by Robyn Carr
“I’ve spent every weekend off I’ve had for forty years going to estate sales,” Muriel said. “Plus, I’m addicted to the Antiques Roadshow. I’ll be right over.”
Muriel must have flown around the mountain curves, she arrived so quickly. She wore her usual jeans, boots and hat, but as always she looked stunning. Muriel was a retired, or at least semiretired, Oscar-nominated actress who looked a good ten years younger than she was, and she could look elegant in a sack. On this afternoon, with a flush high on her cheeks, she burst into Hope’s, found Mel and some other women in an upstairs bedroom stacked to the ceiling with miscellaneous stuff, and said, “Show me!”
It took Muriel two full days of plowing through pots, dishes, documents, little rocks, art, furniture and weird things—like ball caps from every professional ball team in the country—before she said, “I don’t think this stuff is going to Christie’s, but there’s definitely money here. Not in everything, but generally speaking.”
“How do you know?” Mel asked her.
“I can smell it.”
“Like the colorful rocks?” Mel said expectantly. “Are they gems?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Muriel said. “But that wardrobe full of china? Antique Belleek. Very expensive Irish china. And the teapots? I recognize a couple of English sterling pieces, which tells me there’s lots of hidden value there.”
“Hundreds?” Mel asked hopefully.
“Thousands,” Muriel said. “If I know my antiques at all.”
One of the advantages of going to garage sales, estate sales and auctions as a hobby, Muriel was armed with business cards from consultants and appraisers from all over the place. The experts in this particular area seemed a reasonable place to start, but there was no evidence that Hope, who’d been computer savvy and obviously liked eBay, had been committed to Northern California.
And nothing could bring appraisers and consultants for estate sales and auctions running like the name Muriel St. Claire.
“We’re going to start getting company right away,” she informed Mel and some of the other ladies. “The thing to do is let them appraise the value of this stuff, run up the numbers, and then negotiate fees. It’s possible much of this stuff—the art, for example, china and small antique pieces—will have to be moved to San Francisco for the best price. Or some of this could be purchased outright by an auction company that chooses to make it part of a moving sale or auction. Advertising will be necessary. Oh, this is very exciting! Benedict Compton of the San Francisco Pavilion Auction company—the president, thank you very much—is coming himself.” Muriel rubbed her hands together and laughed.
Mel was stunned. “Did you just cackle?” she asked Muriel.
“I have to admit, this could be way more fun than actually attending an estate sale or auction.”
“We could have a problem here,” Mel said. “In this whole town I can’t think of one person besides you who might know anything about this sort of thing. No matter how many appraisers come to look the stuff over, I wouldn’t know how to negotiate a contract with them—I called you because I have a feeling there’s valuable stuff here, but I don’t know anything about it. Plus, I have patients. And these other ladies have work and families. And—”
“Well, I’m not an expert, but I do have a clue,” Muriel said. “Want me to manage the appraisals?”
“Would you? Do you have the time?”
“As long as I get the horses fed, I can be here. For that matter, I’m sure Walt would take care of the horses for me. In fact, he might jump at an alternative to going antiquing with me,” she added with a laugh.
While Muriel managed experts and appraisers, Preacher was studying Hope’s computer records. It turned out that the local church wasn’t the only thing she bought on eBay—the old woman had made a hobby and pastime of buying and selling, and her purchases and sales reached as far as China. And as for china, the Belleek was worth tens of thousands. A couple of the teapots were old English sterling worth a couple of thousand each, and a couple were ancient Chinese teapots that were also very valuable. She didn’t actually have a Ming vase, but she’d bid on many.
“And gems?” Mel asked hopefully.
“Pretty rocks,” Muriel said, shaking her head. “But that notebook full of scrawls on crinkly paper? Famous signatures. U. S. Grant among them. They should’ve been framed and preserved but were instead stuffed in a spiral notebook.” She tsked. “I’m sorry to say that Hope’s treasures will be better cared for out of her hands.”
“I think she must have been just entertaining herself,” Mel said. “She always acted like a woman with a million things to do, but she looked like a vagrant. Well,” she said with a laugh, “there was never a question in my mind that Hope was happy. Cynical and cranky and self-indulgent and totally happy.”
“By the way,” Muriel asked. “Where is Hope?”
“She wasn’t specific about her wishes, except that she be cremated. So far no one has even picked up a hint of what she’d like to have done with her ashes, so the funeral home in Fortuna is keeping them for us. Jack is trying to think of something that would do her justice, that would honor her, but he hasn’t come up with anything yet. And although the town is all pissy about not being able get their hands on her money, no one has asked if there will be a funeral.”
Muriel looked very sad for a moment and just shook her head. “Don’t people disappoint you sometimes?” she asked Mel.
“Sure,” she said. “But fortunately not as often as they surprise and impress me. This whole thing isn’t over yet. The town will come around—come through.”
It took a very dedicated team of people to complete the process of dealing with Hope McCrea’s possessions. Muriel St. Claire and her boyfriend, retired general Walt Booth, along with Mike’s wife, attorney Brie Valenzuela, managed to select and negotiate a contract from a reputable auction company. The most expedient method was recommended by the appraiser and then approved by Jack—the company would pay a flat rate for the most valuable items, which they would remove from the big old Victorian in the country and take to auction in San Francisco. Preacher and Paige Middleton worked as a team to research some of those items that had been identified, looking up a large percentage of them online; they found the prices quoted by the auction company to be very reasonable. Away went the Belleek, paintings, teapots, collectible signatures and several pieces of furniture.
Pastor Noah Kincaid and his wife, Ellie, worked with their good friends, Jo and Nick Fitch, to create advertising fliers for a sale of what was left; the fliers would be scattered around the towns and cities nearby. They also bought ads in the five largest local newspapers, identifying a weekend estate sale. Items left to be sold were priced and tagged with the help of Muriel, the visiting appraiser and Preacher, checking and cross-checking on Hope’s computer.
Then there was the enormous task of separating items that could be sold from items that had to be donated. It took all the Presbyterian Women, the Presbyterian Husbands and many a Presbyterian pickup truck.
And then all was ready. It was a garage sale of grand proportions, most of which took place in the house and on its front and back porches. Cars started to arrive early on Saturday morning and kept coming through the day. It was like a parade—weekend garage and estate sale shoppers from miles and towns away. The sale would be extended through Sunday if anything remained to be sold. A table was set up with several large coffee thermoses and pastries in the morning, and Preacher, Mike, Jack and a couple of friends set up barbecues in the yard and sold hot dogs, hamburgers and drinks in the afternoon. One of the Anderson sons, a family of local sheep ranchers, brought a couple of ponies for rides and Paul Haggerty had rented a little merry-go-round from an amusement company that leased equipment for parties.
Lawn chairs were pulled out of the backs of trucks, coolers full of soda, water and beer were added to the refreshments Jack and Preacher provided, baseballs and gloves appeared, a football was tossed around, a so
ccer ball was kicked between a couple of young boys.
It was a circus. A town fair. Most of the people, especially all those from Virgin River, were only there to watch, not to buy.
In and around Hope’s house volunteers were posted to watch over the items for sale—furniture, dishes, flatware, quilts, old linens, that bag of dozens of ball caps, the old purple velour couch.
Mel Sheridan felt her eyes moisten with tears when she saw that old, jacked-up beige Suburban drive away with its new owner. It was still wearing mud on its frame from Hope’s driving around the back mountain roads in the rain. It was hard to watch the memory of her vanish, piece by piece.
Lilly heard about the estate sale from Annie. She knew someone who would love poking around all that old, retro stuff, especially the tables, chairs and accessories. She planned to put off her cleaning and shopping chores to accompany Dane to the sale; not only did Dane love haunting oddball sales, he was always looking for furniture for the Loving Cup. If he could pick up a chair or two or old side table, he’d be like a kid in a candy store.
Dane worked out his schedule with Darlene to take a few hours off and Lilly picked him up. He was almost giddy with excitement and happy they were getting an early start. As they drove up Highway 36 toward Virgin River he yammered about the sorts of things he’d be happy to find—furniture, old pitchers, a pie safe or dry sink as a serving accessory, trays, linens, good flatware at a nice price…. The list went on the more excited he got.
“Hey, you’ve been doing more riding than yoga lately,” he said suddenly. “How’s the new guy working out?”
Lilly kept her eyes on the road, but she smiled and said, “I like him.”
“Like…him?”
“I’ve seen a lot of him the last couple of weeks. We work together at the clinic, ride sometimes. I’ve been to his sister’s house for dinner a couple of times. I’m thinking of letting my grandfather have a crack at him over Sunday dinner.”
Dane whistled. “This is progress. When am I going to get the more interesting details?”
She just laughed at him and didn’t answer.
“Seriously,” Dane said. “I have stuck by you through everything for years now—why are you so cagey about this guy? Is it just because he’s Native American?”
“Maybe,” she said. Then she turned toward him and she knew her eyes glowed. “We have some traditional stuff in common, but I’ve been trying to avoid that stuff for so long. It’s hard to let myself go. I’m just trying to keep my head. Stay sane.”
“Not go over the deep end?” Dane asked. “Oh, cup-cake, the deep end can be so much fun!”
“Yeah, I know. I have some experience with that. But there are big differences this time. Huge,” she emphasized. “Clay is a beautiful person. He has a very old soul. He wants to meet you.”
“Really?” Dane said, grinning stupidly. Clearly he was touched by this.
“Don’t be so optimistic,” Lilly said. “He offered to let you hit him to, you know, even the score or something.”
“Really?” he said again, his grin growing. “Well, that’s unconventional. Does this very old soul you’re involved with know that I swing the other way?”
“He does,” she said. “I even admitted to him that I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to turn you straight.” She grinned at him. “I explained that you’re hopelessly gay. He seemed to take that in stride.”
“Ah, a secure straight guy,” Dane said. “My absolute weakness…”
Lilly bit her lower lip, serious. “I intended to go very slowly,” she finally said. “There’s just something about him that makes going slow awful hard.”
There was a colorful sign on the road that read Sale! Some balloons were attached, but they weren’t helium so they drooped, hanging down by their ribbons. She maneuvered her little Jeep down the one-lane drive, passing some cars and trucks parked along the slanting road. All conversation between them stopped as the house came into view. Neither Lilly nor Dane had ever seen it before, but then, except for the locals who had lived in Virgin River a very long time, most of the people present—browsers, shoppers, collectors—would have had even less reason to have visited this property before today.
“Oh, my God,” Dane said, his eyes running from the front porch to the top of the third story. The paint was peeling, the wood on the porch and rails was faded gray, the siding a faded dirty white, and some shingles on the roof were curling, but it was an amazing structure—three stories with turrets and decorative wood accents. It was only September and the grounds were still beautiful. Flower beds surrounded the front porch and flanked the stone walk, full green bushes grew alongside mature pines, oak and maple trees. With just a little exterior sprucing up, the old Victorian could be stunning. In its day it was probably quite a mansion. “Look at that house!”
Dane left Lilly in his dust. He was anxious to get inside the house and poke around, both at the items for sale and the architecture. He turned back when he was halfway to the front porch, a questioning look on his face. She laughed, shook her head and waved him on. He was far more excited about the event than she. She spotted Annie standing across the lawn talking to a man she didn’t know, so she wandered over that way.
Once Lilly was standing beside Annie, she began to meet more people from Virgin River. Nathaniel joined them, then Jack Sheridan, who owned the bar and grill in town—the man who apparently had been made responsible for this deceased woman’s estate. She was introduced to Preacher, Noah and Paul and their wives.
Someone handed her a soda and a couple more people joined them—Walt Booth and his lady friend, Muriel, who looked familiar and, Lilly learned, had had a hand in setting up the weekend sale. Lilly heard more about how Hope McCrea had been so well-known in the town and yet a mystery to so many.
“There was a lot more to Hope than met the eye,” Muriel said. “We found some valuable art in her house that has been taken to auction, and some stories have come out of the paintings. One artist, whose estate has established an impressive online catalog, began her watercolor career just south of here. During the Depression she painted in exchange for food for her family—Hope actually had four of her paintings, which have become very valuable. Not only did Hope have a good eye for art, she was helping neighbors a long while before this was even a real town.”
All around them was the atmosphere of a fair—the kids on ponies or the little merry-go-round, chasing each other through the big trees, people lounging in their lawn chairs with a beer or hot dog, watching as people came and went out of the house, happily carrying their finds. Lilly wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing with new friends and old, maybe over an hour, when it happened.
She saw Clay coming up the drive; he must have parked down the road and walked the rest of the way. She filled her eyes with him; there was no more beautiful man on the face of the earth.
“There’s Clay,” Annie said to Nathaniel. “Did you know he was coming?”
Nathaniel laughed and glanced at Lilly. “I doubt he’s here for the antiques.”
Lilly barely heard; a slight smile touched her lips. She knew he hadn’t come to shop, and it was such a nice surprise.
Clay saw them, waved, smiled and continued toward Lilly. He wore jeans and boots; it was unusual to see him in anything else. His shirt was denim, his hat bore the eagle feather and his hair was loose. Some of it fell over his shoulder while the rest flowed down his back.
“Good,” Nate said. “He can meet Jack and some of the Virgin River guys.”
“Oh, I know Clay,” Jack said. “He’s eaten at the bar a few times. Very nice guy.” Jack waved a hand in front of Lilly’s face to get her attention. “I don’t know too much about Native American culture—I don’t even know if this is a dumb question. Are you two from the same tribe or something?”
Lilly laughed lightly, sentimentally. “Our tribes are legendary enemies.”
Jack watched her face. “You gonna be able to work that out?” he asked
with a sly grin.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” she said, her eyes moving back to Clay.
Clay neared, aiming right for her, his smile broadening just as she felt a light seem to shine from within her. Clay went first to Lilly before acknowledging anyone else and the very moment his hands reached for hers, there was a crash.
Lilly spun around and saw Dane sprawled on the steps of the porch, looking shocked and a little wild-eyed, surrounded by the scattered sterling flatware that had spilled out of the leather case he held against his chest. His eyes were locked on Lilly and Clay and his long legs were splayed down the stairs.
“Dane!” she shouted, running to him.
Clay looked at Annie with a frown. “That’s Dane?”
“You don’t know Dane? He owns a coffee shop near my beauty parlor—he’s a good friend of mine. And Lilly’s.”
Clay gave a nod that was more a lift of his chin. “I haven’t met him yet.” Then he began to slowly walk toward Lilly and Dane.
When Lilly got to Dane, she knelt on the step. “What in the world happened?”
Dane looked a little flushed. “Is that him?” he whispered, nodding over Lilly’s shoulder. Lilly took a quick glance, then nodded back at Dane. “Good Lord! You didn’t mention he was friggin’ Adonis!”
She chuckled a little. “I told you he was handsome.”
“Lilly, I’m handsome. He’s a friggin’ Adonis!”
“Yeah, and then some,” she agreed.
“No shit. Whew.” Dane wiped his forehead. “I went into a trance when I saw him walking up the road. Then when he reached for you and I realized—”
Clay towered over them. “You okay, man?”
“Um, yeah. Okay,” Dane said, sitting up on a step. “Guess I slipped. I must have had… I don’t know…”
“Maybe it was the vapors,” Lilly suggested wryly. “Let’s pick up your silverware. I can take you home.”
