Maybe they were lovers.
I’m really letting my imagination run wild. Interracial lesbians in the 1950s! That would be enough to keep anyone in hiding. But if they had plenty of money and no family, why stay in Palmyrton? Why not run off to Paris or Greenwich Village and live like bohemians?
This is crazy! I glance at the clock. Nearly eleven. Why is Sean so late? Normally, I hate the idea of checking up on my husband, but thinking of the widow Vareena, whose marriage lasted only months, makes me paranoid. I reach for my phone and text.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. Home soon.”
Not much information, but he’s alive. I tell myself to go to sleep.
But my fevered brain keeps churning. I’m dying to explore that house and find out more about the women who lived there. I long to sell those antiques and earn a pile of fast money for the Parks Center so my dad can start his Math Explorers. I want to pay off all my bills, pump up my savings, and give Ty the bonus he deserves.
I really want that job.
On the nightstand, my phone pings the arrival of an email. I’ll never get any sleep if I keep messing with my phone. But I reach out and click.
Sender: Levi Jefferson
Subject line: Tate Mansion.
Trembling, I open the email.
Audrey,
Thank you so much for taking the time to discuss this project with us. Unfortunately, the Board has voted to award the project to Henry Bell. He has informed us that he is not interested in collaborating with you but rather with an antiques dealer with whom he has a professional relationship.
Regards,
Levi Jefferson
Chapter 14
GROGGY FROM MY SLEEPLESS night, I stumble into the office clutching an extra large coffee from Caffeine Planet to wake me up and a cinnamon donut to console me. I don’t know what time Sean finally got home last night. I guess I finally dozed off, and he was dead to the world this morning when I left the house.
I haven’t yet called my father.
So no one knows my bitter news but me. The more I stew, the more agitated I get. I’m not angry that the Board gave the job to Henry Bell, but I am rather wounded that Henry specifically declined to collaborate with me. I always thought we got along well. I wrack my brain trying to recall some incident when I might have offended him, but come up blank. Who is this other antiques dealer he has a professional relationship with? I can’t imagine.
I’m still fuming as Ty walks into the office. I decide not to tell him the news right now. No point in getting more agitated before we conduct this job interview.
Without consulting each other, Ty and I have both gotten dressed up for our appointment.
By dressed up, I mean I’m not wearing jeans with torn-out knees and Ty’s not wearing his Lil Uzi Vert t-shirt.
Ty looks me over. “You look good in those pants,” he says about the black straight-leg slacks that Maura made me spend seventy bucks on at Banana Republic.
“I’ve never seen that shirt before,” I say of his pale yellow button-down with a subtle blue stripe. “It’s a good color for you.”
“I worked the outlet mall with Marcus last week. That man surely can shop.” Ty looks around the office, which has become cluttered with boxes and piles of paperwork since Adrienne’s departure. “I shoulda cleared some of this shit out. Too late now.”
I straighten the papers on my desk into neat stacks. “She’s supposed to be impressing us.” I’m feeling a little defensive. Anyone who’d be willing to work in our chaotic office probably isn’t the kind of person we want to hire. But the Armentrout sale, the job I landed through networking at the 1780 Club fundraiser, is coming up this weekend and we need help badly. “Let’s review the key questions we want to ask.”
Ty ticks off points on his long fingers. “Gotta be willing to work weekends. Gotta be willing to get her hands dirty. Gotta know how to make crap look sweet. Can’t be a bossy-ass bitch.”
I’m pretty sure the last requirement is the most important. For both of us.
We hear a car door slam outside. “That’s her. Now listen—no matter how much we like her, we’re not offering her the job on the spot. We need to talk it over, then call her back. Agreed?”
“Gotcha.”
Moments later, Donna Frascatelli makes her entrance.
There’s really no other way to describe it. She raps on the door, but before Ty can answer, she’s come in preceded by a strong scent that’s both familiar and out-of-place.
“Hi! I found you! I was worried. I’ve never been on this street before. Isn’t that crazy? I‘ve lived my whole life in Florham Park, not ten miles away, and I’ve never been to this part of Palmyrton. Usually when we come here it’s to go to Trattoria Rafaele, that restaurant on Elm. I love that place—so classy. My husband said I’d have trouble parking, but I found a spot right outside. Oh, I’m talking too much as usual. You must be Audrey. I’m Donna.”
She pumps my hand, and during that tsunami of words, I’ve pinpointed the scent. Hairspray. Lots of it. Donna has a mane of black wavy hair that’s been glued into a towering crown around her head. She’s wearing skin-tight black jeans, stiletto silver heels, and a black, hot pink, and silver knit top that reveals her impressive cleavage. She offers a big smile with shiny, hot pink lips while batting eyelashes as thick as wooly bear caterpillars.
I cast a nervous glance at Ty, who is stunned into silence.
A Jersey Girl. A living, breathing stereotype.
“Uhm...thanks for coming in. This is my assistant, Ty Griggs.”
“Hi! You remind me of someone. Now who is it? Oh, I know—that actor, the handsome one who got the award for that movie that everyone was talking about. But I haven’t seen it because my husband hates going to the movies, so I gotta wait until it’s on Netflix or HBO or something. But you look like him. I bet you hear that all the time, right?”
I jump in before Ty can utter the “What the hell you talkin’ about?” that I can practically see resting on his lips. “Let me tell you a little bit about the position.”
Donna droops her head. “I’m sorry. I know I’m talking too much. I do that when I’m nervous.”
At least she’s got some self-awareness. “Oh, no need to be nervous around us—Ty and I are pretty mellow.” I explain our business and how she’d be responsible for the phones, email, and helping to promote the sales.
Before I can continue, Donna jumps in. “I checked out your website. It’s very nice, but I could help you make it better...simplify the mailing list sign-up form, update your blog more often, improve your SEO.”
“You know HTML?” Ty asks.
“I’m not an expert or anything, but I picked up a little when I managed the hair salon, and then my nephew Frankie—he goes to New Jersey Institute of Technology—showed me some more stuff.”
Ty catches my eye and gives an approving nod. Working on the website is a chore that never seems to get done.
“Then when the sales come, we all work—set up, sell all day, tear down,” Ty explains. “Just want to be clear on this—you gotta work weekends in this job. Your kids got soccer and Little League, you’re gonna have to miss those games.”
Donna’s face loses some of its sparkle. “That’s not a problem. I don’t have kids. My husband, he’s got two boys from his first marriage. But they’re older. And they don’t want me coming to their stuff. Their mother does that.”
I look at the hot pink talons at the end of her fingers. “You know, this job involves some physical labor. Lots of packing.” I hold out my own hands, with their short-clipped nails. “You’re not going to be able to open and close boxes with that manicure.”
“Oh, these?” She snaps off one pink claw. “They’re fake. I just put them on for the interview.” She shows me the stubby natural nail beneath. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Like I said in my letter, I lo-o-o-ve to clean. You hire me, and I’ll have this office all fixed up in no time. No more cobwebs.”<
br />
I follow the direction of her gaze and realize there is a significant gray cluster in the ceiling corner over my desk. “Oops, I never noticed that,” I mutter.
“I saw it soon as I came in. My husband says I’ve got radar vision for dirt. My mom and my sisters have it too. All the Caponetti girls do. Genetic, I guess.”
“You get a chance to see plenty of dirt in this bizness,” Ty warns. “Dust, bugs, squirrels—every kind o’ crusty.”
“But lots of beautiful things too,” I interject, suddenly worried that Ty’s honesty will scare her off. I’m warming up to Donna. “Artwork, antiques, collectibles, jewelry.”
“That sounds so cool. I read about the sale you did in the fancy house in Melton. I would love to go inside houses like that. You know, just to see how the people live.”
Of course, that’s exactly what drew me to the estate sale business: the chance to peek behind the curtain. Now, Donna is really growing on me.
“We lookin’ for someone who’s in this for the long-haul, know what I’m sayin’?” Ty lifts Donna’s resume and turns it towards her. “You had an awful lotta different jobs the past few years.”
Donna’s dark eyes glance back and forth under those ridiculous fake eyelashes. “I...uhm...I know that doesn’t look good. But the one company, the pottery place, went out of business.”
Ty stays silent but keeps his gaze fixed on her.
Donna looks at me, but Ty is right—she needs to explain that job-hopping.
“And the salon, well, I was filling in for a girl on maternity leave. I was hoping she might not come back, but she did, so then I went to the restaurant, but that was all nights and I’m not really a night-owl, you know and so....”
Her voice drifts off and I notice her upper lip is trembling. “I dropped out of college when I was nineteen. My grades were good, but I missed home too much. I thought I’d go back, but then I got married and well....” Donna shakes her head. “I didn’t realize...I thought being a hard worker was enough.” She reaches across the desk and grabs my hand. Her fingers, under those spiky nails, are freezing cold. “Please. I really want this job. I’ll work so hard for you. You won’t regret it. I promise.”
I feel myself caving. Gingerly, I slide my hand away.
Ty steps in before I can say anything rash. “We got a couple more people to interview. We’ll call you by the end of the week.”
Donna stands. “It’s all right,” she says softly. “I understand.”
“Bye,” she whispers as she heads for the door. “Good luck with your sales.”
Ty jumps up. “Hey, I’m not messin’ with ya. We really will call back.”
She smiles faintly and slips out the door.
Ty stands at the window peering out the tiny gap between the shade and the frame.
“What did you think?” I ask.
“She talks too much.”
“Definitely. And who dresses like that for a job interview?”
“A ho. But....”
“I kinda like her,” I say.
“Yeah. There’s somethin’.... Oh, no!”
“What?”
“She out there next to her car, cryin’.”
I push Ty away to look. Sure enough, Donna Frascatelli’s silver and pink shoulders are shaking and she’s rooting through her huge purse. Now she’s mopping her eyes with a tissue.
Ty lopes to the door and flings it open. “Hey! You like sushi?”
Donna turns her tear-streaked face towards us. “I love it.”
“Okay, then. You hired.”
Chapter 15
I’M FEELING GOOD ABOUT our decision to hire Donna Frascatelli.
Yesterday was rough, what with having to tell Ty and my father and Sean about losing the Tate job. The men in my life had wildly different reactions.
Ty was defiant. “We be fine. Just gotta work double-hard on settin’ up the new online auction deal.”
Dad was rational. “The Board has made an unwise decision to put politics above financial solvency.”
But Sean’s response to the news threw me. He wasn’t upset at all. To say he was pleased would be going too far, but he did seem relieved. “That job would’ve been nothing but trouble. You don’t need that aggravation. Focus on the Armentrout gig.”
So today is the first day of our newly reformed Another Man’s Treasure team. Donna was available to start work immediately, and here she is right on time bearing her Dustbuster, her microfiber cleaning cloths, and a spray-bottle of distilled vinegar and water.
“It’s my secret weapon,” she informs us.
Ty had warned her that setting up a sale is hard, dirty work, so the high heels and long nails of the job interview are gone. Today her curly hair is pulled back in a scrunchie and her feet are shod in Keds. Without the heavy make-up, she looks much younger. She’s probably no older than I am.
While Ty and I assemble the supplies we’ll need to set up Birdie Armentrout’s sale, Donna bustles around the office sucking up cobwebs and sanitizing desktops. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says as she cleans under my calculator. “I can’t think straight around dust.”
On the ride to Melton, Donna seems much less nervous than during her interview. She asks me about my husband, and by the time we arrive, she knows all about Sean, Ethel, my father, and Adrienne. As we emerge from the car, I realize all I’ve learned about her is that her husband’s name is Anthony.
When we enter Birdie Armentrout’s house, Donna creeps around wide-eyed as a kid in Cinderella’s castle. “Wow! Look at these gorgeous drapes. And these sweet little lamps with the fringe-y shades.” She plunks out a few notes of Chopsticks on the baby grand piano. “This is so pretty, so classy.” She spins around to face me. “Are we going to sell all this? Doesn’t she have a family who wants to keep her pretty things?”
“Never married, no kids. Only a divorced brother with a small condo. He’s taken the few things he wants to keep. Everything here goes in the sale.”
“She has no sisters? No nieces and nephews? No cousins?” Donna sounds as incredulous as a flat-earther studying a globe.
“Two nephews, but they don’t live in New Jersey.”
Donna’s face crumples, and for a moment I think she’s actually going to cry. “Wow, that would never happen to me. By the time the Frascatellis and the Caponettis go through my stuff, there won’t even be a bone left in the fridge.”
“Well, good thing not everyone’s like your people or we wouldn’t have a bizness. C’mon—you and me are workin’ on the kitchen. Audge’ll do the pricing in here.” Ty herds Donna toward the back of the house, and I get busy.
Five hundred dollars for the impeccably clean matching loveseats, one-fifty for the large coffee table. Fifty for the lamps? A little high, but we can lower it early on Saturday morning if there isn’t even a nibble on Friday. As I work I can’t help but fantasize about the Tate mansion. I would be pricing items there in the thousands, not the hundreds—of that, I’m sure. But even more than the monetary value, I regret missing the chance to glimpse into such odd lives: two women living totally out-of-touch with the twenty-first century. How did they spend their days? Were they happy, or at least, content? Did they relish their self-imposed exile?
One thing I’m certain of: I would be able to get to know them through what they left behind.
Already, I’m getting to know Birdie Armentrout. She was fussy, I’m sure. There isn’t a stain or a spot or a snag anywhere in this room. Certainly, the possessions of the meticulous are easier to sell. But there’s something sad about them too. No one ever got so animated telling a story here that he knocked over a wine glass. No pet ever pressed his nose against the window, eager to welcome home his mistress. No child ever trampled Cheerios into this carpet. Birdie’s life was clean and tidy but not very lively, I think.
Still, she had her passion for gardening and birds, and that shines through, giving me a little glimpse of her soul.
I finish in the living room and
move into the dining room, where floral tea services and bird-decorated dessert plates await me in great quantities. As I catalog the contents of the breakfront, I hear Ty and Donna talking in the kitchen.
“Oooo, look at this—there’s a back staircase. I’ve only ever seen that on TV,” Donna says.
“Yeah, these old houses have ‘em sometimes. Keep the maids and the kids where no one can see them.”
I hear the sounds of cabinets banging.
“Look at all this nice stuff from Crate and Barrel and Williams-Sonoma. It’s like she has the whole showroom in here,” Donna says.
“Mmmm. Them big white bowls don’t bring much—maybe five bucks.” I hear Ty clattering through the pots and pans.
“What are you looking for?” Donna asks.
“Pyrex, Fiesta Ware, Jadeite. Too bad she don’t seem to have none of it. All new stuff.”
“What’s wrong with new? I think—”
“Ah! Score! Stashed away over the fridge.”
“That? That looks like the dish my nonna uses to make the sweet potatoes no one wants to eat on Thanksgiving.”
“Pyrex. Aqua Snowflake pattern.” I hear the triumph in Ty’s voice. “Not quite as good as the Desert Dawn pink daisy promotional pattern, but we’ll take it. An easy five hundred bucks right there.”
“Are you kidding me? Five hundred for that?”
“Mad whack, huh? Collectors will give anything to get their fix. This bowl is crack to them.”
Ty’s right about that. The collectibles crowd will come to blows over a Holt Howard Cozy Kitten teapot or Eisenhower-era framed gravel art. Unfortunately, Birdie was too straight-laced to own anything intentionally funky and too neat to have saved stuff that’s become funky with time.
I’m betting that one Pyrex bowl may be the extent of our collectibles here.
We all keep working for the next hour. When I finish in the dining room, I check in with Ty and Donna in the kitchen. All the cabinets are now empty.
“You good at making shit look fresh?” Ty asks Donna.
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