By the time they’d left dinner at Mamacita’s, Snow had gotten over her snit with Lorelei. They’d spent the entire meal talking about Carrie and the baby and how to decorate the nursery in the expectant mother’s new home. The one good thing to come out of the death of Carrie’s husband, other than an end to a violent marriage, had been the life insurance policy provided by Patch Farmer’s employer. It turned out all employees at the factory received policies equal to their annual salary, paid for by the company.
Carrie certainly wasn’t rolling in dough, but thanks to that policy, she’d been able to buy herself a nice little single-wide trailer not far from town. It had been used, but came with a yard, had been well-maintained, and best of all, provided a safe and comfortable home for the new little family.
“Lorelei, there’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Look,” her friend said, “I’m not good at the girlfriend thing. I’m abrupt and bossy and any filter I might have had disappeared by the time I was ten. But I’m working on that, and a big thing is admitting when I’ve crossed a line.”
Snow couldn’t argue with Lorelei’s assessment of herself, but the woman also had a big heart, was funny as hell, and regardless of her tactics, always meant well.
However, Rosie Pratchett’s chicken and dumplings were really good.
“Well then,” she said, pulling the bowl her way, “if me eating these chicken and dumplings will make you feel better, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
Lorelei rolled her eyes. “Maybe you’re the one who should move to Hollywood and give acting a try.”
“No thank you,” Snow said with a laugh. “I’m good where I am.” As she lifted the lid, a heavenly scent tickled her nose and made her mouth water. “This is going to be much better than my PB&J sandwich.”
But before Snow could dig in, the store phone rang. Having learned her lesson, she checked the ID to see the name of the appraiser who’d given her an estimate on the William Norton painting.
“Hello, Ms. Bolliver. How can I help you?”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Cameron. Is there any way you could have that William Norton painting down here in Nashville by nine tomorrow morning?”
Snow’s mind raced to find an answer. She’d need someone to run the store. And they’d need to take Caleb’s Jeep since the painting was too large and delicate to shove in her backseat.
“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “Why?”
“Premier is conducting a special auction that includes three other valuable artworks. That means the buyers will be there, and this is the perfect situation to maximize your profits while putting that piece into the hands of a dedicated collector.” Her passion for her trade coming through, the appraiser added, “A piece like that deserves to be in a collection where it will be admired and cared for.”
As Snow recalled, Virginia Bolliver had been appalled upon learning the previous location of the painting, and further astonished that no one involved with the Brambleton estate had a clue of the treasure in their midst.
“Doesn’t an auction like that require some sort of application and review process?” The Premier Auction House had a reputation for selling only the best items with authentication and full documentation of provenance.
“In most situations, yes,” Ms. Bolliver agreed, “but I’ve convinced them to bypass standard protocol for your piece. You have a rare find, Ms. Cameron. I highly recommend you take whatever measures necessary to be here in the morning.”
Well, when she put it that way . . .
“I’ll have to find someone to run the store,” Snow said, catching Lorelei’s eye. “Saturday is a busy day here.”
Lorelei caught the hint and raised her hand. “I can do it.”
“But I’m sure I can work that out,” Snow said into the phone. “Could you e-mail the address and other details?”
“Consider it done.” The appraiser sounded pleased. “I’ll see you in the morning, Ms. Cameron. Be prepared for an exciting day. If I’m right, and I usually am, your painting will be the star of the show.”
Without waiting for a reply, Ms. Bolliver hung up, and a second later Snow’s phone chimed, indicating she’d received a new e-mail.
“Wow,” Lorelei said, “that woman doesn’t mess around. Now, who is Ms. Bolliver?”
Snow stared at Lorelei with what she could only guess was a goofy expression. “I believe she just became my fairy godmother.”
If the painting sold for anything near the appraisal amount, Snow could make serious upgrades to the store and still have enough to send money home to her parents. And maybe, even if only for a day, Snow would no longer be the poor nobody that Caleb had brought home to Mommy and Daddy Warbucks.