CHAPTER 4
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER
On a chilly November day,Adelaide Springfield bursts through the door of my antique shop, The Memory Bank, holding something wrapped in her gloved hands. “This is your lucky day! Such a treat for you, dear Greta.”
My definition oftreatinvolves sweatpants and sugar. Both of which are not in my near future. “Good afternoon, Adelaide.”
“It’s going to be a good one for you,” she singsongs the last word, and my toes curl in my Chelsea boots. She gently places the swaddled item on my counter. She peels back some protective lining, followed by bubble wrap, and lastly tissue. Each layer is removed painstakingly slow, as if she’s building suspense. “Ta da!”
I must have missed something. “It’s a bowl.”
“Not just any bowl, mind you. It’s from the Ming Dynasty. These babies go for five hundred thousand.” She grins at it fondly, like it’s her firstborn. “I found it at my weekly browsing of the flea market. And what a find it is!”
I reach deep, deep within me to scrape up a morsel of patience. “It’s a beautiful dish.” Most likely from Target.Movement passes my front window. It’s just Mitzy and her legendary baby carriage. Mitzy Clemens is nearing eighty and takes daily walks, pushing a stroller holding a doll from her vast collection. My gaze bounces between Adelaide and Mitzy. And the town council wonders why Silver Creek isn’t attracting new families. Mitzy is eccentric but harmless. Adelaide, on the other hand? I look at the bowl. “However, this is not a fourteenth-century piece. Or from any century of that imperial reign.” Usually, Adelaide’s visits are somewhat amusing, but they’ve been occurring more frequently. Last week she’d attempted to pawn off a copy ofPride and Prejudice,saying it was a first edition. I had to inform her that the binding was too modern to be an early nineteenth-century text. Poor Adelaide. She tries so hard to be a con artist but is very much lacking the con factor. And perhaps the artist part too.
She gently runs a finger over the bowl. “I’m almost certain this is a high-quality heirloom.”
“There’s a ‘Made in China’ sticker on the bottom.”
“Right! The Chinese claim this piece as their own. Certainly, you can’t disagree now.”
I pick up the bowl and refrain from frowning when Adelaide tells me to “Be careful!” I give a good show of examining it, but, really, I’m thinking that I only have fifteen minutes until I can flip the CLOSED sign on the door. “Ming pieces are top-tier porcelain. During the Ming empire, no other country had the ability or technology to produce porcelain. So basically, the pieces were the first of their kind. Which is why the china is so rare and valuable.”
She blinks at me.
I sigh. “This, here, is cheap ceramic. The famed dynasty pieces are also known for their curved rim. This one has an oblong ridge.” There’s also the aspect that Ming pieces have a certain color palette, usually an under-glazing of cobalt blue. It’snot remotely close. I’m kind of disappointed in Adelaide. It’s like she’s not even trying. “I can’t accept this.”
Her shoulders lower with a heavy exhale. Next, she’ll pout her lips in 3, 2, … ah, there it is. At least she’s consistent in her acting. “You can’t?”
“Sorry, no.” Because I like Adelaide, despite her endeavors to cheat me out of half a million, I say, “But I can spring five bucks for it.” I need a good cereal bowl for my apartment. I moved into the space above the store a few months back.
The first part of the year after Gran passed was grief-filled misery. But if any good came from her passing, it is my wayward mom’s return to Silver Creek. It’s weird. All my life, April Carlton only made appearances at big events—Christmas, birthdays, graduation. Things like that. Now she’s living with Pap while also trying to shove two decades of neglected mothering into a span of a few months.
Speaking of which …
The bells jingle over the door as Mom breezes into the shop. “Hi, honey.” She waves exuberantly as if I’m five and she’s trying to catch my attention while I’m jumping rope with school friends. Which she never actually did during those formative years. I remember watching with longing as other moms would collect their kids from the playground. I had either Gran, Pap, or one of the Mavericks.
“Hey, Mom.” I offer a smile and return to Adelaide. “What do you say?”
She arches a brow. “How about ten fifty?”
Some people assume that an antique store is like a pawn shop’s rich aunt, as in, it’s customary to negotiate the price tag. I’m usually okay with a small amount of bargaining, but I’m starving and feel the onset of a headache. “I’ll help you wrap it back up to take home.”
She holds out both hands. “Five, and that’s my final offer.”
“Okay.” I forego all the paperwork because the bowl isn’t going anywhere near my antiques. It’s new home is by my plastic Walmart plates in my cupboard upstairs. I hand her the money. She smiles as if she pulled one over on me. But she doesn’t realize I would fork over the money just to get her to leave.
With a hasty wave, Adelaide nearly bounds out the door as if nervous I’ll change my mind. I watch the door swing closed with a relieved exhale. “The Silver Creek Swindler needs a more vivid imagination. Ming Dynasty? Pfft.” I place the bowl under the counter to take upstairs later.
Mom laughs. “You want her to give you more of a challenge?”
“Is it too much to ask?” I don’t hold claim to many talents. Sewing and my knowledge of antiques. That’s it. I’ve been taking on more difficult sewing projects to keep my skills sharpened. Regarding my vintage prowess, my mind feels kind of dulled. I have two types of customers—those who want to browse the inventory and those who are looking for specific pieces. While I’m all about any interest in the store, I actually prefer the second. It’s like an antique scavenger hunt to find those items for my clients. If I don’t have that particular piece, I have a network of connections that can help me locate it. The thrill of the challenge is in the search, and that’s where my heart is.
“Are you hungry?” Mom’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I almost forgot she’s here. Which is kind of a habit. I’ve seen more of my mom in the last several months than I have in my entire life. “I’m starving actually. I have some leftovers?—”
“No need!” Mom pulls a Chick-fil-A bag from the giant tote slung over her shoulder. “I brought this.”
