collage was still sitting in the back of her closet, unsold, so that left only one unaccounted for. It had gone to a woman from right there in Serenity. That address was the closest so she’d go there before driving to Mountain Home and buying back her own pictures.
She had to reclaim all the keys. It was the only way to be sure she had the right ones. She shuddered. Her stomach clenched. Failing to please a man like her husband was unthinkable.
The trembling fingers of one hand clasped the receipts while she gently touched her cheek with the other, remembering previous encounters. She dared not fail.
ONE
Charlene Nancy Boyd, Chancy for short, loved antiques so much that she was willing to work 24/7 to find and preserve them. On balmy spring days like this one, however, she was happy to find a good excuse to leave her shop and venture into the beautiful Ozark hills. Dogwood trees had started to lose their white blossoms and the oaks were producing tiny chartreuse leaves that would grow, darken and soon fill the skyline.
The auction at the old farm place off Hawkins Mill Road was the kind that always made her sad. A couple’s lifetime worth of belongings was being liquidated. Both Jewel and Pete Hawkins had passed away and their heirs were selling their entire estate, one piece at a time.
Those items that didn’t interest surviving relatives were often the most valuable, Chancy knew, and she wanted to be there to bid. If she bought something that eventually brought a profit, fine. If she let nostalgia or enthusiasm influence her and paid too much, that was simply part of the business. She much preferred auctions to private sales because she was far too softhearted when it came to the old people who were selling their last treasures.
The crowd massing around the long tables of household goods set up in the farmyard was filled with familiar faces. Chancy greeted several acquaintances before she noticed Miss Mercy Cosgrove, a former schoolteacher she saw often, particularly in church.
Chancy waved and joined the elderly woman. “Morning. Great to see you. How’ve you been?”
The thin octogenarian gave her a welcoming hug, then shrugged. “Passable, considering. If I’d known how many aches and pains I’d have at this age I’d have taken better care of myself years ago.”
“I know what you mean.” The back of her hand rested against her lower back. She made a fist and rubbed a sore spot through her blue sweatshirt. “I get a catch every once in a while, too.”
“Young thing like you?”
“I’m nearly thirty, Miss Mercy.”
“That’s impossible.” She held out her hand waist-high. “I remember when you were only this tall. Cute little thing you were, too, not that you’re not still pretty.” Eyes misty with fond memories, she studied Chancy’s face. “Still got those adorable little dimples, I see. I imagine you have to beat the boys off with a stick.”
Chancy couldn’t help chuckling. In her teens she’d adjusted to the fact she wasn’t popular the way many of the other girls were. “I think I may have hit a few of those guys too hard,” she said with a smile. “Word must have gotten around because I haven’t had to beat any of them off since high school.” And not really then, either.
“Well, more’s the pity,” her former teacher said. She tittered behind her hand. “’Course, I shouldn’t talk since I never remarried after my husband passed away.”
“We’re probably both smart to stay single,” Chancy offered. “Marriage is highly overrated.”
Mercy laid a hand on Chancy’s arm. “Now, dear, you can’t judge every couple by you know who.”
She certainly did. The turbulence of her parents’ union was well known to practically everybody, thanks to the longevity of juicy gossip in a small town. The atmosphere in the modest house where Chancy had grown up had been so volatile she’d moved out as soon as she’d been able to amass enough capital to start her business, and although that move had undoubtedly saved her life, she’d often wondered if her presence could have prevented her parents’ untimely demise.
“I should have been there to talk some sense into them,” Chancy said, remembering.
“Nonsense. Nobody can predict what a tornado’s going to do. If they’d gone to the storm cellar like reasonable folks would have, they’d probably have survived. They were grown-ups, Chancy, honey. They made their choice and it was the wrong one. That’s not your fault.”
“I know, but…”
Mercy held up a hand. “Hush. No more of that silliness. You and I can no more be responsible for life and death than we can fly. When the good Lord decides my time is up and takes me home, I don’t want anybody down here to blame themselves. I’m sure your mama and daddy don’t, either.” She smiled sweetly.
Chancy gave her a cautious hug, mindful of her frailty. “Thanks for reminding me who’s really in charge, Miss Mercy. You always were a wise lady.”
“Just repeating what the Good Book says.”
In the background, the auctioneer began making his opening announcements. Chancy tensed, half listening while she asked, “Are you going to stay for the fun?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Got my eye on that green Depression-glass butter dish of Jewel’s over there. Hope it doesn’t go too high.”
“I promise not to bid against you,” Chancy said.
Her glance passed over the crowd, assessing the competition. She knew most of the antique dealers present and would try to pass the word to them to back off and let Miss Mercy have the winning bid for the butter dish. Most would listen. These were country people. They basically looked out for each other in a manner few outsiders could comprehend.
Interceding in this small way would be Chancy’s opportunity to repay the former teacher who had befriended her as a child and provided a temporary refuge from the daily emotional storms she’d faced at home.
The remembrance of her unhappy childhood settled like a rock in her stomach. She consciously pushed aside the negative feelings and began to wend her way into the throng, intent on trying to influence the bidding in favor of her old friend and mentor. As far as she could tell, there were only three dealers present who consistently bought Depression glass. She’d start with them.
The twin-engine Cessna 310 flew low over Serenity and set up for a landing at the rural airstrip. There was no control tower but that didn’t bother pilot, Nate Collins. Considering some of the storms he’d encountered in the course of his job, nothing much rattled him. The excitement of being a storm-chasing meteorologist had influenced him so deeply that he often felt a letdown when nothing dangerous was in the offing.
He banked, flared and set the wheels of the plane on the numbers painted at the end of the short runway. The challenge of perfect wheel placement gave him gratification even though he could have safely landed much farther down the asphalt. Cutting the power, he taxied to transient parking where a beat-up old green pickup truck waited.
An elderly man wearing denim overalls and a frayed jacket over a blue shirt got out of the truck, shaded his eyes beneath the bill of a sweat-stained baseball cap and waved.
Nate set his jaw as he returned the greeting. Grandpa Ted looked more
