chairs, etc.) in one area, and tables filled with lamps, fixtures, sconces and crystal in another. (I noticed Mr. Receding Hairline making a beeline for that particular table.) Knickknacks in boxes marked with lot numbers were spaced so that customers could paw through them without maiming each other, and artwork was displayed tastefully on folding tables and easels.
The art was where I gravitated. I couldn’t help sending a covetous glance in the direction of the furniture, but a glance was all it took for me to be fairly certain that a schoolteacher’s salary wouldn’t allow for any purchases in that area.
The soon-to-be ex-owner’s tastes were certainly consistent. All of the paintings displayed on the easels had a like theme—mythology. I wandered from watercolor to acrylic to oil. Everything from Venus’s birth to a great lithograph of Wotan’s farewell to Brunhilde.
“Ohmygod, that’s hilarious!” I couldn’t help nudging the Garage Sale Queen standing next to me and pointing to a wonderful full-color print of a huge fiery dragon roaring flame at a blond female warrior on a plunging white horse. She was deflecting the fire with a shield and brandishing a sword. I couldn’t make out the artist’s name, but the title painted on the bottom of the print read, Stamp Out Forest Fires.
“I have to have this one.” I was still chuckling.
“Well, it’s kinda strange.” The Garage Sale Queen’s nasally twang interrupted my smile.
“Yep. But I like to think of it as not normal, versus simply strange.” She gave me one of those sheepy, duh looks and started over to the household items section. I sighed and opened my little notebook to write, “Lot #12—dragon print.” A closer look at the frame made me wonder if I had a chance of affording it, but maybe everyone would think it was “kinda strange” and I would be the only bidder.
Many of the other paintings were interesting, but I had already decided to focus my financial energy on a single print, and maybe a small vase or sculpture or some such “strange” knickknack. Behind the paintings were the lots filled with artsy stuff. Tables held individual pieces, along with boxes of variously grouped odds and ends. Again, there seemed to be a theme. Sculptures were miniature reproductions of stuff that looked very Greek or Roman, and, well, very naked.
This would be fun.
Three male statuettes were placed on one table. They each stood about two feet high. I paused and gave each the respectful, proper attention they seemed to deserve, while trying not to ogle as I read the identification and lot tags: Lot #17 Statuette of Zeus, Thunderbolt at the Ready (very nude—actually naked, and he looked very, um, ready).
“Sorry, sweetie. Can’t take you home—too kinky.” I tweaked his thunderbolt.
Lot #18, Statuette of Hellenistic Ruler, possibly Demetrios I of Syria. Demetrios was a large, muscular, naked man. Very large.
“Oh, baby, wish you were Galatea and I was your enamored sculptor.” I patted his cheeks and giggled, while I looked around to make sure I wasn’t causing a stir.
Lot #19, Statuette of Etruscan Warrior. Too skinny for my tastes—only two things stuck out about the statuette: his weapon, and, um, his weapon.
“Bye-bye, boys. It’s just so…well…hard to leave you.” I chortled at my own pun and moved to the next table, which was filled with about half a dozen large vases. My gaze drifted over the elegant urns…
And the world stopped. Suddenly, and totally, the day stood still. The breeze died. Sounds ceased. I didn’t feel the heat. My breath stopped. My vision tunneled until my awareness was completely filled by the vase.
“Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to bump ya.” Breath rushed into my lungs and the world started again as a kind man grabbed my elbow to steady me.
“That’s okay.” I sucked air and attempted a smile.
“Guess I wasn’t looking where I was going. Almost ran ya over.”
“I’m fine now. No harm done.”
He looked at me like he wasn’t sure, but nodded and went on his way.
I brushed a trembling hand through my hair. What was going on? What happened? I was looking at the vases and…
My attention turned back to the pottery table, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the last of the vases. My feet were moving toward it before I told them to go. My trembling hand reached out to touch the lot identification tag. It read: Lot #25, Reproduction—Celtic vase, original stood over graves in Scottish cemetery—Scene in color represents supplications being made to the High Priestess of Epona, Celtic Horse Goddess.
My vision was blurred and my eyes felt strangely hot as I looked back at the vase. Blinking my vision clear, I studied it, attempting to ignore how strange I was feeling.
The vase was a couple of feet tall and shaped like the base of a lamp. A curved handle balanced off one side. The top was open with a gracefully ridged circumference. But it wasn’t the shape or size that drew me; it was the scene painted into the pottery, stretching from one side all the way around. The background color was black, which made the scene seem to jump out with the other colors all highlighted in golds and creams.
A woman reclined on some type of cushioned lounge chair. Her back was to the viewer, so all that could be seen of her was the curve of her waist, one outstretched arm with which she motioned regally to the supplicants on their knees before her and the cascade of her hair.
“It’s like my hair.” I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud until I heard the words. But her hair was like mine, only longer. The same red-gold, the same wavy semi-curls that never wanted to stay put. My finger crept forward of its own accord and I found myself touching the vase, transfixed.
“Oh!” It felt hot! I yanked my finger back where it belonged.
“I didn’t know you were interested in pottery.” Mr. Receding Hairline squinted up at me. “I am actually quite knowledgeable about several categories of Early American pottery.” He licked his lips.
“Well, I’m not really interested in Early American pottery.” Hairline’s reappearance into my Personal Space had served to dash cold water on whatever weird feelings I had been experiencing. “It’s way too Southwest for me. I’m more of a Greek/Roman-esque kind of girl.”
“Oh, I see. What a fascinating little piece you were admiring.” He reached his sweaty hands out, and in a jumpy, cockroach-like movement he lifted the vase, turning it upside down to peer at the bottom. I observed him for any signs of weirdness, but he just kept on being his normal, nerdy self.
“Um, you don’t notice anything, well, odd about that vase, do you?”
“No. It’s a rather well-made reproduction, but I don’t detect anything odd about Epona or the urn. What do you mean?” He put the vase down and dabbed at his upper lip with a damp handkerchief.
“Well, it seemed to feel a little, I don’t know, hot, when I touched it.” I stared into his eyes, wondering if my neurotic breakdown was obvious.
“Might I suggest—” he leaned even farther into my Personal Space, practically resting his pointy nose on my cleavage “—that the warmth may have been generated by your own generous body heat?”
He was almost salivating.
