I’ve often been told I have a nice face. People say I remind them of their sister’s best friend, or their neighbor. More often than not, though, they never remember meeting me in the first place. Nice equaled forgettable, it seemed.
I thought of Martha, or Sarah, or even Eleanor. No one could forget them.
Especially not Martha. I wondered what she’d be wearing tonight. Probably be a bit over the top as usual, but somehow she pulled it off.
Back in the day, I’d been the best-dressed teacher on the Lower East Side, fulfilling my shopping addiction on a limited budget by zeroing in on all the designer fashion sales. But the suits and dresses were long gone, and today I was invisible in a comfortable top and jeans.
Crap.
Joe caught up to me. He said he was planning on bidding on a cigar cutter from the 1880s, a piece of Trench art from World War II, a set of wooden golf clubs, and a vintage U.S. Army suitcase. I raised an eyebrow at the expensive-sounding list. He grinned at me like a guilty little boy. I had to keep an eye on Joe at auction. It was so easy to get seduced by the challenge of outbidding someone else, and he invariably got caught up in the excitement and forgot about his budget.
Cyril Mackey made his way down the aisle toward us.
“Hi, there,” Joe said.
“Hey up, me old cock.”
“How are you, Cyril?” I asked.
“Champion. But tha makes a better door than a winder.”
“Excuse me?”
“I think he wants you to get out of the way.” Joe slid an arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer as Cyril nudged past to inspect a set of vintage beer steins.
I rolled my eyes at Joe and we kept walking.
“That old man looks like he belongs in a garbage dump,” a woman near us cackled to her friend, and they both snickered as they pointed at Cyril. “I wonder what color that nasty jacket was originally.”
I glanced back to where Cyril, wearing his usual tweed jacket of some indeterminate shade of green, or perhaps it was brown, had his hands clasped behind his back as he inspected the mugs. He must have heard them, but he made no sign of it.
Like an island unto himself.
From the way he was standing, I wondered whether he had been in the military at one time.
It struck me that none of us really knew anything about him. What had brought him to Millbury in the first place? Did he have any family? I felt a pang that we’d never bothered to find out.
The ceiling fans turning high above us weren’t doing much to cool down the place, and flushed with heat from being in the middle of so many bodies, I suddenly craved some cool air.
“Joe, I’m going to go and check on Martha and Patsy.”
He nodded. “I’ll save us some seats.”
I squeezed my way toward the hallway. The usual snack counter fare was hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, donuts, and pretzels, but tonight Martha had added her own barbecued pulled pork sandwiches and homemade strawberry ice cream.
She was wearing an orange, pink, and teal baby doll top, white Capri pants, and gold sandals. Even though her hair was piled high, her face was still rosy from the heat, and her neck and breasts glistened with moisture as she made the pork sandwiches as fast as she could for the growing line of customers.
I figured discretion was the better part of valor. I’d talk to her later.
Claire was in her element running the popcorn and soda machines, and there were so many fans going inside the tiny snack bar that she was also kept busy placing heavy objects on the piles of paper napkins so they didn’t blow away.
I gratefully accepted an ice cold cup of Diet Coke, put fifty cents in the tip jar, and glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. I’d better check on Patsy.
I found her in the office, pacing up and down its twelve-foot length.
“How’s it going?”
“Oh, damn it, Daisy. I don’t know why I ever let you talk me into this.” Patsy automatically handed me a quarter, but I gently set it on the desk and grabbed her hands to stop the nervous motion.
“Hey, come on, you’re going to be great.” I’d never seen her so rattled.
She gestured toward the window that looked out over the main gallery. “Look at all those freaking people! And all this stuff has to be sold tonight?”
“Yes. But it’s okay. That’s what the chant is for—to keep things moving quickly.”
It was critical that the auction was not waiting on the auctioneer. And there was an awful lot of stuff to move out the door. She’d need to be really fast.
I didn’t tell her that, though.
At school, I used to help out with theater productions and I always told the kids they’d be great, no matter what. I knew that once they were onstage, they’d settle down and, heck, even enjoy it.