Luxury Model Wife (9 page)

The studio door flew open at the rear of the store. Beverly rushed into the salesroom in a swirl of fast-moving Indian gauze and bugle beads. She made her way toward the front of the shop, parting the tension in the air like Moses. As she approached, she rubbed her arms as if the temperature had dropped to freezing. “What’s going on? Weird vibes in here.”

“Bruce Mitchell is angry about the Van Orr consignment,” Steve replied. “He made threats.”

“Bummer.” Beverly moved closer and touched Victoria’s hand. “Need a break from the shop?”

Victoria sighed. “You read my mind.”

“I’m checking out a vintage doll auction in Amish country tomorrow. Wanna come? It’ll be good experience for you to learn the basics of hosting an auction, and I’d love the company.”

Steve nodded. “Bev’s right. You can learn a lot by watching an auction house perform. Their style will help you decide what you want for your charity event.”

Beverly closed her hand over Victoria’s fingers. “Let’s go to the back room and relax with a cup of chamomile tea.”

“Screw the tea,” Steve said. “Let’s have a drink. I think we could all use one.”

“Good thinking, boss.” Beverly shot him a grin. “I can always count on you to chase the negativity.”

Steve locked the front door and they moved through the shop to the rear office. “Don’t worry,” Beverly whispered to Victoria, as they passed displays of English bone china and fine Irish linen. “Steve won’t let threats get in his way. He’s got more confidence than anyone I know, and can handle practically anything.” Victoria didn’t mean to think about the way he’d defended her and held her when she blurted, “How handy for his wife.” The jealousy in her voice betrayed the attraction she had no right to feel.

Beverly crinkled her nose and stared at Victoria like she’d sprouted an extra pair of eyebrows. “What wife?”

“The woman he said he married.”

Beverly pursed her lips and shook her head. “Steve hasn’t been married for years. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Victoria was taken off guard. “I thought he had a wife.”

His voice came from behind her. “Who, me?”

Victoria turned, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. “Don’t you?” Not everyone wore a ring.

“That was a long time ago,” Steve said. “The marriage ended quicker than the ceremony and under conditions twice as tacky.”

“So, you’re not married?”

Steve’s brow crinkled then his eyes flashed as understanding dawned. “Did you think I was married when I—? When we—?” He glanced at Beverly and stopped talking.

Victoria met his eyes and mentally added the word,
kissed
. “I hoped not.”

For the first time in a long while, Victoria’s mood lifted.

Chapter Six

The circus tent that housed the doll auction sweltered at eighty-five degrees and ninety percent humidity by seven thirty a.m. Hundreds of collectors and dealers strolled down the aisles of damp green lawn to inspect the merchandise for sale.

Frilly laced porcelain, vintage vinyl, and antique bisque dolls stood upright on their stands as if watching the overheated crowd. The pungent smell of freshly cut grass and clover filled the still, heavy air, where the buzz of excitement was palpable.

The scents of old hay, cotton candy, and peanut shells that clung to the faded brown canvas wafted through the makeshift room. Victoria half expected the clown doll poking from a cardboard box to spring to life.

She checked her watch. The bidding would start in ten minutes, after the preview. She and Beverly made their way to the third row from the front and sat on folding chairs, fanning themselves with catalogs until the auction commenced. “Rule Number One for my charity auction: No tents. Rule Number Two? Choose an air-conditioned venue,” Victoria said.

“Damn right,” Beverly replied. “Sweat’s running down my butt crack.”

They were streaked with perspiration despite the portable air conditioners on site. Humidity wafted through the open tent flaps, canceling out the filtered air. “There’s only one thing I like to sweat for, and this ain’t it.” Beverly shot her a lascivious grin.

Victoria stifled a groan. “It’s been so long for me I can hardly remember.” Though she’d never admit she related to Beverly’s comment in theory only.

The memory of Steve’s hard body against hers made her feverish. She felt sure Steve Carlson could make her sweat.

Victoria touched her fingers to the pulse of her perspiring throat and wondered how it felt to be so consumed by sex that her body turned slick. She envied Beverly that knowledge.

“You’re overheating,” Beverly said, concern written on her face. “Are you all right?”

“Sure, I’m okay.” Victoria shifted irritably in her seat. Her tank top, khaki shorts, and leather sandals did little to abate the heat. She fanned herself with her catalogue and wondered how Beverly withstood an ankle-length denim sundress in these temperatures.

Beverly smirked and tilted her head as her expression turned knowing. She flipped her long, wavy hair over one shoulder, and then fanned the damp, exposed skin with her auction catalogue. “Got to get you some.”

Victoria frowned in confusion. “Some?”

“Oh, c’mon, Vic, don’t play coy. You know exactly what I mean.”

Victoria waved away Beverly’s sarcasm. “I’m in denial. Can’t deal with that right now.”

“Dealing with
that
is just the prescription you need. Time to move forward.”

“You
are
a buttinski, you know that? Are you suggesting I forget James? I can’t. He gave me
everything
.”

Instead of taking offense, Beverly stopped fanning herself and reached for Victoria’s hand. Her voice softened when she met her eyes. “Your loyalty is admirable. Beyond reproach. All I’m saying is that you can remember your dead husband and still find joy in your new life. The world is waiting for you, Vic. Jump on.”

Victoria stayed quiet for what seemed a long time. When she finally spoke, she barely noticed the whirlwind of activity around her as the auction tent swelled with hot, fidgeting people. “Fuck off.” There was no malice in her words because she knew Beverly was right. Her grieving was almost done, though she resisted admitting that fact to anyone, including herself. While she’d healed, James had become a sweet, faded memory.

“Ah, the society lady swears.” Beverly cackled with delight. “I’m liking you better every minute.” She elbowed Victoria in the ribs and snorted laughter. “And speaking of liking, I think I know somebody else who likes you.”

“Who?”

“You know who. He likes you. I can tell.”

Victoria was drawn to Steve, too, and the attraction continued to grow. “Do you think he likes me…or he
likes
me?” She began to giggle. “Oh my God, I’m back in the eighth grade.”

The women laughed until their eyes watered. “I think we’re drawing more of a crowd than the dolls,” Beverly said. “Guess I’d better pay attention before I miss out on the goodies.”

“I want that nineteen sixties Twiggy doll,” Beverly whispered to Victoria. “I feel sorry for the girl who owned her, though, because that toy has never been played with. When I held it, I didn’t sense a single memory. Must have been stashed in a closet all these years. That’s good for me, of course, since a mint condition Twiggy doll is very hard to find. But it’s sad for the child who couldn’t enjoy her.”

“It’s up next,” Victoria whispered back.

The bidding war continued until Beverly seized her prize. “Whew. I need a cool drink after that battle,” she said. Beverly laid the Twiggy doll into a satchel she pulled from her purse.

She continued to bid on dolls until her bag was full. “One more win and we’ll call it a day. I think I have enough booty to carry home.”

*****

Beverly started the engine of her vintage Mercedes Benz, flipped on the air-conditioning, and popped the tab on a Diet Coke. “Want one? They’re in the cooler.”

Victoria opened another diet soda and drank it down. “The auction was fun and…interesting. I’ve never seen a group of adults so fascinated with dolls.”

“Do you think that’s strange?” Beverly glanced sideways at Victoria as she posed the question, seemingly trying to read her face. “People who don’t collect often seem to think so.”

Victoria sidestepped a direct reply, not sure of her answer. She’d always associated dolls with children, not grown men and women. She wondered if dolls were a way for Beverly to satisfy her maternal instincts, since she’d never had children.

Victoria considered the complex woman beside her. Maybe doll collecting had nothing to do with maternity and was simply an endearing facet of Beverly’s eccentric personality. She decided to ask. “Why do you collect dolls?”

Beverly’s response was immediate. “I love their history.”

Victoria recalled her conversation with Edwina March, who collected for a similar reason.

Beverly’s voice swelled with the confidence of her profession. “Dolls throughout the centuries have told us about the girls who played with them and the cultures they lived in.”

She stopped talking and took another slug of Diet Coke. “Are you sure you want to hear all this? I’ve done so many presentations at the local library I know the information by heart.”

“Absolutely. You might convert me. I’ve never collected anything, but if I did, I’d be tempted to buy dolls.” She poked Beverly in the thigh. “Go on, keep talking.”

“Okay. Well, bisque revolutionized the toy industry in Europe in the nineteenth century when dolls became symbols of wealth and privilege. Only the rich could afford the intricately dressed mannequins of high fashion. The French fashion doll is probably the most coveted doll in the world today.”

“Like the one in Lydia Van Orr’s collection?”

“Exactly.”

“Seems like not much has changed. Who else but the rich could afford that purchase?”

“Good point.” Beverly nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “There are collectors who would kill or steal to own that Rohmer. French fashion dolls become rarer every year.”

“So Lydia’s doll will continue to appreciate.”

“Hell, yeah. As long as the doll and wardrobe are stored properly to protect them from deterioration, they’re fabulous investments. The rarer the doll becomes as time passes, the more valuable she’ll be. Lydia made a smart buy. But I’m sure she knew that. She was a seasoned collector.”

“Did you know Lydia?”

Beverly dipped her chin. “We met a few times. I did some restoration work on a few of her acquisitions. She was a nice woman.”

She slanted a look at Victoria. “Not as much fun as you, though. Lydia Van Orr would never have hung out with me.”

“Her loss.” Victoria drank more of her soft drink and set the can in the console.

“Lydia would have been part of the upper crust who owned fine dolls in the 1800s. A woman’s place within any given society has been reflected in her dolls.”

Beverly’s bracelets jangled as she tapped the steering wheel with her palm for emphasis. “Look at a doll from any period, in any country, and she’ll tell you about the life and community of the girl who lived with her and loved her.”

“I had no idea.” Victoria continued to be impressed by Beverly’s competence and knowledge.

“Ninety percent of all women have at least one doll or stuffed toy in their home. The figure either belonged to them, their mother, a daughter or other relative. Women collect dolls to remind them of happy early years or to reclaim a childhood they never had. Mine remind me of my days in elementary school, when I first became aware of my psychometric gift.”

“No wonder you became attached to the hobby.”

“It took some time for me to sort out the difference between my attraction to dolls and my unique ability. I’m glad I have both. Collectors like me appreciate dolls as works of art and as objects of beauty and comfort that bring us pleasure. It’s a special relationship that men can never share or take away.”

Victoria snorted with derision. “My dad did.” She felt her cheeks flush with the admission, and she turned her face to the window. Long-repressed feelings of shame and rage brought hot, unexpected tears.

“Talk to me.” Beverly reached across the seat and laid her palm on the cushion, close but not touching. Reassuring but not invasive. “I’m here. I’ll listen.”

Victoria turned back from the window and wiped away her tears, though she avoided eye contact with her friend. “I’ve worked hard to put my childhood away. Therapy helped me cope with the past and move on. For the most part, I’ve done that.”

James’s death had set her back, though. The desire to love and be loved had made her vulnerable. Her marriage had become a protective shell she’d hidden inside. When James died, the shell broke, leaving her wounded and exposed.

Victoria clenched her fist. Where had the tough kid she’d been gone?

“Did the dolls trigger a memory?” Beverly put the car on cruise control and settled herself against the driver’s seat.

They’d triggered a myriad of memories and emotions she struggled to understand. “I didn’t have many toys when I was little. Not because we were poor, exactly, but because my parents didn’t think they were important. Most of the time, they forgot I was around.”

Beverly made sympathetic noises. “Why?”

That simple, honest question would have been intrusive if anyone but Beverly had asked. Victoria felt safe when Beverly was around. Her innate goodness and generous heart made Victoria feel like an emotional miser in comparison. Friendship required risk. Maybe the time had come to reveal more of herself to the first real friend she’d ever had.

Victoria sucked in a breath and let it out. “My parents were obsessed with one another. At first, I suppose their feelings were sexual. Later, they fueled their relationship with booze, lies, and constant bickering. The noise was unbearable. I used to hide in my closet to get away from them, but inevitably one of them would come looking for me. They had amnesia about me being around any other time, but when they fought I was expected to mediate. That was a lot to ask of a five-year-old.”

Victoria braced herself to tell the next part of the story. She’d only told two other people about her childhood—her therapist and James.