“Miss Kay, I won! I won!” Henry jumped up and down, nearly whacking me in the head with the paddle he was waving around. Number fifty-two. And according to the auctioneer, my thirteen-year-old friend had just purchased a battered entertainment console from the sixties for the sweet price of thirty dollars. His father had given him forty and told him sternly to spend it wisely. I wasn’t sure Judge Beck would consider this to be a wise investment, but I was glad that he decided to let Henry explore his love of antiquities with as little regulation as possible.
The boy had been so excited once he’d learned I was going to an auction, and had begged to come along. With his father’s approval and my promise to not allow him to bring home anything too ridiculous, he’d been allowed to attend. I was grateful for his company as I was carefully deciding where to spend the earnings from the sale of various junk in my attic. The money from the ugly pitcher went to pay the hot tub bill, but I managed to pull together another three hundred from different odds and ends and decided to splurge and pick up something special for the house.
It was exciting, but my chest still felt heavy at the reminder of other estate sales I’d attended in the past. Eli and I used to haunt the auctions and flea markets, buying antiques and refurbished building materials. Early on, we’d been fixing up the dilapidated Victorian house, and searching for leaded windows and both interior and exterior trim. Later, we’d picked up lighting fixtures, parts to repair the dumbwaiter, and nice little touches that made our home an eclectic mix of antiques from the last century, with modern conveniences tastefully added in. He would have loved this. He would have been just as excited over our purchases as Henry was with his entertainment console.
“Miss Kay, Miss Kay,” Henry hissed, elbowing me in the side. The fine art of casual ennui that was necessary to assume at an auction had completely escaped him.
I may have looked uninterested, but I was just as thrilled as he was, because coming up next to auction was the piece I was here to buy. It was, according to the auction tag, an inlaid mahogany Sheraton sideboard from the late nineteenth century. It was the reason that I’d borrowed Suzette’s pick-up for this auction. Given that I would also be carting home an entertainment console, I was especially glad I’d brought the truck instead of my little sedan.
The bidding started at one fifty and I choked back a gasp. I should have known. After Henry had seen my interest in the piece, he’d busily searched the internet on his phone, whispering to me that it might go as high as three thousand. I only had three hundred. And if bidding started at one fifty, then there was a good chance we’d end far higher than my budget. I’d go home empty-handed; well, empty-handed except for Henry’s entertainment console.
I steadied my breathing and tried for my best bored expression while Henry nearly hyperventilated by my side. Oddly enough, no one bid at one fifty and the auctioneer dropped the starting bid to one hundred. Then to seventy-five. Then asked for an offer. I waited, because as Eli and I had learned, it’s never good to be the first one to bid.
“Forty,” a short, round bald man called out, raising his paddle.
The auctioneer rolled his eyes, then asked for forty-five. I hesitated until the last moment, then raised my paddle. Short, round bald man and I went back and forth until we reached one hundred, then two more joined in. Most times auctioneers ask other bidders to wait until one of the two active bidders dropped off, but this one seemed okay with managing four ongoing bidders.
Short, round bald man dropped off at two hundred, leaving me to duke it out with Soccer Mom and Metrosexual Man. At two fifty, it was just me and Metrosexual Man. I’d been delaying my bids, shaking my head and eyeing the sideboard as if assessing whether it was worth this much money or not. A few times the auctioneer was close to calling it, when I announced a counter bid.
Three hundred. I closed my eyes, knowing that I’d reached my limit. That was all I had, and as much as I loved this sideboard, I wasn’t about to overspend in heat-of-the-moment excitement. The auctioneer paused to once more extol the virtues of this piece of furniture, then continued, asking for three hundred five. Oh, well. At least we’d come home with Henry’s entertainment console.
I felt a hand in mine, passing me a folded piece of paper. I looked down to see Henry pull his hand away. The paper I now held wasn’t paper. It was a ten-dollar bill. He’d spent thirty of his forty on his purchase, and was slipping me the rest.
“Buy it,” he whispered.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that ten dollars most likely wouldn’t make a difference at this point. Instead, I shot him a grateful smile and raised my paddle.
“Three ten!”
And then I waited for Metrosexual Man to counter with three fifteen or three twenty and win the sideboard. Imagine my surprise when the auctioneer badgered the man, repeatedly urging him to bid higher. Metrosexual Man pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, considering the situation. Then he shook his head.
“Going once. Going twice. Sold to the lady for three-ten, bidder number fifty-one.”
Neither of us had any money to spend on additional purchases, so Henry and I made our way to the cashier to settle up. I’d tried repeatedly to give him back his ten dollars, but he refused, insisting that he’d get just as much enjoyment out of the sideboard as I would. I doubted that, but the kid did seem to like his antiques, so maybe having this in our dining room was worth ten dollars to him.
Loading the truck was something I hadn’t considered when I’d come to the auction. Back in the day, Eli and I had been young and strong, perfectly capable of manhandling whatever we bought into a truck or onto a trailer. After trying to help Henry with the entertainment console, I realized that I didn’t quite have the muscle strength that I’d once had, and that a thirteen-year-old boy wasn’t strong enough to lift a piece of furniture up to the bed of a pickup truck with only a sixty-year old woman for assistance.
“Need some help?” a deep voice asked. I turned around with a smile to see a man who looked to be mid-to-late sixties. What hair he had was short and more silver than brown, but his arms were muscular under the tattoos. He looked like he spent a good bit of his life either at the gym or doing physically demanding work, and hadn’t slacked off in retirement.
“I’d appreciate it,” I told him.
He smiled, dark eyes crinkling up in the corners in an appealing fashion. I got the idea that back in the day, this guy had been a flirty heartbreaker. Actually, I got the idea that he probably still was.
“Matt Poffenberger,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Kay Carrera.” I shook his hand, noting the callouses and firm grip. “Poffenberger? You’re a relative of the owners?” This was an estate auction—the Poffenberger estate. It was a recognizable local name, but not as common as Smith or Jones, so it didn’t take any psychic skills to assume he was a relative of some sort.
He nodded. “My parents. Mom died ten years ago, and Dad went into assisted living last winter.”
I winced. “I’m so sorry. It must be very difficult to be here watching your parents’ belongings go under the gavel.”
“It’s just stuff. I’ve got the family photo albums and a few sentimental things, but the rest isn’t important,” he told me, but there was something about his eyes that made me think this auction was far more difficult than he’d imagined it would be.
He walked over and picked up one end of the entertainment console as if it weighed nothing. Henry picked up the other side, trying for the same casual strength and not quite pulling it off.
“I’ll hold the weight if you can get your end up on the truck lift gate,” Matt told him.
Henry struggled, but managed to finally eased two legs of the console on the truck bed. The whole time Matt patiently waited, not expressing the slightest bit of frustration even though he had a piece of heavy furniture in his arms.
“Hop on up there and guide it in,” Matt instructed. Henry jumped into the truck bed like a monkey and carefully maneuvered the console in place as if it were a priceless museum artifact.
“Miss Kay’s got that sideboard that needs to go in too,” Henry told the man, shifting the console to the side to make way for the other piece.
Matt tied the console down, then turned to my sideboard, running a hand over the surface. “This was my mother’s favorite piece,” he said, his voice full of fond nostalgia.
I didn’t ask why he hadn’t kept it. My parents both had passed away a long time ago. I knew that as hard as it was to part with things that reminded me of them and my childhood, I couldn’t exactly stuff my house full of extra furniture and knickknacks, as Mr. Peter across the street had done. Besides, I might love something from my childhood, but that didn’t mean I wanted it gracing my own home. My parents had been all about mid-century Early-American style, but I’d shoot myself before putting a blocky oak-framed sofa with velveteen log cabin print upholstery in the living room.
“I’ll take good care of it,” I assured him instead. “It’s beautiful. I was lucky to get it. It will fit right in with all the other nineteenth-century pieces in my house.”
He smiled. “Good. I’m pretty sure Mom would haunt me if it didn’t go to a good home.”
Matt and Henry picked up the sideboard, gently sliding it in next to the entertainment console. Then Matt went off and came back with a few mover’s blankets to keep my new acquisition from getting dinged or dirty on the way home.
“Where should I return those?” I asked, not really wanting to come all the way back out here tonight, but feeling a bit guilty about driving off with the blankets.
He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
I tucked the edge of a blanket around the corner of the sideboard, securing it under one of the ropes. “I do worry about it. I didn’t pay for those, and I doubt they’re just laying around for anyone to use. Do you live in Locust Point? Milford? I can swing by and drop them by your house, or we can meet up somewhere.”
A look of surprise came over his face, followed by a slow grin that made me realize he’d completely misconstrued my offer as an excuse to see him socially.
“Or I can bring them back here tonight,” I added hastily. As much as I didn’t want to drive back, it would be better than this man thinking I was asking him on a date.
“Here.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and scribbled a number on the back before handing it to me. “Give me a call and we’ll grab a cup of coffee. And you can return the blankets then.”
I was sure my face was as red as a tomato in August. “It will be no trouble to bring them back here—”
“After standing in the sun all day at the auction? Go home, relax, and enjoy your new purchase. You can return the blankets later in the week.”
Before I could protest further, he’d turned around and headed back to the auction, leaving me staring after him, a business card in my hand.
“I think he likes you,” Henry commented.
Great, even a thirteen-year-old boy caught the vibes. How the heck was I going to get out of this one? I envisioned myself downing a cup of coffee in record time, throwing the blankets at Matt Poffenberger, then running out the door of the coffee shop.
“I’m still grieving the loss of my husband,” I reminded the boy.
He shrugged, suddenly looking far older than thirteen. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have a cup of coffee with him. And for the record, I’m totally shipping you guys.”
“Shipping us where?” Was this some new slang? What did mailing packages have to do with a man mistakenly thinking I’d asked him out?
Henry rolled his eyes. “No offense, Miss Kay, but you’re old. Come on. I want to get home and show Dad what I bought.”
Our new treasures safely tied in the bed of my neighbor’s truck, we headed home, Henry singing along to the radio while I smiled in contentment. Awkwardness with Matt Poffenberger aside, it had been an amazing day. Judge Beck had been able to spend some one-on-one time with his daughter Madison, and I’d been able to share something fun with Henry—something he obviously loved. I didn’t think Henry had any inclination toward being an auctioneer, but this clearly would be a favorite hobby of his. I knew his father’s dream was for Henry to follow in his footsteps as a lawyer, but even lawyers needed an interest outside of work.
As we pulled up to the house, a frown began to crease Henry’s forehead. “I don’t know, Miss Kay. What am I going to do with this entertainment console? I bought it because it was cool, but maybe I should have just bought a pie safe or something.”
I loved that he knew what a pie safe was. “Well, when we get home we’ll look on Pinterest and see what other people have done with old entertainment consoles. Maybe that will give you some ideas. In the meantime, you’ll want to clean it out, strip down the finish, and see if there’s any water damage. If the wood’s damaged, you could paint it, or do a faux distressed finish. If the wood’s in good shape, then you can think about whether you want to stain it or not.”
He bit his lip in thought. “Do you think it could still be a stereo? I mean, I could probably put some Bluetooth speakers in where the old speakers were.”
“Sure, that’s a cool idea. Audio equipment used to take up a lot more room than it does now, so you’ll have a whole lot of space to do something else with.” I was envisioning wicker baskets, or drawers.
We pulled into the driveway and went into the house to scare up some assistance in unloading our purchases. Judge Beck and Madison filed out of the house, surveying the contents of the pickup truck bed.
“Dork.” Madison elbowed her brother. “What are you going to do with that, play a bunch of old vinyl or something?”
I began to rush to Henry’s defense, only to bite my tongue. The boy didn’t seem distressed by his sister’s teasing. He looked at the console and tilted his head.
“Yeah. I’ll do Bluetooth speakers and a turntable, so I can connect my phone, or play old vinyl. That would be cool.”
“See? There you go,” I told him, lowering the tailgate and scrambling up into the bed to ease my new treasure out of the truck.
“That’s really pretty, Miss Kay,” Madison proclaimed as she took one side of the sideboard while her father took the other. Judge Beck had the look on his face of a man who had hauled many heavy purchases into his home through the years. Resigned, without opinion.
“Dining room?” the judge asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Yep.” I’d cleared a spot in anticipation, even though I knew how horrible I’d feel coming home empty-handed and seeing that blank wall on the other side of the dining room table.
“Where does Henry’s monstrosity go?” Madison asked, climbing the stairs backward. “On the curb for Wednesday’s garbage collection?”
This time Henry’s face was momentarily crestfallen before he quickly recovered and stuck out his tongue at his sister.
“That’s enough, Madison.” Judge Beck’s voice was sharp. “This is a new hobby for Henry. Don’t be cruel.”
Her face fell, and for a second I thought I saw tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just teasing.”
I’d been an only child, but I knew how siblings could annoy each other to the point where anyone else would consider it bullying. And I knew that those very same siblings would beat the snot out of anyone who so much as looked wrong at their brother or sister. It was a bond I’d always wished I’d had growing up, one I’d hoped that my own children would have.
Funny how life often has different plans for us.
“Henry’s ‘monstrosity’,” I said, playing the peacemaker as always, “will go out back under the gazebo where it will be refinished and turned into a thing of incredible beauty. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.”
Madison snorted, casting quick glance at her father.
Henry smiled. “It’s going to be awesome. Just you see. I’ll work really hard, then if I decide not to keep it, I’ll sell it on Craigslist for double the money.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that “double the money” would equate to about fifty cents per hour. Refinishing furniture was often a labor of love.
Madison and the judge wedged their way through the narrow doors of my old Victorian house, shuffling their way into the dining room where they placed my new sideboard with appropriate reverence in its place of glory.
Then we all stood back for a moment of silence as we beheld its beauty.
“I thought Miss Kay wasn’t going to win it,” Henry whispered loudly to his father. “It was getting expensive.”
The judge nodded. “I’m glad she won. It is pretty, and it looks perfect with the mahogany table.”
It did. I beamed with satisfaction, and followed the crew out to remove Henry’s purchase from the truck. His didn’t garner the same admiration, but I had no doubt that after the boy had applied himself, it would be amazing. Or not. Either way, it was thirty bucks. That was a small price to pay for exploring what could be a new hobby. If he lost interest and gave up, I might refinish it myself, or discreetly send it off to the dump. But I had a feeling that Henry had the same kind of stubborn determination that drove his father to burn the candle late into the night, studying briefs and reviewing cases. He’d stick with it. And if he hated it, then this would be his last project. But if he loved it, we’d be able to spend lots of enjoyable weekends at auctions and yard sales in the coming years.
Years. Because he was thirteen, and I hoped that even after the judge and his kids moved out and had their own place, we’d still be friends. I hoped that when I was ancient and he was grown with a family of his own, we’d still be friends. All of them. Friends, and maybe even close enough to be considered adopted-family.
With the entertainment console snug under the gazebo, protected by a tarp from the rain, we went inside and scrounged the leftovers for dinner. The kids headed upstairs for the night, and Judge Beck retreated to the dining room table that often served as his after-hours work desk. I snuck downstairs with my knitting and a pot of hot tea to watch some old mystery movie. Just as the bad guy was about to strike and the music ramped up the tension, Taco hopped on the back of the sofa, purring in my ear and rubbing his face against my hair. I nearly jumped a foot in the air. Then I laughed and gathered my cat on my lap where he snuggled close. I stroked his soft fur, that familiar shadow that I’d come to think of as the ghost of my late husband, Eli, hovering at the end of the couch.
“I think it’s the butler,” I told the ghost, even though I’d read the book and knew full well it wasn’t the butler. If Eli had been here, he would have scoffed at my weak deductive skills and listed all of the facts that supported his theory of who the murderer was. And at the end, he was usually just as wrong as I was. We’d laugh, thankful that neither of us were detectives by profession, then surf the channels to see what else we could watch.
The shadow was silent, not acknowledging my comment. That seemed to make the ache of loss even worse, bringing the sting of tears to my eyes. I clutched Taco to my face, feeling his soft fur and the rumble of his purr, and taking solace that I wasn’t alone. I had my cat. I had a family upstairs that I was growing to love. I had friends that I cared about, that cared about me.
But I didn’t have Eli.
It was near midnight when I headed upstairs. Judge Beck was no longer in the dining room, his files and papers once more neatly boxed and stacked to the side where he could easily grab them on his way to work on Monday morning. I stood in the dim light reflected from the hallway, holding my cat, admiring my new purchase. The wood inlay was stunning, the finish perfect. Someone had loved this piece of furniture. Someone had taken great care of it for the last twelve decades, because it was pristine, and few pieces survived that long without dents and dings, rings from condensation, or burns from cigarettes.
My sense of warm satisfaction was abruptly shattered with a bitter chill that made my flesh rise. Taco yowled and jumped from my arms, scurrying into the other room with his tail fluffed out. A darkness from the corner of the room coalesced, forming into a bipedal shape near the sideboard. This wasn’t the shadow I’d come to associate with Eli; this one was different. I was sure it was a woman. And as she reached out a limb to stroke the top of the sideboard, I felt an incredible sadness…and an aching sense of guilt.
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