“You must have quite a collection if you buy them in bulk like that,” Griff commented when “their” bid topped all others.
“Collection? Nah. Personally, I wouldn’t give you two cents for any dirty old hunk of glass,” the older man retorted, his lined face scrunched up with disdain.
“Then why…?”
“eBay,” the man shot back, before Griff finished the question. He pulled a business card from the chest pocket of his green plain shirt. “Online I’m known as BottleMeister—look me up sometime.”
Griff just nodded, then turned to find Rose regarding him with amusement.
Rose watched him for a moment, then chuckled and held up her card to bid on a white metal candelabra. She was high bidder on that and an assortment of other small items, as well as a pine bureau, a vanity with a three-panel hinged mirror and a wicker settee. All of which she planned to paint white for some reason that completely escaped him, but evidently made perfect sense to everyone else in what he had at some point come to think of as “their group.”
When the time came to load it all into the truck, he groaned silently. In spite of the cane, he was by far the youngest and fittest male in “their group.” But as he hauled and lifted and wedged things into the van and truck, he began to take grudging pleasure in the sense that his stock was rising with each item he loaded. By the time he closed the van’s rear doors, even the Yoo-Hoo Lady had warmed up to him.
“I sure wish our Rosie had gotten that bed,” she said to him, looking wistfully at the narrow bed being lifted into the truck parked beside them. On the side of the oversize cab, Chubby’s Treasures was written in block letters on the door. Pretty mundane, he found himself thinking, wondering what else would appear there if Chubby turned Rose loose with her paint box.
“It’s the perfect bed,” Clare continued.
“Perfect for a prison inmate, maybe,” he suggested, drawing a withering glance from his companion. “Sorry, that’s what it looked like to me, a prison bed—and a pretty dirty one at that.” He suddenly thought to add “Though I suppose a little white paint would fix that in no time.”
“Now, that’s using your head the way God intended,” she said, looking at him a little less like he was a fish she was fixing to throw back. “By ‘perfect’ I mean it’s exactly the style of bed she’s been wanting for her Bed of Roses project.” Clare sighed heavily. “I tried to tell her they were starting without her. Of course, even I had no way of knowing Ben was starting with that particular bed.”
He shoved his hands in his pocket, feeling guilty. He knew that Clare knew he was the reason Rose had dallied in the parking lot and missed out on the prison bed.
“What Bed of Roses project?” he asked in spite of himself.
“It’s something special she has planned for her garden. She’s going to use an old iron bed as the focal point and plant rosebushes all in where the mattress would be, so it will look like…”
“A bed of roses,” he finished for her, needing no further explanation of an idea that he knew would have struck him as the epitome of bizarre only a few days ago, but now made a strange kind of sense.
He was leaning against the van to take the weight off his left leg. Clare sidled over to join him, her tone turning conspiratorial as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the shadows, waiting for the others to settle up inside.
“The bed idea is what Rose calls ‘thinking outside the box,’” she informed him. “That’s when you forget everything you thought you knew about a thing and look at it with new eyes. There are some who don’t understand that sort of thinking at all,” she told him, the curl of her lip expressing contempt for those unfortunate souls. “But not Rose. Our Rose is very good at thinking outside the box.”
She cocked her head and cast a frankly probing eye on him. “How about you, young man? You any good at thinking outside the box when you need to?”
“Well, Clare,” he said, “it’s like this. I’m still learning.”
It took a second, but the glint in her sharpshooter, blue eyes turned from suspicion to approval. “That’s an honest enough answer. I like that in a fellow.”
Feeling as if he’d just made it into the next round of the championship spelling bee, he relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath, savoring what had turned out to be a surprisingly good night. Aside from Rose, there had been good food, interesting company, and it was entirely possible that in coming up with that answer, he’d just done some genuine outside-the-box thinking.
Rose would know, he thought. He’d have to remember to run it by her later.
Chapter Eight
“If you’re not in a hurry to get home, I’d like to swing by Willow Haven and drop this stuff off tonight. I won’t have time before work tomorrow,” Rose explained, as they pulled onto the highway, “and I know how eager they always are to inspect new acquisitions.”
“I’ve got the whole night,” he replied. “Not that it will take long to unload. Most of their stuff fit in the van. I could probably have gotten all of it in there, but it would have been a tight squeeze. And frankly, a few of the passengers look like their bones are on the brittle side.”
“Very prudent of you,” she said, remembering to avoid all the S words, such as sweet and sensitive, but not because she was fooled by his dry tone or indifferent attitude. Bringing him along tonight had not been a test, at least not one she’d consciously planned, but if it had been, Griff had passed with ease.
Elderly folks could be difficult to get along with. They didn’t want to be patronized and they didn’t want to be treated as if they were already dead, and each had his or her own notion as to where the line ought to be drawn between the two. A lot of younger people couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. Or else they could not get past the age spots and cataracts and connect with the person inside enough to see that being seventy is a lot like being forty, only with worse vision and more wrinkles.
Gradually, throughout the night, Griff had managed to strike the right balance, and he had done it with a grace and a respect that reinforced all the good things she surmised about the man, and made his rough spots seem insignificant by comparison.
“It’s true they’re not as limber as they used to be,” she agreed, “but they’re a surprisingly lively group just the same.”
“You got that right.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe a little too lively for their own good in some cases. At the risk of being…indiscreet, I think I should tell you that the little lady with the pink cat’s-eye glasses…Minnie? She goosed me when I was helping her friend into the van.”
Rose swung her gaze from the road long enough to see if he was serious.
He held up a few fingers. “Scouts’ honor.”
Her laughter bubbled uncontrollably. “Why, that sly devil Minnie.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, it won’t be if she tries it with the wrong guy,” he insisted, sounding disgruntled.
“You mean someone who’s not an officer and a gentleman?”
“Something like that.”
“She won’t. Minnie has exquisite taste in men.”
“That’s a relief.” His tone was dry. “I was afraid she zeroed in on me because I looked easy.”
“Not at all. I’m sure she just found you…irresistible.”
“Thanks.”
“Would you like her phone number?”
“No thanks.” He paused, then added, “It so happens I have my eye on someone else at the moment. Someone I find pretty irresistible.”
“Is that so?”
“It sure is.” Reaching across the seat, he put his hand on her shoulder, sliding it beneath the tendrils of hair that had loosened during the evening, and curling his fingers around the back of her neck. The touch was slow and gentle, and Rose felt it in every fiber of her body.
“This someone else—the one you have your eye on—is she a younger woman?”
“She claims to be. Not
that it matters,” he added, his voice pitched low and threaded with amusement. “I’m not one of those people hung up on age.”
“How very open-minded of you,” she countered.
“I do my best.” He began kneading her neck with the same slow and easy touch. Considering that they were in the high-speed lane of I-95, the effect he was having on her concentration was dangerous. “But young or old, what she is, this woman I have my eye on, is…unique.”
“Unique? In what way?”
“Every way.”
“That tells me a lot,” she retorted, exasperated by his reply and struggling to keep her speed constant and the truck in its own lane, as his caress continued to send pleasure sliding through her. She’d had no idea that the back of her neck was so sensitive.
“She’s unique because she does things to me that no other woman ever has. Things I’m beginning to think no other woman ever could. She can make me think and make me laugh and make me crazy…sometimes all within a matter of minutes.”
“Maybe she’s mentally ambidextrous. Or something.”
She could feel his smile, feel it as surely and sweetly as she could feel his fingers on her neck. It wasn’t possible, of course—you couldn’t feel a smile—but that didn’t make it any less true. A lot of things she’d considered impossible were happening to her lately.
“Maybe she is,” he agreed, his deep voice stroking her in a different way. “I’m sure looking forward to finding out.”
The turn for Willow Haven was just ahead. “Well,” she ventured, hitting the turn signal lever, “you know what they say.”
“No. What do they say?”
“They say…” Rose pursed her lips, trying to reorganize the thought that had been so clear and simple just a second ago. “Hold on, I remember…they say anything worth having, is worth waiting for.”
“Sounds reasonable. The problem is that they only say that some of the time.” He smiled and squeezed her neck, as she pulled the truck under the canopied entrance and stopped. “Other times, they say if you get tired of waiting for your ship to come in, you ought to swim out to meet it.”
“I’ve heard that one, too. So how the heck is a person supposed to know the right thing to do?” she grumbled.
“I suppose it comes down to how good a swimmer you are.”
His kiss caught her off guard. It was quick and hard and smack on the mouth, and he was out of the truck before she had her door open.
Bum leg or not, something warned her that Griffin was a very good swimmer.
The van had arrived just ahead of them, and some of the night shift appeared suddenly to help with the unloading, making quick work of it. There followed a chorus of good-nights, and Rose was about to climb back behind the wheel, when she remembered the news clipping she had tucked into her purse earlier.
She hurried to catch the aide who was holding the door for the stragglers. “Linda, would you do me a big favor and give this to Gus O’Flaherty in room 121? It’s a little late for visitors.”
“I’d be glad to, Rose.”
Rose handed her the clipping. “Thanks. Just tell him it’s the article about slow-release fertilizer that I mentioned last week.”
The other woman chuckled. “Knowing Gus, I’m sure he’ll be tickled.”
She glanced at her watch as they drove away, surprised it was as late as it was. Usually by this hour she was exhausted and eager to get home. Instead, she felt wide-awake—restless even.
“As long as you’re not in a hurry, how about stopping by the shop and checking up on this lead from Clare?”
“Now? It’s the middle of the night in London.”
“True, but that’s the beauty of the World Wide Web—twenty-four-hour access.”
“Virtual access,” he corrected.
She shrugged. “Works for me. In fact, I had some time this morning, and I thought I would get a head start by seeing what I could find out about this British dealer whom Clare was referred to by the friend of a friend.”
“And?”
“He’s strictly first-class. Has a shop on Portobello Road and a very impressive online site.” She hesitated, then added, “So impressive, in fact, that I took the liberty of making an offer on your behalf.”
He winced when she named the amount.
“It’s a lot of money, I know, but considering the quality and scarcity of what you’re buying, it’s to be expected.” She paused, deciding on the best approach, then said, “You know, Griff, you don’t have to follow through on this. The thought and effort you’ve shown is itself a tribute to Devora, and I am sure she would not expect—”
“You’re wrong,” he interrupted. “This is something I have to see through to the end. There’s no other way, believe me.”
“Then you’re not upset I made an offer without checking first?”
“Hell, no. If you say it’s reasonable, that’s good enough for me.”
His confidence pleased her. “Good. I could have withdrawn it, but it’s not considered good etiquette.”
“I’m glad you got the ball rolling on this. The sooner we strike a deal, the sooner we can cross one of the damn things off the list. And that’s what this is all about, after all.”
“I’m hoping Shippington—that’s the dealer’s name—has responded to my e-mail by now. Usually I bring my laptop home with me, but it must have slipped my mind this afternoon.”
She spoke offhandedly, as if she didn’t know exactly why the computer, along with assorted other bits and pieces of her usual routine, had developed this tendency to slip her mind lately. There was no slipped about it. There simply wasn’t enough room there since Griff had moved in and started staking claim to every crack and crevice of her thoughts.
“Ideally, I would have liked to simply visit the site several times and see if we could tempt him to make the first move by enquiring if we were interested in the Borealis piece.”
“Does it really matter who makes the first move?”
“Does it matter? Does the sun rise in the morning?”
“Well, if you want a technical answer…”
“Wrong analogy,” she interrupted. “The point is that it matters very much when you’re dealing with rare collectibles, which don’t have a fixed, generally accepted price—the way, say, a loaf of bread or a cup of coffee has. There is no such thing as comparison shopping if a buyer can’t go around the corner—or even around the world—and purchase the same thing. That means the item’s value is determined by how badly the buyer wants it. If two or more buyers want it badly, all the better for the seller. And so it becomes a game of strategy, high-stakes tic-tac-toe, if you will. And who makes the first move can be critical.”
“Sounds like tic-tac-toe meets virtual haggling,” he observed wryly. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” she assured him with a confident smile. “That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, remember?”
“It’s tough to forget when you’re constantly scribbling in that logbook of yours.”
“That’s because I don’t trust my memory. You don’t want to be billed twice, do you?”
“No, ma’am. Speaking of memory, you said something back there that jogged mine.”
“What was it?”
“A name. Gus O’Flaherty. I couldn’t help overhearing you mention it to that nurse by the door.”
“That’s right, I did. Do you know Gus?”
“I know a man named Gus O’Flaherty,” he told her. “At least, I used to. I’m not sure he’s the same one.”
“What are the odds of there being another Augustus Finnegan O’Flaherty?”
“You have a point,” he said, chuckling. “Augustus Finnegan O’Flaherty.”
Something different in his tone drew Rose’s attention from the road briefly. Something she hadn’t heard there before. Wonder, she decided, growing even more curious about how he knew Gus.
“You’re right. It has to be the same guy,” he declared.
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“Do you know him from around here?”
He nodded. “He used to do some work for my aunt.”
“Really? Devora never mentioned it.”
“No reason she should. It was a long time ago.”
“I always assumed she knew Gus from doing business with the nursery.”
“Nursery?”
“You know, the kind with shrubs and garden supplies. Before his stroke, Gus ran that big place out on Route 4.”
“That’s news to me.”
“I know Devora would stop in and say hi to Gus whenever she drove out to Willow Haven to visit her—”
“Whoa. Hold on. Devora didn’t drive.”
She shot him a dubious look. “Of course she drove. Why else would there be a big old Buick parked in her garage?”
“I’m telling you, my aunt never learned to drive,” he insisted. “It was one of that long list of things she didn’t consider ladylike. And she certainly didn’t drive a big old Buick.”
“And I’m telling you that I’ve been in that Buick with Devora at the wheel, and we were moving.” She shrugged. “I call that driving. What do you call it?”
Ignoring the question, he said, “I know someone who did drive a Buick, though. Dark blue with white interior.”
“That’s the one. Who…?”
“Gus O’Flaherty, that’s who. The damn thing must be nearly forty years old. Hell, I couldn’t have been more than ten the first time I sat for hours on the hood of that car.”
“Really?” she said, both confused and fascinated. “Just what sort of work did Gus do for your aunt Devora?”
His brow creased as he tried to remember. “All kinds of stuff. He trimmed the shrubs and hung the shutters. I think he used to cut the grass, before that became my job.”
“No surprise there. I mean, that Devora made you earn your keep,” she explained, the affection in her voice reflected in Griff’s smile.
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