Priced to Move (3 page)
I grin. “Busted!”
Aunt Weeby groans. “Erin, honey, you sure do choose your moments, don’t you? First you wake me up to give me a sleeping pill this morning, and now you go and blow my cover.”
Erin narrows her clear green eyes. “What cover? What are you talking about, Weeby?”
I howl. “Serves you right!”
The therapist, a very confused-guy look on his face, ping-pongs his gaze from one to the other of us. Finally, he zooms in on me. “Did you really say . . . Weeby?”
“Oh, you know how it is.” I shoot Aunt Weeby a grin. “Toddlers are notorious at making up names. She’s been Weeby instead of Livvy ever since I turned two. Nobody calls her anything else.”
“Okay,” he says in an uncertain voice, then turns to the nurse. “So what’s up, Erin? Does Miss Olivia—er . . . Miss Weeby?”—he gives me a did-I-get-it-right? look—“have something else going right now? I came to start her PT exercises, but if you need her, I can come back later.”
Talk about strategic retreat!
“Well . . .” Erin fills Aunt Weeby’s water pitcher at the sink. “I had planned to give her a sponge bath—”
“Why, Erin honey, that’s just perfect.” Aunt Weeby’s eyes twinkle—uh-oh! Incoming trouble. “Andie? Why don’t you go along and keep Timmy company while Erin here gives me one a’ those nice sponge baths she’s so good at? I’m sure he’d love to hear all about you when you were small. You were such a sweet little peanut.”
“Aunt Weeby!”
She ignores my objection, reaches for and catches her therapist’s hand, then gives it a pat. “You shoulda seen our Andie here growing up. All that red hair and those beautiful gray eyes. Uh-huh. And smart? Whoo-ee! This girl’s always been sharp as a tack.”
Instead of the ubiquitous deer, we have a medical professional in the headlights. “Ah . . . well, you see—” He squares his shoulders. “I’ll go take care of Mr. Warren while you have your sponge bath, Miss Weeby. I’ll be back after we’re all done with what we’re doing . . .”
His voice trails off as he flees the nuthouse. Aunt Weeby can empty a room just by opening her mouth. Which she does with alarming regularity.
“So there you go.” I stand. “Tell you what. I’m going to do you a favor. I’ll pretend you didn’t do what you just did and go to the family waiting room while you two do the sponge thing. Last time I stuck my head in there, the coffee pot was still dripping. A fresh cup would hit the spot.”
“With an ulcer?” Horror doesn’t exactly work with Aunt Weeby’s lovely elderly lady looks. “Why, Andrea Adams. No wonder you’ve got yourself that corroded gut. Like Great-Grandma Willetta use’ta say, you’re just pouring oil on that fire. You oughta go get yourself a nice glass a’ milk instead.” “Actually, Weeby,” Erin says, a thick white towel, fresh linens, and another pillow in her arms, “the milk thing has been discounted. Milk protein does have an initial neutralizing effect on gastric acid, but because of its high calcium content, it’s also a potent accelerator, and stimulates excess acid production.”
My eyes glaze over. I’ve heard it all before. “You guys don’t need me here,” I say. “I’ll be in the family waiting room.”
Once there, I pour my cup of coffee, then plunk my butt down on one of the hard upholstered armchairs. True, coffee isn’t the best beverage for an ulcer patient, but if I only drink a cup or two a day, my torn-up gut doesn’t abuse me too badly. Four welcome sips later, my cell phone rings.
A gruff male says, “Miss Adams?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Al, here, ma’am. With Two Men and a Truck, you know? I . . . umm . . . thought I better call about your stuff.” Visions of an overturned truck kick my pulse up a notch.
“Oh no! What went wrong?”
“Nah, lady. Easy, okay? Nothing’s wrong, just that we can’t find the address you gave us. Can you, like, give us some directions?”
I talk them off the freeway, around Louisville proper, and out to Aunt Weeby’s three-story white colonial. I tell Al—again— that yes, they are to unload everything into the detached garage behind the house; that I left it open so they can do just that; that no, there is no room in that huge house—Aunt Weeby’s a devoted collector—and that I’ll be there shortly.
When I snap shut my clamshell cell phone, it sinks in. As does my stomach, so to speak. “What
am
I going to do with all that stuff?”
The rumpled woman who is crashed on the sofa across from me opens one eye and mumbles, “Whassup?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just muttering.”
Sure, sure. Why shouldn’t she look at me like I need help, of the straitjacket kind? I’ve been reduced to mumbling sweet nothings to myself.
Is this that big payoff my career was supposed to bring? What am I going to do with myself? I have no job, no income, and no raging desire to twiddle my thumbs.
My phone rings again. “Yes, Al. What else do you need?” “Al?” Roger asks. “Who’s Al?”
“My mover, Rog. You know, the guy who’s brought all my things from my closet-sized apartment here for me. I’m fine, thanks for asking. And how are you? How’s Tiffany?”
“Ah . . . well, yes. How did your trip go?”
“How nice of you to ask!” What can I say? I’m far from perfect, and I fail to stop my smart mouth from smarting off. Lucky for me, this time no one sticks me in a corner to ponder the error of my ways—like all those times back in my schoolgirl days. I shake my head, shoot a prayer for selfcontrol heavenward, then go on. “But I do know one thing. You didn’t call to see what kind of mileage I got on the drive, or to see how much wreckage Al and his pal wrought on my stuff. So what’s up?”
“What do you mean, what’s up? I called to see if you’d worked this tantrum out of your system yet.”
“I’m sorry, Roger. I am a smart-mouth, and that’s not so cool.” Okay. I’ve faced up to my part. But I hate it when he pulls his daddy-thing on me. “Tantrum? I’m not throwing a tantrum. I just couldn’t go on. I worked, worked, worked, and didn’t have a life. It all just got to me.”
“Oh, all right.” His long-suffering sigh rings alarm bells. Roger is known for his determination. “How about a 25 percent raise? Will that do it?”
Wow! Twenty-five percent . . .
Temptation lasts about two seconds. “I wish it were as simple as money. It’s the stress, the ulcers that don’t heal, the crazy rents that had me living in an apartment smaller than my aunt’s downstairs powder room.”
The woman on the couch glares. I shrink into my chair and lower my voice. “Where was I? Oh yeah. New York, I’ve come to believe, is a great place to visit, but not one for me to inhabit. Sorry.”
“B–but . . . what about . . .” His words trail off. He sighs. He gulps. He stays quiet for a moment, two . . .
Roger is really upset. I’ve always known he respects my work but never thought he cared much about me as a person, an acquaintance, a friend. Or is it my gemological knowledge he loves so much? After all, a time or two, when he was gung ho on making a questionable purchase, I stepped in and managed to save his bacon. Big time.
“Andie, I really need you here.” The sincerity in his voice catches me by surprise. “I don’t know anyone else with your talent, expertise, and honesty. You can spot a flaw a mile away, never mind a fraud. Where am I going to find someone else who can do that? Besides, we’ve always worked very well together.”
I take a gulp of coffee . . . two. “Thanks for the compliment. It means a lot. Really. It does. But you know the GIA graduates top-notch gemologists all the time. That’s where I learned what I know. Call them. I’m sure they’ll hook you up with the right person.”
“They’ll know their stuff, but will they care?”
“Sure. Gemologists love rocks.”
“But will they
care
? About business. About negotiating.” “I can’t make any promises.”
“See? I need you back.”
“No, you don’t, Roger. And I can’t go back. You might never understand.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Even though you think I went temporarily insane when I jumped at the chance to come home again, I had been praying for a change. Aunt Weeby’s accident just gave me the push I needed.”
“But what about your career? All those years of studying?”
Aargh!
The guy does know my weak spots. As I think of an appropriate response, I glance at the woman on the couch. She shuts her eyes fast in a lousy effort to pretend sleep. I feel bad for disturbing her, but I can’t handle cell phone and coffee and walk all at one time. So I tell Roger, “Thanks for the free trip down the guilt aisle, Rog. It just won’t work. I quit.”
“I really need you, Andie. Take a couple of days to think it over. I can postpone the trip to New Delhi while you reconsider. I won’t hold it against you once you come to your senses.”
Big of him, huh? And here I thought I’d come to my senses the minute I decided to come to Louisville. “Don’t, Roger. Don’t hold out hope. I’m staying here.”
“Not for long, you won’t. You’ll get bored in days, and besides, what are you going to do for a living? Can’t imagine there’s a huge need for gem experts down there.”
“I don’t know one way or the other.” I tamp down the panicky butterflies in my stomach, and give the by-now irate woman on the couch an apologetic smile. “But I do know I’m staying here. Now, hang up and call the GIA. I’m sure the perfect gemologist is out there, waiting for you to find him . . . or her.”
“Andie, really. I—”
“Good-bye, Roger. Give Tiffany my love.”
This time, the snap of the closing phone sounds more like the thud of the floor falling out from under me. What
am
I going to do with myself? Does anyone need a gemologist in Louisville? If so, where? Who? And if not, then what else does my skill with expensive sparkly stones qualify me for? My nerves detonate another stomach salvo, one unlike the earlier butterflies. This one threatens to wake up my dormant ulcer.
I burst up out of the uncomfortable chair. “Well, enough of that.”
Your choice, your choice, your choice.
My footsteps seem to mock me as I march down to Aunt Weeby’s hospital room. She has to be done with that sponge bath by now. There isn’t a whole lot of her, so how long can a lick-and-a-promise swab-down take?
I slam the door on every thought that even considers popping into my head as I put foot in front of foot.
At the door, I hear a familiar, throaty laugh.
I grin. “Hey, there, Miss Mona! I didn’t know you were coming.”
“But here I am, and I need me a hug.”
As always, Miss Mona Latimer looks like a million bucks, somewhat less than she’s reported to be worth. Her sage green suit brings out the green in her hazel eyes, and her hair is in its usual sleek silver bob. By comparison, I feel ready for the next episode of
What Not to Wear
in my boring blue-on-white pinstriped button-down shirt and gray pencil skirt.
After I extricate myself from the solid, comforting hug, I catch a glimpse of Aunt Weeby. Uh-oh. The tricky twosome is up to something, and this time, I don’t think it has anything to do with matchmaking. That’s Aunt Weeby’s thing. Miss Mona would rather eat ground glass than mess with someone else’s love life. And she’s said so. About a million times.
“Okay, you two.” I frown and waggle a finger. “Spit it out. I can tell when you’re making trouble.”
“What?” Aunt Weeby can’t pull off the blasé thing worth beans. “Can’t a woman be happy to see her best friend and her favorite niece both at one time?”
“
Favorite
niece? What’s up with that? I’m your only niece, you fraud, you. And you and Miss Mona fight more like sworn enemies than best friends. So tell me what’s up.”
Aunt Weeby turns to Miss Mona. “It’s your idea, so go ahead and tell her.”
“Of course it’s my idea, but she’s your niece, and you think it’s a pretty good idea too, so
you
tell her.”
I roll my eyes, something I do around these two way more than anywhere else. “Why don’t you both do what you always do and talk over each other? I’ll figure it out.”
“Why, Andrea Adams, that’s rude. We don’t talk over—” “My, my, Andie! Your auntie and I would never engage in such—”
Both zip up at the same time, their eyes huge, their cheeks rosy.
“You don’t, do you?” I shake my head. “So what’s the big deal? Why don’t you just tell me what you’re up to?”
Miss Mona stands and gestures for me to sit in the pleather chair she’s just vacated. “Oh, all right. I’ll tell you. But I just want you to know that I know you’re the perfect woman for the job.”
I sit, but the stiff, hard chair almost spits me back out. “Job?”
“Yes, dear. Job.” Miss Mona squares her shoulders. “Do you remember when I bought a really bad television station a few years ago?”
There go my alarm bells. “Television station? I know nothing about broadcasting.”
“You don’t have to,” she says. “Let me tell you what I’ve gone and done. You do know that television’s all about cable nowadays, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Well, honey, I knew that local news would only keep the station sagging along as it was. So I decided to go into the big time.”
“What do you want me to do with your TV station?”
“Nothing, dear. Just pipe down and hear me out. You’re almost as bad as Livvy here. I invested a good chunk of change—I tell you, it was so much, it had even me scared for a bit.”
“Mm-hmm,” Aunt Weeby says. “The whole thing had me shaking up a storm. And it wasn’t even
my
retirement that was about to run off with all them infomercial doodads she bought to sell.”
My pulse kicks it up one more notch. At this rate, I’m going to need all kinds of blood pressure meds to stay alive around these two. But I don’t say a word; the ladies are doing a pretty nice job of doing all the talking.
Miss Mona crosses her arms. “I reckon you can tell by now I didn’t lose my shirt, and now I own a cable TV shopping network.”
I sproing out of my chair. “You what?”
“You heard me. I own the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network.”
My eyes goggle. “No way. You mean
you
are the brains and bucks behind the ‘All women, for women, by women’ channel?”
“So you’ve seen us.”
Fists on hips, I tap my right toe. “They do have TV in New York, you know. Of course, I’ve seen you. I’ve been known to channel surf every once in a while.”
