Some customers came in looking for ribbons and trim. As I showed them around, I watched Sarah out of the corner of my eye. Occasionally she laughed, and then frowned at the phone, her fingers moving lightning fast. I wondered if she was networking or chatting with her friends. The film business was like any other business. You had to stay in the game and be seen, not sequestered away in some Bucks County backwater. Although with the way everyone was connected via the Internet these days, I supposed it didn’t matter so much.
“Yo, Daisy! Wazzup?”
The boisterous yell resounded through the store as it did every day about this time. Patsy Elliott, the waitress from the Last Stop Diner, usually came in after her shift to chat before she picked up her daughter from school. Her raspy barroom voice sounded like she smoked a hundred cigarettes a day, but she didn’t. It was a stark contrast to her clear skin, bright blue eyes, and dark curly hair, all glowing with good health.
Today her leggy nine-year-old daughter, Claire, was with her, hanging behind her mother, dark eyes shining. Arched eyebrows framed her huge brown eyes, and she would be a stunner when she grew up.
Claire was the one who usually helped me sort the buttons. I bent down and she gave me a tight hug. I clung back for a moment, cherishing the feel of her little arms around my neck.
Sarah glanced at us, an unreadable expression on her face.
“Patsy!” I hugged Patsy, too, for good measure. “Just the person I wanted to see. How would you feel about bid calling the auction on Saturday night? Betty will pay you. Probably a couple of hundred bucks for a few hours’ work?”
“Hell, yeah. Sounds like fun. The diner has been slow lately. I can definitely use that kind of money.” Most people might have balked at being asked to do something they’d never done before, but not Patsy.
“Oops! Mommy, you swore.” Claire held out her hand. “You owe me a quarter.”
Patsy sighed and fished a coin out of her waitress apron. “After church I promised to give her a quarter each time I said a bad word.”
Claire beamed at us. “I have two dollars and seventy-five cents so far, and it’s only Tuesday.”
Sarah and I laughed. To say Patsy’s language was salty was an understatement. I cringed myself sometimes at her brash speech.
“At this rate, I’ll be broke before the weekend. That’s why the auctioneer gig will come in handy.” Patsy settled her slender form into one of the bistro chairs. The diner uniform was hideous—a brown polyester dress with puffed sleeves and an orange and white checked apron—but Patsy could make a garbage bag look like designer couture.
The customers brought their ribbon lengths to the counter and I rang them up, and thanked them for visiting.
“Now, what about this chanting thing?” Patsy said after they left. “I can never understand what the hell those guys are saying.” She automatically reached in her pocket and held out another quarter to Claire.
I smiled. “At first I couldn’t understand what they were saying at auctions either. But Angus told me that it’s really about the numbers. The rest is just filler. The main thing is to create a sense of excitement and urgency to drive the price up and keep the pace moving.”
“But how do I learn how to do it?”
“Well, you can practice counting pairs of numbers like one, one, two, two, three, three, and so on. Then try it backwards. Or count up in increments of fives or tens. Or practice tongue twisters. I’ll see Angus tomorrow. I’ll ask him for some pointers for you.”
“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Twenty, fifteen, ten, five.” Claire smiled at me. “One, one, two, two, three, three—”
“Jesus. Thanks a lot, Daisy.” Patsy groaned. “See what I’ll have to listen to for the rest of the week?”
For all that I thought I’d had it rough in New York sometimes, it was nothing compared to the life Patsy had led, but she’d survived, flourished even. It had made her somewhat hard, though, and to say that she practiced tough love with her daughter was an understatement. No candy except on special occasions, no TV during the week, and a long list of chores to complete for her pocket money.
Although perhaps I should have taken a page out of Patsy’s book. As a teenager, Sarah was constantly losing things like her cell phone, but instead of making her save up her pocket money for a new one, Joe bought her a replacement. We’d paid the full ticket to put her through college so she wouldn’t be encumbered by loans, but I wondered if Sarah appreciated how much Joe and I had sacrificed to give her that gift.
The door bell rang, and an elderly woman stepped into the store. She wore a black wool coat in spite of the heat, and clutched a white paper shopping bag. Thanks to gossip queen Martha, I knew Mary Willis was recently widowed, and her husband had died with no life insurance. They’d spent everything they had on his medical bills.