by Tamara Leigh
“In that case, we’ll see you at church on Sunday.” I step around the desk and retrieve my purse from beside the de-velveted chair. “Piper will be back by then, won’t she?”
“Should be.”
I give a parting smile and let my long legs loose on the library.
“Are you holding a…what do you call it? When you give people a sneak peek?”
In the doorway I turn. “A viewing. Yes, tomorrow.” I don’t often display items up for auction a day in advance, since it’s easier to allow an hour or so before the auction for buyers to examine them. However, as several high-end items are on Saturday’s roster, many of which are from the Pickwick estate and were chosen by Uncle Obe to raise money to right our family’s wrongs, an early viewing can create a buzz and bring in more buyers.
“Glad to hear it,” my uncle says. “You’re doing a fine job.”
I hope he really is pleased. Though I’m certain Sotheby’s or Christie’s could get more, he insists that I handle the sales. “Thank you.”
“And Magdalene?” He wags a finger. “Trust me on this Reece Thorpe business. Despite whatever personal issues you have with the man, he will make our town proud with that new statue.”
“I’ll do my best.” And I will—my best to avoid him. I wag a finger back at my uncle. “No more arranging for us to run into each other.”
“I shall try to remember that, but, you know…” He taps his temple.
Ah! He’s using his mental deterioration to his advantage—again. Fine, I’ll just instruct Mrs. Templeton not to divulge my whereabouts should he call. “Have a good day, Uncle Obe.”
“I already do.”
Lucky him.
Exquisite.” The sibilant breath issues from a plump woman who, for twenty minutes, has casually browsed tomorrow’s auction items, all the while keeping an eye on two pieces—the English George III period writing table and the nineteenth-century angel woodcarving displayed on a stand nearby.
An out-of-town antiques dealer, my senses informed me as I signaled to Mrs. Templeton that I would handle this one and set off to follow the woman at a distance. It often happens when I publish an auction notice in the Asheville and Charlotte newspapers to alert the public to the sale of rare items. The dealers come from all over, among them those who think that because the town of Pickwick is small, its auctioneers are too backward to properly value an item. But not on my watch.
Now Puck & Sons…that’s one of the reasons I struck out on my own after three years of slaving under Mr. Puck to learn the auction business. The other reason, the deciding one, is that his undervaluing of items wasn’t unintentional. I didn’t know what he was up to until I educated myself on how to value items. Anticipating a raise for giving my employer the means to push a buyer to his true limit, I cleverly laid it all out for Mr. Puck. It got ugly from there, but despite evidence that he took kickbacks from buyers, Puck & Sons is still in business and my stiffest competition, not to mention the one that stole my assistant.
The antiques dealer steps closer to the writing table, pauses to glance over her left shoulder to be certain the others attending the viewing aren’t paying her notice, then checks her right shoulder. I’m prepared, body angled opposite where I stand twenty feet away, eyes on the binder that details the items up for auction tomorrow.
She turns back to the table. “My oh my. How did you get here, my precious?”
My precious? Sounds like the creepy, big-eyed creature in J. R. R. Tolkien’s tale, the one obsessed with the ring. Honestly, this woman sounds just like the little beastie. Though the table is beautiful and worth a startling sum, I don’t care for the reverence with which it’s regarded.
Not that I didn’t once regard inanimate objects with awe and don’t sometimes succumb to the pull of an overpriced outfit, but when seen from outside myself, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Of course, considering the business I’m in, that can make for a less-than-comfortable day in the life of Maggie Pickwick. But all that misplaced reverence is what makes the cash register ring.
The woman glides a hand across the unmarred surface of the inlaid satinwood table. “Perfect. Yes, you are.”
She bends and strokes one of four square legs that taper to a delicately arched foot. “Not so much as a scratch.” Ignoring the tag that provides details about the piece—she knows what she’s looking at—she pinches the dainty knob below the tabletop and gently pulls. “Ooh, look at your sweet little drawer.”
Enough! Clasping the binder to my chest, I stride forward. “You certainly have an eye for the exceptional, ma’am.”
She whips around and reaches behind to flatten a palm on the table, as if for fear it will sidle away. However, as her eyes survey me up and down, she snatches her hand back and clasps it with the other. “It’s a…nice little table.”
“Thank you.” I halt before her and catch the scent of aged wood, dusty upholstery, and the musty fibers of handworked woolen rugs. Is that how I’ll smell thirty years from now? Might I already? I extend a hand. “I’m Maggie Pi—”
“It’s quaint.” She peers over her shoulder. “Very quaint.”
“Actually, exquisite better describes this fine piece.” Her word, not mine. “Don’t you think?”
She hefts her heavily penciled eyebrows. “I don’t know about that.” She regards the table with the disinterest of one faced with pressboard. “But it’s decent enough and for the right price…” She shrugs. “There’s a corner in my kitchen that could stand to be filled. You know, to toss the keys on when I come in from the garage.”
Stay professional. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to do that with this beauty.” I step forward and caress the smooth top. “It’s over two hundred years old.” As she well knows.
“Two hundred!”
“Eighteenth century. It comes to us from the Pickwick estate.”
“The Pickwick estate? Is that how the town came by its name—somebody named Pickwick?”
This is getting old. Though the Pickwicks weren’t as prominent as the Vanderbilts were at the turn of the twentieth century (though not for want of trying), most have heard of them—unfortunately, usually in the context of scandalous behavior. “Yes, and the angel carving is also from the estate.”
She pats back a yawn as she considers it. “Not bad.”
Did someone stamp stupid on my forehead? Or is it my hair hanging around my shoulders, a mass of red waves I didn’t have time to tame into my usual chic roll? It could be that I’m without my rectangular burgundy-rimmed glasses. Regardless, I’m no dummy.
“The carving is French. Early nineteenth century.”
The woman looks back at me. “It’s a bit gauche, but it might work over my garden shed.”
I nearly cho—No, aspirate. See, daily words come in handy.
She pulls a checkbook from her purse. “I’ll give you eight hundred dollars.”
I can’t remember the last time my professionalism was so insulted. Actually, I can. Recently, it got back to me that Mr. Puck’s sons were putting it around that the only reason widower Warren signed me to auction off his car collection was because I offered “VIP service.” No, indeed, I need no one to remind me of my high school days.
“Eight hundred dollars?” I repeat.
She points to the carving and the table. “For both pieces.”
If it weren’t for the others in attendance, I might shout that this is not a garage sale—No, I would excoriate her. I’d severely denounce her with that highfalutin verb, give her a verbal flaying—
And where would Skippy be in all this?
Right. With her guidance, I’ve learned to think through my interactions with others, especially about containing the harsh words that tempt me. “Remember Psalm 19:14,” she’s always saying. “‘May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight.’”
And don’t forget about Devyn.
Right again. As I didn’t have time to run her home after school, she’s up
in the balcony working on a project, and a glance over my shoulder confirms she’s still there. Okay, no excoriating.
“I’m sorry, but this is a preview of tomorrow’s auction. If you would like to bid, we will entertain an offer then.” Providing she goes much higher.
“But that’s the problem.” She tsks. “I’m leaving town tonight. And you wouldn’t deny your client a guaranteed sale, would you?”
“I appreciate your interest, but it would be unethical for me not to make every effort to obtain a price that reflects the true value of these two pieces.”
“I am being more than generous.” She wags her checkbook in my face. “Going once…tick, tick, tick…going twice…tick, tick, tick…”
“Gone.” I put a manicured finger on the checkbook and push it away from my face. “Have a good day.” As I pivot, I drop my tight smile, but then her hand curls around my arm and pulls me back, nearly knocking me off my heels.
Ooh! What about red hair does this woman not understand? Whether it’s responsible for my temper or merely provides an excuse to have one, my anger is surfacing. I twist around. However, the words on my tongue fall back when I hear, Be Skippy. Be. Skippy. “Yes?”
“I know how these things work.” She winks. “I’ll give you fifteen hundred dollars for both pieces—two separate checks, one with your name on it.”
She has me confused with Puck & Sons. I draw my arm back, and she releases me. “Since that isn’t how I conduct business at Serendipity, I have to ask you to take your business elsewhere.”
Her face tightens. “A bit self-righteous, aren’t we, dear?”
“The word is ethical. And at the moment, I don’t feel very ‘dear,’ so please address me by my name—Maggie Pickwick.”
Her eyes widen. And then she’s all smiles. “Naughty you. You should have told me you have a vested interest in these pieces, being a Pickwick yourself.”
So much for her ignorance of the Pickwicks. “I have a vested interest in all the pieces I handle, Ms.…?”
She puts her chin forward. “Turnbridge.”
“…Turnbridge, regardless of whether or not a client is kin.”
She sweeps her gaze around the theater that still looks very much a theater, though no plays have been enacted or movies shown here for thirty years. I like the nostalgia—the rows of graduated seats that invite auctiongoers to settle in for the duration, the burgundy, gold-tasseled drapes that frame the stage where I take up gavel to pound out the best possible price from buyers, the side balconies—
“So, the Pickwicks have branched out into secondhand goods, have they?”
Her disdain makes my teeth snap.
“Oh, but it’s not a first, is it? I believe I heard your family now owns a used car lot.”
That would be my brother, Luc. Though our mother is less than thrilled with our career choices, I see nothing to be ashamed of. Still, I take offense at this woman’s disdain. Be Skippy. “The Pickwick family doesn’t own Serendipity. I do.”
“Semantics, shemantics.” She waves her checkbook again. “Now that we both know what we’re dealing with, no more games.”
As if I’m the one playing games. Of course, as an auctioneer, I do have my moments, but for a good cause—getting top dollar, which often is all that’s keeping my clients afloat.
Out comes a pen. “I’ll give you six thousand dollars for both pieces.”
A far cry from fifteen hundred dollars, but not far enough. “That would be an acceptable opening bid, but the pieces will be sold at auction tomorrow.”
She gives a gusty sigh and drops her checkbook in her purse. “Very well, I’ll see you then.”
I tilt my head to the side. “But you’re leaving town tonight.”
A sly smile transforms her cheeks into puckered apples. “Changed my mind.” She bustles past me and around the group before the jewelry display case over which Mrs. Templeton presides. Without a backward glance, she descends the stage steps and hurries up the aisle and out the double doors.
I empty my lungs, only then realizing how shallow my breathing must have been. I may have barely earned Cs in high school, but I’m not stupid, and I hate it when people assume that the bulk of my brain is dedicated to maintaining my looks. Of course, had I taken better care to downplay those looks, what happened might not have.
As Mrs. Templeton describes the jewelry, awkwardly using the words I earlier drilled into her—classic, carats, cut, and certified—I pass before a nineteenth-century, full-length mirror that has the potential to bring upward of three thousand dollars for its hopeful owner. One glance at my reflection and I’m scurrying backstage.
“No wonder she didn’t take you seriously,” I grumble as I halt before another full-length mirror, this one lacking any potential to line anyone’s pockets—Wal-Mart, $29.95. But it serves its purpose, which is to guide me in reducing the risk of further false impressions.
“‘Nice little table.’ Ha!” I narrow my eyes on the woman in the mirror who should have chosen her outfit better—a below-knee skirt as opposed to the above-knee one pulled hastily from her closet, a no-frills blouse as opposed to the ruffled one that points up her femininity. And why didn’t she wear a low heel? People don’t like being looked down on, especially those with a Napoleon complex. “‘Quaint’—ha!”
While I can’t do anything about my outfit, I can fix my hair. Full and flouncy and falling in hyper-red waves around my face, it shouts, “Night on the town!”
I drop my binder to the floor, bend at the waist, and whip my hair forward. “‘A bit gauche’! As if anyone in her right mind puts a beautiful piece like that outside. And over a garden shed!” Scraping back the waves and curls, I twist them up from my nape and into a roll. “‘Going once…tick, tick, tick…’” I come to the end of my hair and tuck the ends down. “‘Going twice…tick, tick, tick…’” I straighten, and only then realize I don’t have clips or bobby pins.
But I have a pencil, which will do me one better by giving me a look of learnedness (is that a word?). I swoop down and snatch No. 2 from my binder. Using the sharpened tip, I weave it through the roll, securing it to the hair at my scalp.
“There.” Considering my reflection and the pert red eraser and half inch of yellow barrel projecting from the top of the roll, I put my hands on my hips. “I believe we understand each other now, don’t you, Ms. Turnbridge?” I nod, only to scowl. “‘Secondhand goods’! ‘Eight hundred dollars’! I am not a dingle-dangle–wearing, knobby-headed floozy. I am—”
“Maggie Pickwick.”
“You got that right!” I lock eyes with my reflection. But the Maggie in the mirror isn’t the one who spoke. No, unfortunately that would be the man reflected in the mirror’s upper right corner.
Oh, Lord. Not him. Not now. But it is. And I know who did this—the one who asked if I was holding a viewing today. Uncle Obe, you are so bad!
“Why, there she is,” says a gravelly voice as a bright yellow blotch appears alongside the man in the mirror.
Speak of the—No, I will not think it. Even if he is in my bad graces.
“A sight for sore eyes.” My uncle moves toward me in his puffy yellow jacket. “My niece Magdalene Pickwick, owner of Serendipity Auction Services.”
Stop staring at your reflection, you mirror monger. Move it! No? Well, at least give me a little air here or, I declare, I’ll topple you off those stupid heels.
Hoping Reece hadn’t heard all of my mirror talk, I retrieve my binder—and a smile—from the floor. “Uncle Obe, what are you doing here?” And how did he get past me without—The rear entrance. Clip, clip, clip go my heels as I hurry toward where he is advancing on me with a sturdier stride than I’ve seen in some time.
As I hug the man beneath the bright jacket, he says, “I rode into town with Ida and had her drop me here while she’s running errands.” He nods over his shoulder. “This here is Reece Thorpe, our resident…” He blinks. “…artist. I was showin’ him around the old theater.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Oh?” I drop back and look toward the partially shadowed man whom I would have preferred to remain in the mirror.
Having put a shoulder to the wall, he holds my gaze with only a wrinkle of expression. I’d like to believe the wrinkle is curiosity—or something equally benign—but considering the way we left things between us, it’s probably disdain.
Uncle Obe turns to Reece. “Our artist is still on the lookout for studio space to sculpt that fine statue for our town.”
I tense my facial muscles to hold my smile in place as all of me rails against the unthinkable…the inconceivable…the inevitable…
“We took a look at the east storage room, and Reece here thinks it might be just what he needs.” Rocking heel to toe, Uncle Obe gives a satisfied nod.
My laugh is short and sharp. “But that room is part of the auction house.”
“It’s not being used. Just sitting there—a dusty, gaping hole.”
“But I have plans for it.” Just as soon as business doubles and I need an overflow room to store auction items.
“I wouldn’t want to interfere with your plans.” Reece pulls a toothpick from his mouth and strides forward.
No! Back! I’ve seen more than enough of him, have no reason to verify whether his beautiful eyes are still the dark green of pine needles or lashes as thick as wild bramble.
“Nonsense,” Uncle Obe says. “It’s perfect. You said so yourself, Reece. Right here on the town square where the statue will be erected, access to the loading dock, plenty of s-space, ample sunlight, blessed quiet, and—”
“Quiet!” I grab the word and, ignoring Reece where he halts five feet away, angle nearer my uncle. “Obviously you haven’t been here on auction day. Why, the noise the crowd makes!” My attempt to infuse excitement into my voice causes my drawl to kick in full force, and I clear my throat. “You can’t hear a thing above the shouting.”