he said. “Why, Penelope won’t even take a stroll with me this morning.” He shook his head. “A real shame, too, because the Pickworth peonies have all bloomed.” Great-Uncle Thorne gave a small, satisfied smile. “Just in time for the wedding, too.”
“Won’t Penelope want the Merriweather roses for the wedding?” Maisie asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Great-Uncle Thorne said. “Have you seen our peonies this year? They are truly magnificent.”
He took his seat at the head of the table, flicked a linen napkin open and tucked it into his collar.
“Mmmm,” he said, reaching for the silver serving tray. “Shirred eggs.”
“I don’t understand why Mom is so mad about Dad getting married,” Felix wondered out loud. “She’s got Bruce Fishbaum.”
“It’s complicated,” Great-Uncle Thorne said. “Every one of Phinneas Pickworth’s ex-wives got angry when he married a new woman.”
“How many times did he get married?” Maisie asked him.