by Tamara Leigh
As I button into my peacoat, I glance through the projection room’s windows that overlook the theater. Hundreds of empty seats gape at me, but that will change on Saturday when I bring Mrs. Dudley Tuttle’s porcelain doll and perfume bottle collection to auction. Between her items and the vintage women’s clothing that was discovered in the attic of the Pickwick mansion, Serendipity Auction Services may be hosting its first full house. Not only will there be the usual antique shop buyers and auction-as-an-outing-goers, but also a bevy of women who aren’t usually attracted to auctions. Thanks to PR-savvy Piper, who conceived the idea of a “ladies’ day at the auction house,” whereby all items appeal to those of the female persuasion, Saturday’s event is all the buzz. If it goes well, it should prove highly profitable, especially if the bidding is as fierce as I anticipate. Which could make for a very long day, and perhaps evening.
It’s a good thing Devyn is staying overnight with Bridget. And possibly another night next week when I go to Charlotte.
My excitement over Saturday’s auction dampened by the task ahead, I put my shoulders back. Whatever it takes, I will get my hands on Gary’s DNA. Now I just have to figure out how.
Reaching up the right sleeve of my coat, I tug the bunched sleeve of my shirt toward my wrist. “Ouch!” Again! I glower at Devyn’s temperamental gift that has relieved me of more hair, but an instant later I feel a smile coming on. “That’s how.”
Reece was warned, but did he listen? No, he just had to set up his studio in my auction house. So he’ll either have to work around the noise of the chattering, predominantly female attendees or leave. Hopefully, he’ll go with choice B. And soon. I can hardly perform at optimum level with memories of our hotel encounter making me painfully self-conscious.
I glance again at Reece, who appeared at the back of the theater as I finished conducting a mock auction to demonstrate the bidding process to those who have never participated.
Ignore him.
I would if I could.
You can. Just like you do when “& Sons” crashes your auctions.
I have learned how to handle Puck’s boys, but this is different. For all the nasty rumors they start about me, they’re not dark haired, green eyed, and emotionally bothersome. And never have they happened on me looking as if I’ve come from a hotel room tryst.
Ignore him!
I lift my chin and hold up a hand. “Let’s begin.”
Though the excited chatter dies down, it transfers its energy to the air, and I draw on it. Tingling from scalp to toes, I smile over the hundreds of auctiongoers who look up at me where I stand behind a podium on stage.
I’m ignoring you, Reece Thorpe. I do not see you there. You’re air.
I adjust my headset microphone. “As pictured in your catalog”—a mass rustling of the sixteen-page booklet—“our first item up for auction comes to us from the collection of Mrs. Dudley Tuttle.” I look to my left, where the pretty college student I often hire to aid me onstage holds up a doll enclosed in a glass box. “Item number one is a porcelain, hand-painted Armand Marseille doll, circa 1890.”
A murmur of interest and a craning of necks.
“Our little princess is outfitted in her original blue dress and black lace-up boots. And let me tell you, this baby doll has been babied—not a hair out of place. Let’s start the bidding at $200. Who will give me 200?”
A long, breathless silence, and just as I start to think I may have set the opening bid too high, one of three ringmen hired for the day to relay the bids to me from the floor shouts, “I have $200 here!” The ringman—or in this case, ringwoman—identified by a red Serendipity Auction vest, positions herself closer to the bidder whose paddle is up.
Now if I can just work the buyers to the $600 mark that the doll ought to bring. With a conscious effort not to speak as fast as I do when it’s farm equipment at auction, I begin my chant. “We have a $200 bid, now 300, now 300, who will give me 300?” Not too fast, but not costive either.
At the back of the theater, near where Reece stands, a paddle shoots into the air.
“We have a $300 bid, now 400, now 400, who will give me 400?” I get it, but a couple minutes later have to back off the $100 increments. With a bit more effort, I get $450, and from there it’s a short climb to 500. More resistance, but I’m not done. It’s time to connect with and entertain my audience. “Oh, ma’am, if you don’t bid on this item again, I just know you and I will regret it come mornin’. Give me 550. Just 550.”
Amid chuckles and twitters, the heavy woman flushes, looks to where her husband has nodded off beside her, and raises her paddle.
“Thank you, ma’am. We have a $550 bid, now 600, now 600, who will give me 600?” I look wide eyed at her rival, a scrawny middle-aged woman on the front row. A ringman is down on his haunches beside her, encouraging her as I pay him well to do.
She bites her lip and taps her bidding paddle on her thigh.
“Ma’am, you don’t want to leave here with nonbuyer’s remorse.” I consider urging her not to be costive—the “tight-fisted” meaning of my daily word—but I doubt she’d understand it any more than I did before today. Thus, I could end up offending her with my high-falutin’ speech and her paddle won’t budge. I need it to budge. “Come now, ma’am. For $50 more, this rare doll could be going home with you.” She nods at something the ringman says, then puts her paddle high.
I shoot for $700. However, the heavy woman gets in the last bid at 650.
“Sold to bidder 152! Congratulations, ma’am.” One down, many more to go, but by the time I offer item number four, I’ve found my rhythm and for the last time silently tell Reece I’m ignoring him.
Two hours later, I call a break. Though I’m bound to lose some of the auctiongoers during the twenty minutes I’m offstage, I have to protect my voice and give my jaws and feet a rest. Fortunately, most of the serious buyers will stay. As for the not-so-serious…
I remove my headset and look up the aisle to where the theater doors are open wide to the lobby. At Piper’s suggestion, I ordered two dozen assorted pies from Martha to serve with the usual coffee and tea offered during breaks. If her baking doesn’t hold a body captive, nothing will. I said as much to Martha, who mused that with a couple more weekly orders like mine, she might consider giving up her waitressing job. I suggested she talk to Mr. Copper, who probably sells as many pastries as coffee drinks.
The last time I saw Martha look that excited was when she expanded her Meat and Three Eatery from eight tables to twelve. A year later, her doors closed forever. I may have to talk to Mr. Copper myself. And make pies a regular part of my Saturday auctions.
Hoping to snag a slice I can enjoy once the day’s work is behind me, I step from behind the podium. And that momentary feeling of exposure that sometimes hits me after hours behind a wooden stand calls to mind the forgotten Reece. How I miss the adrenaline-inducing act of auctioning that allowed me to skim over his dark, still figure and disturbing gaze.
As I descend the steps, I look past those who are working their way up the aisles to either indulge in Martha’s pies or get on with their Saturday.
Did Reece return to his studio? the Pickwick Arms? In this instance, I’m hoping the latter. It took a lot of adrenaline to get past his presence, and once the break is over, it will take a while for me to work myself back into that state.
“Maggie!” Skippy appears in front of me.
I smile. “You came!”
“I done told you I was gonna get me one of them pretty perfume bottles.” She slips a hand in her purse and pulls the corner of a one-hundred-dollar bill above the zipper. “Think that’ll do it?”
“Providing you don’t have your heart set on the Jacinthe bottle. I’m aiming for upwards of three hundred dollars.”
“Gracious, no!” She shakes her bouffant-topped head. “That thing’s plum ugly. Looks like a see-through flask, if’n you ask me.”
Yes, but rare is rare.
“What I’m angli
n’ for is item number 82, 101, or 116. Any one of those will look right pretty on my bathroom counter.”
I don’t remember which bottles correspond to those numbers, but since most are in the $75 to $100 range, I’m sure she’ll take one home.
“Oh!” Her hand tightens on my arm. “I got a surprise to share. Come on.”
I follow her up the path her energy blazes for us. The going is slower once we reach the crowded lobby. I couldn’t be happier that most of the auctiongoers are staying. Well, at least to enjoy Martha’s pies and coffee.
“There she is!” Skippy lifts a hand high above her head to point toward the beverage table.
It’s all a sea of heads to me. “Who, Skip?”
“Yule.” She beams over her shoulder. “She came to town this mornin’.”
I’m happy for my friend, who doesn’t see her daughter often enough. Still, I feel the usual kink of discomfort that only Yule can iron out with a smile of acceptance.
“And she’s showin’,” Skippy tosses back at me.
So what’s new? Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but this is her third pregnancy in five years.
Twenty feet ahead, I catch sight of the back of Yule’s head, notable for its abridged version of her mother’s bouffant hair. I kink a little more.
Buck up, Maggie. She let it go.
I know, just as I know I should put memories of bullying her behind me—especially the last incident witnessed by Reece.
Try harder. If Maggie Pickwick can turn her life around, go from cursing a god that may or may not be to praising God who is, support herself and her daughter, and command top dollar for secondhand items, she can iron out her own kinks.
Put that way, I can do it.
At Skippy’s, “Yoo-hoo, Yule!” her daughter turns.
But maybe not today…
The man on the other side of Yule makes me kink so hard I nearly trip over my feet, and I kink harder when the smile on Reece’s face decreases at the sight of me.
“Mama, look who I found.” Yule grabs Skippy’s arm and tugs her into the circle of two, shutting me out. “My high school champion, Reece Thorpe.”
“Uh, Yule, darlin’…” Skippy glances over her shoulder at where I stand on the precipice of my past.
“Ya remember, don’t you, Mama? My senior year when I fell—”
“Join us, won’t you, Maggie?” Skippy steps to the side to make room for me.
I’d rather take cover, but Yule has turned her big, blue-shadowed eyes on me. And, of course, there’s Reece, who is surely trying to make sense of the unexpected: What is Skippy Baggett doing with the woman who bullied her daughter in school? Or maybe: Will I have to champion her again?
The prettier, softer version of Married with Children’s Peg Bundy recovers with a blink. “Hiya, Maggie.” Her smile of acceptance is tempered by what is surely a recent trip down memory lane. “Mmm, the pie was awful good.” She wags a paper plate that is bare except for a piece of crust and a purple smear of boysenberry.
Feeling Reece’s questioning gaze and peripherally seeing him raise his coffee cup, I say, “Martha made it.”
“I shoulda known.” She smacks her lips. “How’s your auction goin’?”
“Well, thanks. We’ve drawn a good crowd, and they haven’t been shy about openin’ their pocketbooks. It’s bound to be a long day.” So you might as well accept you’re not going to get any work done and get, Reece Thorpe! “How have you been, Yule?”
“Good.” She pinches the crust between fuchsia fingernails and pops it in her mouth.
“Especially now that she’s past the mornin sickness.” As Skippy reaches past me to pat her daughter’s tummy, Reece’s questioning once more stirs the air.
“Mama!” Yule swats her hand. “There’s a gentleman present. Have a care for my modesty.”
Reece glances from Yule’s softly rounded tummy to her left hand.
No, she’s not married, but the pregnancy is intentional. More intentional than he will ever know—until Yule or Skippy clue him in.
“This here’s my third grandchild.” Skippy jerks her head in the direction of Yule’s abdomen. “And no sooner will I lay eyes on the little one than my daughter will give him or her away. Now, I ask you, is that right?”
Confusion creases Reece’s face. He probably feels like he’s walked onto the set of one of those adult cartoons that feature fathead people with warped senses of humor. Welcome to Pickwick…
Yule sighs so heavily, the only thing missing is the back of a hand to her forehead. “Now, Mama, you know this is not your grandchild.”
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
Reece looks to me as if I might make sense of the surreal, but it’s about to become clear.
“If that child is in you, it’s of you,” Skippy says firmly, “meaning it’s of me—my grandchild.”
“Mama, you can’t be thinkin’ or talkin’ like that. Yes, it’s my body doin’ the carrying, but that’s all, and I will not become attached to this little one any more than I already am.”
Understanding eases the lines of Reece’s face.
Yule presses a hand to her belly. “It’s hard enough to give up a baby without complicatin’ matters further.”
“Well, if you’d find yourself a good man and give me my own grandbaby”—Skippy crosses her arms over her chest—“I’d shut up about you borrowin’ out your body to make other grandmothers happy.”
That drains the argument out of Yule. With a softly apologetic smile, she says, “When I find a good man, you’ll have grandbabies. In the meantime, I see no reason to let my childbearing years go to waste when I can help others grow a family.”
Though Skippy doesn’t deflate as quickly as her daughter did, she does deflate and steps around me to hug Yule. “Of course you will, darlin’. Forgive me. It’s just that I ain’t gettin’ younger.”
Yule pats her back. “I’m on the lookout, Mama. Really I am.”
They draw apart, but Skippy bumps a place for herself at her daughter’s side, forcing me to sidle closer to Reece.
Time to extricate. “Well, I need to get ready—”
“So you’re a surrogate.” Reece’s smile is aimed at Yule.
“Giving-wise,” Skippy answers for her daughter who flushes a pretty pink. “Three times now she’s helped nice couples whose baby ovens don’t work. She has a good heart, my Yule. Refuses to take money for carrying others’ children. But now, careerwise, my daughter is a physical therapist. Got her own practice in Knoxville, which is why I don’t get to see her near enough.”
Reece slings his hands in his pant pockets and rolls back onto his heels. “I’ll be in Knoxville next Friday to meet with a group of architects interested in incorporating my sculptures into the government buildings they’re designing.”
Yule gasps. “Maybe we could meet for lunch.”
“I’d like that, though since my day is spoken for, we’ll have to make it dinner.”
Dinner? Reece and Yule? Yule who is on the lookout for a good man—
It’s his life, it’s her life, and you do not figure into either one. Put your energy into Gary Winsome, not some sad, misplaced, go-nowhere jealousy.
“I’ll give you my card.” Yule fishes around in her purse. “When you get into town, call me.”
The alarm in my friend’s eyes goes off. Dear Skippy, worried how I might feel about what could turn out to be a date between Yule and the man who may have fathered my daughter.
I manage a smile that, for as rueful as it feels, is better than the alternative.
Skippy smiles back, nearly as rueful. “Speakin’ of dinner”—she wags a finger at me—“on the way here, Yule and I talked about havin’ you and Devyn over for pot roast.”
Reece is confused again. It’s one thing for Skippy and Yule to make polite with me in public; it’s another to fraternize on a personal level. Doubtless, Skippy is doing what she advised me to do—showing Reece how the Lord has worked in my
life, that I am no longer the Maggie who bullied her daughter, and that I have her forgiveness and Yule’s. Clever, but not likely to make him look at me any differently, especially considering our recent hotel encounter. I probably should have told Skippy about that.
“So?” Skippy says. “Pot roast?”
I know I’ll be tired when the day is done, but I’ll also be alone. And without any Devyn-size distractions, I’ll be full up on Reece-size distractions, even if only in my head. Too, I long for him to know that Skippy and Yule aren’t the only ones making an effort to put the past behind us. I really have changed. And before you ask how much, conscience mine, and point to my little DNA baggie, remember this isn’t just about me. It’s about protecting Devyn. The mistakes are mine, and she is not going to pay for them by suffering gossips.
I nod. “Devyn is spending the night with Bridget, but I’d love to join you and Yule.”
“Great. Will seven o’clock give you enough time to shut this place down?”
“That’ll work.” A check of my watch shows it’s three minutes till show time, and I step back.
“You know,” Yule muses, “if you’re not doin’ anything, you could come too, Reece. Mama makes a mighty good pot roast.”
No! I look to Skippy whose eyes are as wide as mine feel.
“I could use a good home-cooked meal.” Reece’s smile tucks up a bit more.
Oh! I turn away.
“See you at seven,” Skippy calls.
Not if I come down with something—say, lockjaw or laryngitis or gavel-induced carpal tunnel syndrome. Yeah, I can swing one or all of those and without stretching the symptoms too far. Auctioneering does have its dangers.
“Oh, excuse me!” a dainty older woman exclaims as I almost run her over in my haste to distance myself from Reece and friends.
“My fault.” I smile. “Sorry.” But as I step around her, recognition taps my shoulder. That was Chase Elliot’s mother. Though I see her around from time to time and she has attended my auctions, I don’t think I’ve ever been so near her.
I’m tempted to look around, but I stay the course. After all, it’s unlikely her son is my daughter’s father. Goodness, what a day!
