by Louise, Tia
“What do you do, Ms.…”
“Garcia.” She goes to the kitchen and takes down another plate. “I’m a nurse. I work at the urgent care clinic in Reseda.”
“I’m still learning my way around.” I smile, taking the plate, and she gives me a double-blink.
“I-It’s about twenty minutes out the Valley Glen.” Her slight stammer is reassuring.
At least I’ve still got it. I swear I was starting to wonder.
“Let me guess.” She recovers fast, giving me a bright white smile as well. “You’re an aspiring actor.”
“Is it that obvious?” I take the plate and exhale a groan. “This smells delicious.”
“It’s pretty simple, really. Mostly leftovers.”
Luis says a quick prayer, and we dig in, chatting as we eat the savory mixture of shredded turkey, tortillas, rice, and beans with cheese on top. Lucinda tells me she grew up in Long Beach and moved to the Valley after she had her son. They’ve been here almost three years.
“We’ve seen a lot of actors in and out of this place.” She collects Luis’s plate and exchanges it for a cup of what looks like custard.
“Anybody I’d know?” I smile and wave away her offer to give me some.
“Maybe you’ll be a big star, and I can say we were neighbors.” Luis swings his feet as he eats. “I can say you played football with me.”
“That’d be cool.” I stand, carrying my plate to the small kitchen. “I can help with the dishes.”
Lucinda waves me away. “I’ll load the dishwasher, don’t worry about it.”
“Well, thanks for dinner.” I take a step towards the door. “Open audition in the morning. I’ll have to get an early start.”
She waves and walks with me to the door. “Good luck, and thanks for helping with Lucho.”
“It’s no problem. I got started playing football, too.”
Out on the landing, I walk around the balcony overlooking the swimming pool below to where our apartment is located. Lucinda watches me, a wistful smile on her face. It’s comforting and encouraging, and my stomach is full.
It feels like another good omen for tomorrow.
Big changes are coming, and they’re going to be great. I can almost see my star outside Grauman’s.
Thirteen
Daisy
“Newcomb College.” Spencer stands beside a ceramic plaque an elderly woman has in a frame. “They didn’t make many of these large plaques with the Spanish moss and the trees. It’s extremely rare. Fifteen thousand dollars.”
The old woman’s eyes widen, and she gasps. “It was in my grandmother’s attic in New Orleans, sitting against the wall gathering dust.”
A smile splits my cheeks. “Sounds like it’s time to dust it off and hang it on the wall.”
“Oh, my land.” She turns to me, and I give her a hug.
“Take this to the register, and they’ll draw up a certificate.” Spencer’s expression never changes.
He makes notes on a pad and rips the top sheet off before turning to the next person in line. I imagine the day will come when I’m bored by the process as well, but I hope not. I love watching the joy burst across people’s faces when we tell them how much their treasures are worth.
“Even if it was ten dollars, I’d still love it.” The next woman says about a massive, seven-thousand-page dictionary she hauls out of a box. “My friends ask me how many words are in it, and I say all of them.”
She laughs, but I’m in awe, opening the cover to the copyright page. “1914 Floor Dictionary,” I read. “It must’ve been an experimental copy. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Spencer lifts his chin as I take the lead. We’ve been traveling to these road shows for three weeks now, and he’s been slowly passing the reins to me. Eventually, I’ll go out on my own, which suits me fine. He’s also been asking me to dinner more each trip then lingering outside my hotel room longer each night.
We’ve always had a good, professional relationship, and I don’t want the lines getting blurred between us.
“I’d estimate twelve hundred dollars?” My eyes go to his, and the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly.
He gives me a small nod. “You are correct. Depending on the market, it could fetch more.”
It’s my turn to write out the appraisal sheet. We both sign in Miles Klaut’s name and Antiques Today.
We pass another hour, first inspecting a dress one woman claims was owned by Marilyn Monroe. She has a letter of authenticity, but clothing isn’t my area. Spencer takes the lead and explains the different values, depending on whether it was worn, if there are pictures of Marilyn in the outfit, and the year she owned it. Ultimately, we can’t give her an appraisal slip without more information.
A man brings a ninety-five-year-old, mohair teddy bear named Ted, and I clasp my hands under my chin. He’s so worn and well-loved.
“It’s a Steif,” Spencer notes, examining the bear’s ear before quickly scribbling on the pad. “Two thousand.”
“Well, I’ll be dog.” The man smiles, turning wide eyes to me. “He’s worth more than that to us, but thank you.”
“Of course, he is.” I squeeze the man’s arm warmly. “You’re welcome.”
The man takes the bear and leaves, and Spencer turns to face me, lifting his chin and simpering. “Must you coddle them so, Daisy? You’d think we were social workers.”
“It was his grandfather’s teddy bear.”
“With the stuffing spilling out of one foot. In five more years, it won’t be worth eight hundred dollars.”
“That doesn’t matter.” I smile, watching the fellow showing his son. “They’re so proud of Ted, and they have so many memories with him.”
“If you spend an hour talking to every one of them, you’ll never get through the line. We’ll take these last three and call it a day. I’m famished.”
“Excuse me, Miss?” Teddy Bear man returns. “Can we take a picture with you and my son holding Ted?”
“Of course!” I reach down to put my arm around the boy. Spencer exhales a sharp noise, and I narrow my eyes at him, handing him my phone. “Take one for me, too.”
Later that evening, I’m curled up in my hotel-room bed when I text the photo to Scout. Two-thousand-dollar bear.
It doesn’t take long for him to reply. No shit! Where do I find one of those?
Search Gran’s attic. Saw a 7,000-page dictionary today.
It has ALL the words.
I giggle as I text my reply. That’s what she said.
A laugh-crying emoji comes next.
Warmth shimmers in my insides, and I know this is a bad practice. I’ll never get over him if I keep sending texts and pictures all the time, hanging on his every word, but I can’t seem to let him go. We’re friends, right? Friends keep in touch and support each other, right?
You’re doing it, Daisy. It’s really cool.
Thanks. How’s it going in LA? Any big news?
Got a callback for a pilot. Pretty psyched.
My eyebrows shoot up. Scout! That’s amazing! Name, please.
Mighty Thunder. Stock car drivers who fight crime.
Snorting a laugh, I shrug as my thumbs move over my phone. Somebody’s got to fight crime. Can’t wait to see you on the small screen.
Gray dots float on my screen and stop. They start again and stop. I feel like I’m hanging by a thread waiting for his next words, and it should be a wake-up call. I’m too invested in a relationship that’s essentially over. The dying embers of a flash fire.
Sorry, gotta run. Dinner date.
Dry pain hits my throat like a punch. He has a date.
Of course, he does. Get over yourself, Daisy. He’s a hot, single guy in Los Angeles. I imagine he’s going to parties every night, meeting gorgeous aspiring actresses. I’m sure he kisses them at auditions. If they’re any good, I’m sure he asks them for their numbers.
I’m three thousand miles away with nothing but my memories.
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God, I’m such a fool.
It’s over.
I don’t even respond. I won’t be texting him anymore. Tossing my phone on the nightstand, I pull a pillow over my head and cry myself to sleep.
We’re just back from another, longer tour, this time through Tennessee, and parts were recorded to be included in the Antiques Today special public broadcast show. It was fun and exciting and emotional, and I’m feeling happy and completely exhausted.
Immediately after lunch, I’m summoned to Miles Klaut’s office. Spencer meets me in the hall, and I realize we’re headed in the same direction.
“What’s going on?” I whisper like we’re in trouble.
“No clue.” Spencer is cool, unaffected. “It had better be important. I was still sorting my mail from last week.”
No one is in Miles’s office when we enter.
“This is amazing.” I’m still whispering as I slowly trace the perimeter of the oak-paneled room.
The office is lined with massive, built-in bookshelves holding an array of rare antiquities. I recognize a Simon Willard lighthouse clock from the 1800s that’s probably worth $75,000 at auction.
A white and blue porcelain dish is on a higher shelf, and if I checked the stamp, I know it would say Wedgwood, and it would be authentic, not a “Wedgwood & Co.” knockoff, putting it at around $6,000.
“Good morning.” Miles says it almost dismissively, as if it’s expected, as he enters the room.
Spencer and I respond in kind, taking our seats. It’s my first time meeting Miles in person, and he’s shorter than I thought, about the same height as I am. He’s dressed in a plain brown suit, but he exudes importance.
He sits across the mahogany desk from us in a deep-green leather chair studded with brass buttons. “When I saw your résumé, Miss Sales, I confess, I dismissed you as just another of Spencer’s protégés.”
Casting a glance at my co-worker, Spencer shifts in his leather chair beside me. I didn’t know Spencer had protégés.
“Then I saw your restoration of the Winthrop BnB, and what can I say? Captivating.” Miles’s bushy brows rise over his hazel eyes. “Grandmillennial mixed with vintage country? It’s so obvious yet so inspired.”
My heart beats faster as excitement shimmers in my chest. Everybody who is anybody in the antiques world hangs on Miles’s every word. If he declares something a trend, antiques dealers jump on it and the value goes through the roof.
He single-handedly drove Hausenfraus dustpans from the three-hundred-dollar range to the three-thousand-dollar range by saying they would be the quaint kitchen accessory of the season.
Now he’s saying I’m inspired? I might faint.
“What I like even more, is the way viewers connect with you.” He levels his gaze on me and pushes out of his chair. “Your ratings are off the charts in the forty to sixty-five age bracket, which is the absolute sweet spot for antiquers.”
I glance again at Spencer, but he’s looking at his nails perturbedly.
“You’re not just a talented young woman with potential. You’ve got heart.” Miles places a hand on my shoulder. “You really care about the people in the lines, and it shows. Viewers love you.”
The room falls silent, and I need to say something. God, don’t let me sound like a drip.
“I-I guess I empathize with them. They love these items so much, and when we tell them they’re worth hundreds or thousands of dollars—”
“It validates their love.” Miles nods. “You truly get it. Unlike Mr. Freeze over here.”
He cuts his eyes at Spencer, and I take a quick pivot. “Spencer simply has a different approach. His personality is different from mine.”
“Yes, yes. I know.” Miles grins, and points at my colleague. “He’s the Simon Cowell of Antiques Today, no getting mired down in emotionalism. And he has his fans, don’t get me wrong. I’m simply impressed.”
I glance down at my hands clasped in my lap. “I wouldn’t know half the things I know if it weren’t for Spencer.”
“Oh, please.” Spencer stands, rising to his full six-foot-two slender height in a sleek charcoal suit, pocket square perfectly folded and in place. “Enough false modesty, and stop talking about me as if I’m not present. I discovered this young woman in her father’s store in Greenville. I don’t need to hear about her country-girl heart. I recognized it at once as a strength.”
Miles presses his lips together in a smile, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s been yanking Spencer’s chain. I feel like I might understand the office politics a little better. Spencer is the snob, and Miles is the big dog who brings him down a peg. It’s how they relate.
I’m ruminating this discovery when Miles turns to me. “I’ve decided to put you over the Southeast region.”
My eyes flash wide, and I choke on air. “I’m sorry… You—You want me to be—”
“The head of all our events from Tennessee to Florida, Mississippi to South Carolina. It’s our second largest region, and a very active one. Lots of travel. Is that something that would interest you, Miss Sales?”
Now I know I’m going to faint, but I snatch my last thread of composure. “Yes, sir. I would be very interested in that. Thank you, sir.”
“Good. It’s done then. Spencer will move to the Northeastern region, and you’ll take over his old territory. I’ll leave you two to work out the details.” He goes back to his desk as we head for the door. “And for God’s sake, call me Miles.”
“Thank you, Miles.”
We step outside and close the door, and I fall back against the wall to catch my breath. “Holy shit! Did that just happen?”
My palm presses against my chest, and my heart is beating so fast. I look up at Spencer, and I know I’m smiling like a crazy person. What I don’t expect is to see him smiling back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
“Good work, Daisy.” He slaps me on the shoulder, his voice gleeful. I’ve never heard Spencer sound gleeful in the two years I’ve known him. “I’ve wanted the Northeast region since I started, and I knew when I met you in your father’s shop, you’d be the one to help me get it.”
I know what he means. Northeast is where all the great finds are located—treasures from the American Revolution, the Founding Fathers, and the early days of our country.
My nose wrinkles and I squint up at him. “So all this time, our friendship has been a ploy to help you get a promotion?”
“You make it sound like one of us is getting screwed. You wanted to be with Antiques Today, right?” I nod. “I wanted the Eastern Seaboard. It’s what we in the business call a win-win.”
I guess I can’t argue with that, although my stomach is still churning uncomfortably. My hand drifts to my throat, and my nose curls.
Spencer’s voice turns fussy. “If you even try to act miffed, just remember he put you in my old territory after five weeks. That’s a record. I worked five months before getting the Southeast region. It’s the last stop before Northeast.”
“I’m not miffed…” Acid burns at the base of my throat, and I clasp my hand over my mouth. Shaking my head, I manage a “Sorry!”
Running as fast as I can, I just make it to a tall, brass trashcan in the corner behind a rubber tree plant before I throw up my entire lunch.
“Oh… shit.” I grip the sides of the bin, waiting to see if more is coming.
When it seems I’m safely done, I stagger to the water fountain, pressing my palm against my forehead. Cold sweat is on my upper lip. What was that?
Bracing the side of the water fountain, I hold a hand under the cold water and carefully touch it to the back of my neck as I lean down to rinse my mouth.
Spencer strides over, curling his nose at the trash. “Jesus, Daisy, I know it’s a hell of a promotion, but you’ve got to be able to take big news without tossing your cookies.”
“I’m so sorry.” I pat more cool water on my neck. “That’s never happened to me before.” My eyes are heavy, and I’m
overwhelmed by exhaustion. “I think I might go home. I’m not feeling so good.”
“Which is precisely why I don’t hug them. Or you.” He takes a step away from me and whips out his handkerchief, holding it over his nose and mouth. “You probably have a virus. Go home, and let me know when you’re better. I’ll tell Miles your country-girl heart landed you a nasty stomach bug.”
Pressing my hand to my forehead, I don’t feel feverish. Still, I nod. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks, Spence.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
I’m too ill to laugh. I go straight home and crawl into my bed. I hate being alone and sick, but I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself before sleep overtakes me.
The next morning I’m feeling much better. I decide I was either tired from our last trip or I really do need to work on receiving good news—or the tuna salad I had at lunch had turned.
I wash my face feeling completely better after sleeping for fourteen hours. Fourteen hours! What the hell? Maybe I have been pushing myself too hard.
In the kitchen, I switch on the Keurig before digging a scrambler cup out of the fridge and cracking an egg into it. It goes in the microwave, and my stomach growls. I pop a slice of bread in the toaster for good measure.
Heading for my bedroom, I pick out a tweed blazer and black skinny jeans with an ivory silk tank. Now that I’m director of the southeast region, I should dress more the part. Spencer and Miles wear suits to the office.
The microwave beeps, and I dance back into the kitchen sliding a pod into the coffee maker.
“I’ve got to tell Dad!” My voice goes higher, and I think this might be the news that actually gets his attention. Maybe I’ll call him on the way to work…
Grabbing a fork, I take the scrambler cup out of the microwave. I love these savory little breakfasts. The toast pops as I put the first bite of scrambled eggs, sausage, and cheese in my mouth. All at once, my throat closes.
“Oh, shit!” I slam the cup on the counter and barely make it to the half bath before I vomit my one bite of breakfast into the toilet.