by Tamara Leigh
“Not tonight,” he says as she leads him back into the library.
I’m not the only one watching them. So are Piper and Bridget and Uncle Obe. Pajama time.
The Father Quotient stares back at me with its pluses and minuses, including those littering Reece’s row. Although in addition to not being a Pickwick resident, he has added another minus under Mom’s Interest (she has no idea), his plus tally is impressive, and goodness knows how many more he’ll rack up after tonight.
I scan the column headings. Intellectual Games and Table Manners will certainly earn him more plus marks, and I wouldn’t be surprised if, surrounded by the books in Uncle Obe’s library, Devyn undertakes to discover his status as a Reader. The next heading makes me step back. Not that it’s a new addition. It just never before stared me down.
Forgiving. I shake my head. Now that might earn Reece a minus. Well, if Devyn knew the situation. I pray she never will, that she won’t know the worst of me, that her quest for a father will be rewarded, that she will be as unscathed as possible. Which reminds me, I need to get on the whereabouts of Chase Elliot.
As I turn out of the closet, a stuffed animal on the shelf above Devyn’s hanging clothes catches my eye. The Easter bunny is adorably disproportionate, his little head barely visible above an enormous tummy tightly wedged between huge paddlelike feet. “Zaftig.” I smile. “Definitely zaftig.”
Buoyed by satisfaction at my efforts to increase my vocabulary, I’m unprepared for Piper’s voice that memory whispers into my ear, “For, whoever would love life and see good days must keep his tongue from evil and his lips from deceitful speech.”
With a sinking feeling, I exit Devyn’s closet and close the door. Piper is right, but knowing it and that my time would be better spent in the Word as opposed to my daily words, doesn’t change the fact that, like the bunny’s tummy, I’m tightly wedged. But I do have a pry bar, and its name is Chase Elliot. Now I just have to find him.
Why do I have this feeling it’s going to be a bad day? For one, when I peeked between the curtains, who should be among the auctiongoers but one of “& Sons,” the eldest of Puck & Sons. For two, Seth was out there—recently returned from Japan—and had claimed a front-row seat. And for three…
I hold Mrs. Templeton’s bristling gaze. “You did what?” She props her fists on her hips.
“She sassed me, so I sent her sorry little behind packin’. Yes, I did.”
So ten minutes before the first opening bid, I’m out one attractive college student whose job is to present the items so I can concentrate on the bidding—bad. But even worse is “& Sons” (a.k.a. Macon Puck) in the crowd and Seth, who left a voice message last night saying he’s back and has good news and really needs to talk to me.
Lord, grant me a heaping helping of peace. Please.
“What?” Mrs. Templeton’s posture is rigidly defensive. “You think I ought to have let her bruise me up one side and down the other with her disrespect? Oh no. It was her or me, and since you have a mighty need for my services, she had to go. And good riddance. Um-hmm. If the Lord don’t get ahold of that one soon, she’s goin’”—she hikes her eyebrows out of sight beneath her pouffy bangs—“you know where.”
Let’s see your daily word get you out of this one. I know. I should have spent time in God’s Word this morning, but I was running late, and then there was the excitement over today’s daily word—a perfect fit for auction day—and the next thing I knew, I was pulling out the dictionary to further explore the meaning of loquacious.
I clear my throat. “So, who am I going to get on short notice—make that no notice—to present my items?”
Mrs. Templeton grabs the lapels of her lavender, lace-trimmed jacket that made me do a double take minutes earlier. “That would be me. I scooted over to Betty Sorgham’s antique shop, and she loaned me this here jacket right off her own body.”
But that woman doesn’t like me, believing as she does that my business has hurt hers. I beg to differ, since she always gets busy after my auctions, when unsuccessful bidders go looking for something similar at her shop. Apparently, Mrs. Templeton has an “in” with cranky Betty.
“Well?” Mrs. Templeton flaps the lapels, which draws attention to the worn button-up man’s shirt beneath.
As upset as I am with her, I hold it in. It won’t do any good to remind her who’s boss, and besides, I actually like her a little and have reason to appreciate her a lot, so much that I haven’t tried to replace her. However, the thought of having her up on stage, especially with Macon wearing a smirk as broad as a smooshed Little Debbie cake—
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Missy Pickwick, who believes I’m too old.” She wags a stubby finger. “But I’m the one who catalogued the merchandise, so I know it about as well as you—and certainly better than that disrespectful floozy.”
I have no choice. “Okay, let’s do it.”
For the first hour, all goes well despite the confusion on the faces of my regular attendees as they watch Mrs. Templeton do her thing, the smirk I knew to expect, and Seth’s stream of thumbs-ups. Mrs. Templeton holds up each auction item, slowly turns it front to back, and points to the features I call out. But then comes the potato masher.
“Early twentieth century,” I say into my headset. “The shaft is made of fruitwood, as is the circular wooden base.”
Most everyone appears bored with this domestic, low-end offering. However, that doesn’t mean a battle won’t be fought. A half-dozen women, nearly all over the age of sixty, eye the kitchen tool that resembles an Alice in Wonderland–sized mushroom. Well, not that big, but big. And upside-down.
“Let’s start the bidding at 20 dollars. Who will give me 20?”
Four paddles shoot into the air, a good sign, since it’s not worth much more than that. Now 30. Now 35. 40? Yes! Now 45. And there the bidding stalls, but just as I’m about to bang the gavel, one of my ringmen squeezes the extra 5 dollars out of a beetle-browed eighty-year-old spinster.
I smile. “Thank you, ma’am. Who will give me 50?”
Another stall, though the ringmen work it for all they’re worth. I raise the gavel.
“Why, Ginny Jean,” Mrs. Templeton exclaims, “why are you holdin’ tight to your pocketbook?” Her polyester-covered legs make whooshy sounds as she scoots to the edge of the stage. “You know you want this here tater masher. It wasn’t but last month you were sayin’ they don’t make mashers the way they used to—said you’d give an arm and a leg for a real one.”
The seventy-something Ginny Jean stares open mouthed at Mrs. Templeton. And all the while, Macon smirks.
This is not how I run my auctions. I clear my throat. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mrs. Templeton, but—”
She tosses up a hand to silence me, then whooshes to the steps and descends them.
Oh no. “Mrs. Templeton—”
“Hold your horses, Missy Pickwick. I’m workin’ the crowd.”
Macon guffaws.
The ringman near Ginny Jean looks askance at me.
Mrs. Templeton halts before the other woman, grabs her hand, and sets it on the circular wooden base. “Fruitwood that is, and smooth as a baby’s bottom. Ain’t never mashed nothin’ but soft taters. Feel good, don’t it?”
Ginny Jean’s smile rises as if from the dead. “Why yes, it is smooth.”
“Yup. Now you gonna give another five dollars, or you gonna regret to your dyin’ day that you didn’t have this beauty in your kitchen?”
“Well, I don’t cook much nowadays.”
“But you still like mashed taters, don’t you? What with your dentures and all?”
Frowning, Ginny Jean takes the masher from Mrs. Templeton and examines it. “Maybe I’d cook more if I had this.”
“Fifty?” Mrs. Templeton asks.
Ginny Jean nods, then peers at the eighty-year-old spinster. “And higher, so don’t waste your time or my money, Erlinda.”
Erlinda goes, “Humph,” and we’re off again
. Five minutes later, Ginny Jean is the proud owner of a potato masher. Wow, seventy dollars for something Betty Sorgham would probably sell for thirty.
I call a break, during which Mrs. Templeton and I are going to have a little talk.
As the attendees head for the lobby, I remove the headset and turn from the podium.
“How’re you, Mag?”
“Hey, Maggie.”
The voice that slides in first belongs to Macon; the second belongs to Seth. I look at Mrs. Templeton’s retreating back, but I can’t pretend I didn’t hear the men.
I turn to where they stand below the stage. Macon’s grin is self-satisfied; Seth’s is hopeful. Mine is forced. “Yes?”
“You know,” Macon says, “you might be onto somethin’, Mag.”
I hate being called that, and he knows it, since I took issue with it when I worked for his father and he started calling me that after I politely declined several dinner invitations. I knew he wanted what I’d denied him when we were in high school, but he refused to believe those days were behind me.
“I might be onto what?”
“The old lady thing. Get a bunch of biddies fightin’ over a bone and”—he claps his hands—“money!”
And people say my brother, Luc, is oily. “I suppose this means you intend to hire Mrs. Templeton out from under me like you did my former assistant.”
He chuckles. “That would be an act of desperation, which Puck & Sons has no need to resort to, unlike a certain competitor.” He wiggles his eyebrow—and I do mean that in the singular sense.
Resisting the temptation to further the advantage of the three feet I stand over him from atop the stage, I glance at Seth. Hands in pockets, chin down, he appears to be examining his shoes.
I sigh. If he were Reece, this exchange would have been over long ago.
“No, Mag, I was just bein’ sarcastic in a pals-y way.” Putting on that smushed smirk, Macon draws a thumb and forefinger down either side of his scraggly attempt at a goatee.
“Sarcastic?” I frown. “Why? The fighting over one bone worked just fine. In fact, that potato masher pulled in double what I expected. The law of supply and demand at work.”
Good-bye, Little Debbie cake. And look at that—his unibrow is attempting to shorten itself right in the middle.
I shift my gaze to Seth. “Is there something—?”
“Yeah, well,” Macon says, “it’s a pity that law is gonna be workin’ against you before too long.”
I sense a red flag. “How’s that?”
He looks around. “This theater—er, auction house. I hear it’s gonna be on the block soon so’s your uncle can square up them family debts y’all accumulated.”
Once again, the imaginary corset cinches.
Macon resettles his vile attention on me. “Leastwise, that’s what your brother told me when I took a test drive in one of them fancy sports cars on his lot.”
Thanks, Luc. Not that I believe his slip was intentional. I am his sister, after all. No, more than likely, he wasn’t thinking, set as he was on making a sale. Searching for a clever response to hide my alarm, I glance at Seth, but his cuticles are now the height of interest.
“Yep,” Macon says, “my daddy’s lookin’ forward to taking this dump in hand.”
Cinch, cinch.
He throws his arms wide. “Puck & Sons Auction World. Can you see it?” He grins. “Maybe you could come work for us again.”
Though I manage to squeeze in one more Lord, grant me peace, out of my mouth comes, “Work for Puck & Sons? Why, I’d—”
“That’s assuming Serendipity is going out of business,” says a voice from behind.
Lord, I said peace, not Reece. But okay. While I know I should resent his interference, I’m grateful, since it gives me time to whip my temper into shape.
“I wouldn’t count on it, Macon,” Reece continues.
“Why, if it isn’t Reece Thorpe.” Macon smiles. “I heard you’re gonna sculpt us a new statue to replace the one crazy Obadiah Pickwick dumped in the lake.”
“He’s not crazy,” I snap.
Up goes that unibrow again. “Um-hmm.”
Hearing Reece’s advance, I glance at Seth, for some reason expecting him to spring into action now that an example has been set. Although he is no longer absorbed in his body parts, neither does he appear inclined to defend my family or me. He stands there, looking from Point A (Macon) to Point B (me) to Point C (Reece).
Reece halts alongside me, and though pride tempts me to refuse his assistance, I stand taller and steal a glance at him.
“The auction is about to resume, Macon,” he says around the toothpick.
The other man peers over his shoulder at those beginning to trickle in. “Yeah?”
“That’s your cue to report to your daddy.”
Macon narrows his lids at Reece, but as I tense in anticipation of a scene, he shrugs. “I’ll do that. Have a nice day, Mag. Oh, and you too, Seth.”
“Why, thank you, Macon.” As the other man turns away, Seth looks to Reece. “It’s been a while.”
Reece nods. “It has.”
“Well, good luck on that statue.” Seth’s dismissal is obvious, but Reece doesn’t move from my side, causing annoyance to take over Seth’s face. “You got my message last night, Maggie?”
“I did.”
“How about an early supper, then? Like I said, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Please, not another offer of marriage. “I—”
“Sorry, Seth,” Reece says, “Maggie and Devyn are having dinner with me. Or, rather, I’m having dinner with them.”
As I stare at him, it strikes me that he may simply be rescuing me from Seth as he rescued me from Macon—that my daughter didn’t, in fact, issue an invitation.
Reece looks at me with a seemingly genuine smile. “Devyn tells me your macaroni bake is the best.”
Mrs. Templeton isn’t the only one with whom I need to have a talk.
“I see.” Seth’s face tightens. “Then we’ll have to make it for later. I’ll call you, Maggie.”
“All right.”
He heads up the aisle toward the lobby. Once he’s out of earshot, I turn to Reece. “Devyn shouldn’t have invited you to dinner without first speaking with me.”
He studies my face. “You’re welcome.”
Embarrassment softening my tense shoulders, I lift my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I—” At the realization we’re drawing attention, I motion for him to follow me backstage. Once behind the curtains, I say, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your helping me with Seth and Macon, but the auction is bound to run late and I won’t have time to make macaroni bake. I’m sorry that Devyn—”
“She didn’t.” He removes the toothpick from his mouth. “She only broached the possibility, said she had to discuss it with you first.”
That’s my girl. Of course, I would have preferred she hadn’t “broached” at all. “Good.” I check my watch. Show time.
“I’ll bring dinner,” Reece says as I part the curtains. “Seven late enough for you?”
I snatch my hand back. “Reece…” What do I say?
His eyebrows lower. “Don’t make this any harder for me than you already have, Maggie. I’m not certain what the future holds or how I’m going to fit a child into it, but I want to know my daughter, and right now my time in Pickwick is limited.”
Right now? Meaning that could change?
“Dinner,” he says.
I sigh. “Make it seven thirty.”
He starts to turn away but pauses. “Devyn told me she’s never had sushi. Are you okay with that?”
I frown. “Raw fish?”
“Not all of it’s raw. I’ll bring a variety to ease you into it.”
I didn’t even know you could get that stuff in Pickwick. My, we’ve come a long way. “Whatever you want, but don’t worry about me. I’ll make soup for myself.”
He nods and heads
toward his studio.
I touch my cross necklace. “Raw fish.” I straighten my blouse’s collar. “Slimy.” I smooth my navy blazer. “No way.”
“You ain’t old enough to be conversin’ with yourself.” Mrs. Templeton’s crotchety voice falls around me like a spray of gravel.
I pivot, ready to unload the talk I need to have with her but am surprised by her smile that makes her appear years younger.
“We done good, hmm?” She halts before me. “If we can get seventy dollars for a tater masher, just think what we’ll get for that old washboard and Miss Jean’s miniature bottle collection and those leather steamer trunks from your uncle’s estate.” Her eyes twinkle. “And here you thought I was too old. I done proved you wrong. Go ahead; admit it.”
As I stare at the transformed woman, the talk sticks in my throat. Though I need to lay down some rules, it can wait. “We make a good team, Mrs. Templeton.” I nod toward the stage. “Ready?”
“Just try and put a bit in my mouth.” She hurries past me.
Four hours later, my nerves dangerously unpluckable, the receipts from today’s auction prove that Mrs. Templeton is as big a hit as Martha’s pies. Maybe it won’t be such a bad day after all.
According to statistics, the average age of marriage for men in the U.S. is 26.8 years. That means you’re not average, Mr. Reece.”
I nearly choke on the sushi I had no intention of sampling. Working my throat muscles to keep the soy-sauce-steeped tuna, rice, and seaweed from heading toward my lungs, I look at Reece.
Seemingly unperturbed by Devyn’s conclusion, he reaches his chopsticks to the tray of sushi and pinches an ultraraw salmon. “That’s not a bad thing, not to be average.”
“True.” She snags a piece of spicy shrimp. “But you don’t want to be an outlier—in your case, getting too far right of the bell curve. If so, you could end up a lonely old man.”
Why couldn’t they have stayed on the topic of bronze casting? I may not have found the method of producing a sculpture fascinating, but it was safe.
Fortunately, Reece laughs, and I’m grateful he knows about her Father Quotient so he won’t think I had anything to do with this discussion.