no makeup, and soccer shorts. Is there anything designed to make a woman’s ass look bigger than a pair of soccer shorts? Yeah: an inner tube.
I resolved to keep my front to Ian. Not that I cared. And I mean, who has this kind of conversation with a relative stranger? I hadn’t seen the guy in eight years. I couldn’t even blame it on alcohol. Must be Wren’s influence, awkward flirting. Except it hadn’t felt awkward…
“Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with,” Ian said, looking at the customers but definitely talking to me.
The woman said she was looking for creamwear pitchers. Ian murmured something about Wedgwood Queen’s Ware, and escorted the woman to a rubbish heap in the corner. I didn’t tell the poor woman that there was a Macy’s down the block, if she was looking for a pitcher.
The teenage daughter and I rolled our eyes at each other, and I looked around for the lacquer pot Emily said Charlotte liked. There were a lot of pots. None were new. Beyond that, I had no idea.
I glanced at Ian. He’d grown. I mean, he wasn’t taller or anything, but he’d grown—he was a man. Nothing boyish about him, except for the glint in his eye. And his voice, talking about skinny-dipping. God, that was embarrassing. How could I have let this happen? With Ian! He was undoubtedly still in love with Charlotte, too. He was just…used goods. Definitely incestuous. Disgusting. I can’t believe I—Okay, calm down. It was only words. No fluids were exchanged.
Still. Can’t believe I had virtual fake memory sex with my sister’s ex-boyfriend.
Evidently the woman found what she was looking for, because Ian quickly rang up the sale and came back to me.
“Still don’t remember me?” he asked.
“You’re starting to ring a distant bell,” I said.
“I’ll give you a hint. You asked me to your school—”
“I know who you are, Ian! Last I heard, you’d moved to New York.”
“Small-town boy lost in the big city. And did you know—” he tried to look horrified “—they have no beach there?”
“Get out!”
“Yeah, and all their malls are inside. It’s no Santa Barbara, I’ll tell you that.”
“But it’s the place to be if you want to learn—” I waved a hand at the moldering goods he had on display “—all this?”
“Took a couple years, but I finally wandered into Sotheby’s training. What’ve you been up to? What has it been—six years?”
“Eight,” I said, then was sorry I’d let him know I’d been counting. “This and that.”
“Married?” he asked.
“Divorced.”
He eyed me. “Liar.”
“Well, I could’ve married. I had offers. How did you know?” He was probably still following Charlotte’s career, like a cyber-stalker or something. Probably knew her birthstone and exactly how many centimeters she dilated when she had her kids.
“You’re not the marrying type,” he said.
“I am too. I just never—”
“Met the right man?”
“Found the right dress. How about you?”
“I don’t wear dresses.”
“So not married?”
“Nope. I’m engaged, though.”
“Engaged? Now? Currently?”
He nodded. “All of the above.”
“You can’t be flirting like that when you’re engaged! Where is she? Who is she? What are you thinking? Skinny-dipping at the reservoir. You oughta be ashamed, flirting like that.”
He laughed. “It’s harmless. I dated your sister, so we’re like siblings.”
That stopped me. “Yuck.”
“Well, I wouldn’t flirt with my actual sister, Anne.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, Charlotte’s why I’m here. I’m supposed to buy some old pot for her birthday.”
“Some old pot?”
“Yeah, and if I don’t get it Emily will kill me.”
“So Emily hasn’t changed?”
“No, she’s mellowed. These days, she’d kill me painlessly.”
“We can’t have that. When’s Charlotte’s birthday? Wait, I should know this—must be this weekend.”
I nodded. He still knew her birthday. Pathetic.
“How is she?”
“Good. Three kids. Happily married.” I looked at him. “Very happily.”
“Mmm. Pity I missed her. She came into the store? My assistant must’ve been here—I’m surprised she didn’t mention seeing Charlotte Olsen.”
“Maybe she was wearing a scarf and sunglasses. It’s some kind of lacquer pot. Asian or something.”
“The Japanese Three Friends teapot?” He moved toward a display of Zen-looking kitchenware in a bright nook under the stairs. “The bamboo, pine, and plum design represents the Confucian virtue of integrity under—”
“No, no,” I said. “Not a teapot. No virtues. It’s a box, I think.”
“Oh! The lacquerware cosmetic box?” He moved the teapot aside. “An interesting piece. Made from bamboo which is coated with layers of lacquer—twenty-five, thirty layers. The lacquer’s a resin secreted by a plant at points of injuries—so they cut channels in the bark of the Rhus verniciflua, the sumac trees which…” He babbled on as he searched for the box—then suddenly stopped. “Oh, I forgot—it’s gone.”
“You sold it?!” I said. “I’m dead. I was supposed to come in two days ago.”
“It’s not sold. It’s on loan to a decorator. When do you need it?”
“Tonight.”
“Yikes. Well, I’ll give him a call. What time?”
“Dinner’s at six.” Charlotte insisted on an early dinner, for the kids. And I’d promised her I’d bathe the little monsters before the party. I didn’t have time to swing back here after work. “Do you think…it’s asking a lot, but could you drop it by Charlotte’s?”
“You want your antique delivered? Like it’s a pizza?”
“Think of it more as a house call—like a doctor.” It certainly wasn’t an
