Chapter 1 #2
I make an incredulous sound. “Gee, Mom, I don’t know.” I tap a mocking finger on my chin. “Oh, that’s right—because we’re on the brink of broke.”
“Brink of broke.” She scoffs. “You’re so dramatic.”
I find something to focus on other than my desire to strangle her, landing on an ornately designed German Hones cuckoo clock with intricately carved oak leaves surrounding a large rack of deer antlers.
I mentally recite what I know: It’s handcrafted, from the 1960s, and came from an estate sale I combed through last November.
I take one calming breath.
Then another.
“Mom,” I say slowly, “who did you buy this from?”
“What?”
I might as well be arguing with a child.
“Dammit, Mom, the crystal ball. Where did you get it? I’m guessing the woman who predicted Kennedy’s assassination isn’t just hanging out on the streets of Fontain, sipping a glass of chardonnay and waiting to sell her props to the next sucker who strolls up. ”
“I got it from—” She snaps her fingers, squinting at the ceiling. “Oh. What’s her name?” Another pause. Snap, snap, snap. “Damn.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Mom,” I bark.
“Sylvia,” she says, relieved look on her face. “That’s right, I got it from Sylvia.”
I press the heels of my palms into my temples and say a silent prayer to be taken out by an asteroid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”
“The psychic over by the hardware store. I was in for my reading”—I groan—“and she told me the history of it, and I just had to have it.” Her hands begin gesticulating through the air as she describes how wonderful Sylvia is.
How she would never swindle her. How she predicted that she’d connect to her soulmate on the dating app she’s been using, and she has indeed found the love of her life in a sexy Frenchman.
“You’re internet dating?” I ask, stunned. My mother’s dated casually since my dad passed, but nothing like this. “Since when?”
“Since I am,” she says dismissively. “And you should hear his accent when we talk. Tu es plus belle qu’une fleur.” She pauses, proud of her horrid attempt at what I assume to be French. “You’re more beautiful than a flower.” She smiles, lovestruck.
In the stupid glass ball, my distorted reflection scowls back at me.
Ed, my dad, was an accountant until the day he died ten years ago.
He loved numbers and order and had the work ethic of a pack mule.
He was the definition of normal; we were the picture-perfect family of five filling JCPenney’s portraits that covered the walls, showcasing our life.
A life where dinners were eaten together at the same time every night, the same TV shows were watched before bed, and every summer, we went camping at the same spot in the mountains.
Even with my mom’s unpredictable whims—acting lessons, painting classes, and themed dinner parties for no reason—he was a constant calm presence and kept her in check.
When she wanted to paint the living room purple, he’d convince her to try a shade of grey.
When she wanted to rent a Winnebago and drive across the country for an entire summer, he convinced her to join the gardening club.
Since he’s been gone, it’s me trying to wrangle her in, and the more time that passes, the more I fail. Miserably.
At first, it wasn’t so bad—we had the money to lean into her sporadically wild ideas—but it’s as if the tighter our cash gets, the more capricious she becomes.
Even when she was painting the house every shade of the rainbow, she stuck to a budget and knew the value of a dollar.
Not anymore. And now she’s dating on the internet.
If Dad hadn’t had the heart attack that took him from us ten years ago, he’d certainly be having one now.
“Mom,” I say with forced calm, interrupting her spiel of psychics and French love and crystal balls. “No more.”
She recrosses her arms over her chest, regarding me as I put the ball into its purple velvet bag and shove it on a shelf behind the counter. My mind is already on the research I’ll need to do to price it and if we’ll ever be able to sell it.
“You know,” she says, breaking my thoughts apart, “life doesn’t last forever, Rue. You might as well be happy and have some fun while you can.”
It’s simple, but it irks me, and I respond by way of a single Ha!
I march from behind the counter to arrange and rearrange a shelf of silver souvenir spoons unnecessarily.
“One, my life would last a lot longer if you weren’t buying these ridiculous trinkets.
” We exchange a heated look. “And two, I am happy. Me not wanting a crystal ball is called fiscal responsibility. Ever heard of it?”
“You are not,” she argues, stuck to me like a shadow I can’t escape. I move to a box of metal signs, flipping them around so they all face the same direction. “If anything, you’re a martyr of it.”
My hold on a dinged-up Centlivre tonic sign that ironically promises to give strength and enjoyment to life turns to a death grip.
“Martyr?” I am fully offended. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Her hands fly straight into the air. “You know exactly what it means.”
“Where is this coming from?” I demand. “You’re attacking me and throwing a fit because you got conned?”
“I didn’t get conned. I bought something that spoke to me. And I’m not throwing a fit,” she argues. “But I am attacking you because your life has turned predictable and stale and all you do is worry.”
“That is so rude, it is not. I like my life.” Her look says she doesn’t believe me. “And it’s the exact same life that you had. I work at the same store as you. I have a kid. I’m marrying a wonderful man.”
Her face puckers like she just sucked a lemon dry.
“When’s the last time you did something because you wanted to?” she asks. “Bought something for the shop because you liked it?”
“The point isn’t to buy stuff for the store that I like. It’s about selling. Sell-ing.”
She makes an annoyed sound. “Or gave that head of yours a break and did something that your heart wants? That wasn’t fiscally responsible?” She says the words like they’re laced with poison. “Threw caution to the wind?”
All my attention goes to straightening a vintage leather jacket covered with patches; there’s no use arguing. She views life the same way she views antiques: through the rose-colored lenses of romance and play. I, on the other hand, see everything through a microscope of practical durability.
I buy farmhouse tables people will use; she buys Jeane Dixon’s crystal ball.
I plan for the future; she asks someone to predict it.
I make decisions that will lead to safe and secure outcomes; she throws caution to the damn wind.
And she can say what she wants, but it’s my shrewd thinking that helped get us this far.
She and my dad bought the store when I was a teenager after he declared it a good deal and something to keep Mom busy after years of being a stay-at-home mom.
She had gotten stir crazy—the walls were seemingly changing colors weekly—and needed something to do.
Old Vines fit the bill.
My mother is smart and well read, she always has been, but she had no idea how to run a business and knew nothing about antiques.
At sixteen, and with the help of my financially savvy dad, she and I figured it out together.
My younger sisters weren’t interested in any of it, but I loved it.
I put systems in place, learned the antique world, and found myself intrigued by the oddities we filled the shelves with.
I loved it so much I’d spend evenings watching Antiques Roadshow over going out with friends for the sake of learning as much as I could.
Then we all grew up.
Reese went to Chicago to become a big shot at a private equity firm.
Remy is an elementary school librarian in Winston-Salem with two kids and a husband.
I never left the antique store or Fontain—I never wanted to.
“God, Rue, there’s no passion in anything you do.” My mother’s voice pulls me back to the present and makes me laugh—literally laugh.
“We practically had a family motto to not act on passion,” I remind her. “‘A pounding heart is a bad decision maker,’ ring a bell, Mom? It was only Dad’s favorite quote.”
“Bah.” She flicks an annoyed wrist. “Ed knew numbers, not living.”
Instead of screaming like I long to do, I aggressively smooth a quilt on the back of a scuffed-up 1800s Bentwood rocking chair. “Then I guess you should have thought about that before letting him indoctrinate us all with common sense.”
“You’re impossible,” she says, like she’s not the one being an absolute pain. “And you act like you know everything about me.”
That hangs between us and makes me pause. I do know everything about her. I’m around her more than any other human.
I know when she doesn’t drink enough water, she gets headaches.
I know when she takes Bennie for the night, they’ll be baking cinnamon buns for breakfast. I know the schedule of her ridiculous hobbies.
I know the tone of voice she uses when she’s bought something that’s going to lose money just as much as I know at the end of a hard day when we don’t make as many sales as I wish we would have, sitting with her on her front porch with a glass of wine will make me feel better.
I know if she’s quiet, that means something is wrong.
I know she’s absentminded and can’t remember a name to save her life.
I know she goes for more doctor checkups than any normal person because she secretly has the hots for the doctor. She loves to dance.
I. Know. Her.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she says, “when is the last time you ran into someone’s arms because you couldn’t not or had sex that left you delirious?”