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“I haven’t been tucked in since I was a child. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure I got tucked in then.” I pause. “It was nice.” As soon as the words are out, I regret them. “God, that sounded flaky,” I say.
“Why?”
I shrug. “Maybe flaky is the wrong word. I should have said needy.”
“No, you should have said valid.” She’s walked over to the mantle and is looking at the knick-knacks I’ve arranged there.
“These are cute. Hummels?”
“Lord no,” I laugh. “Goodwill knockoffs.”
She picks one up and turns it over. “Have you looked at the bottom of this?” Tandy has turned it over and is inspecting the base. “I think you may have snagged a real one.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. There’s number and the trademark, see? This is probably worth a lot of money.”
I stare in astonishment. “Tandy, how do you know this? No offense, but you don’t look like someone who’s an expert in cottage core figurines.”
She laughs at this as she carefully replaces what I have just learned is the real deal on my fake fireplace mantle. “My grandmother collected those things. She collected a lot of stuff. She had this big Victorian house full of stuff like this. If she saw me looking at or holding one of her treasures – Boom! - instant lesson in its history, manufacturer.
“She sounds cool.”
“She was cool.” Tandy smiles, and her face lights up. “She’s the one who turned me on to art.”
“Would you like some tea?” I ask. “I just put a pitcher in the fridge. It’s mint.”
I head to the kitchen and see her stop at the little coffee can vase I made ahead of Selma’s visit when I was fourteen. It was one of the few things I took with me when I left home because it reminded me of the only time growing up when I felt loved and wanted.
“I made that,” I blurt out. “But it was a long time ago.”
“It’s really cute,” she says.
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I love homemade things. They have a certain kind of energy, you know?”
I nod, not to be polite but because I really agree. I go to the tiny kitchen. It’s one of my favorite rooms in the house because the appliances are retro but functional.
“Wow. I didn’t know they still made these.” Tandy is checking out the range. “Is this an O’Keefe & Merritt stove?”
“You recognize it?”
“Yeah, I love antiques.”
“Really? Me, too. I live in fear that my landlord will realize how valuable this thing is and jerk it out to sell. Same with the fridge.”
Tandy laughs. “My grandmother had a fridge like this, too. Only she called it an ice box.”
“I love these old-timey things.” I hand her a glass of freshly poured tea. “If I were independently wealthy, I’d spend all my time baking and knitting and stuff. And I’d have an Aga stove.”
“An Aga. Girl, you have expensive taste. Those stoves are like what? Thirty grand?”
“At least.”
“I saw one featured on one of those home renovation shows once,” she says.
I tell her I saw one on a cooking show and follow this by talking excitedly about what I call my “embarrassing domestic streak” and my love of cooking and knitting. “God, listen to me,” I say. “Going on and on. Sorry.”
