“Because she’s contributing to your unreasonably negative view of matrimony, which is an honorable estate, and so forth. You look beat. Why don’t you knock off now? I can finish up, and you can take a hot bath, and maybe even a nap.”
“You’re just trying to get on my good side,” I said.
“Always,” he said, with a smile.
I glanced at the woman with the mountain of boxes, and the umpteen other customers behind her. I was about to pull my usual stiff upper lip routine, deny being tired, and insist on staying to the bitter end. But, dammit, he was right. I was beat.
“You’re an angel,” I said. “Just give a yell if anyone needs me for anything.”
“On the contrary, I will kill anyone who tries to bother you,” he said. “See you at sundown.”
Chapter 36
Things really were winding down. I was only stopped half a dozen times on my way to the house.
And a large amount of stuff had left the yard. I tried to focus on that, and not on the fact that we hadn’t gotten rid of nearly as much stuff as we would have if the yard sale had been open all weekend. Think positively. We’d probably unloaded several tons of stuff.
I also tried to shake off the thought that we’d released several tons of noxious clutter into other people’s lives. Should I feel guilty, I wondered, remembering Rose Noir’s feng shui advice. Only if it really was clutter, I decided.
Now that I had time to breathe, I remembered a few customers who made me feel good about the yard sale. The woman in neat, though slightly worn, clothes who’d looked so pleased at her box full of children’s toys and books. The elderly woman clutching a vase exactly like one she remembered from childhood visits to her grandmother. The two college students who’d been so happy with their armloads of vintage clothes. Not to mention all the cheerful people carrying around Cousin Ginnie’s telltale lavender and silver bags.
And Cousin Ginnie herself. I’d have to ask Michael later what he’d said to Morris. Evidently it worked. For the last several hours, he and Ginnie had been minding the booth as a team, beaming merrily every time they rang up a sale and giggling together in between times. Planning new feats of lingerie shopping with the proceeds, perhaps. At least they were happy.
So what if some of our customers took their purchases back to languish unused in houses already filled with clutter? Not my fault. If they hadn’t come to our yard sale, they’d have found another. I resolved to work on being grateful for the gift of empty space we were getting from the sale, and not condemning people with different attitudes toward stuff.
Maybe that was a decorating theme I could give Mother. Stencil William Morris’s motto in the front hall: “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” And then work on matching the rest of the décor to that philosophy.
When I reached the back door, I turned to survey the crowd and realized that one of the few people I hadn’t spotted was Carol McCoy. I pulled out the cell phone and tried her number again. No answer. Not a problem. We’d tackle her tonight.
I cringed when I glanced at our makeshift kitchen table and saw a large shopping bag sporting a tag with my name written on it in large, loopy letters. An elegant lavender bag decorated with silver hearts. I considered ignoring it—I wasn’t sure I wanted to know which of Cousin Ginnie’s fripperies someone thought I would like. Then again, better to get it over with while Cousin Ginnie was still here and could take returns.
I peered in and breathed a sign of relief when I found it wasn’t lingerie, but cosmetics. A small ocean of Rose Noir’s handmade cosmetics, all scented with lavender, rose, or lavender and rose. Bath salts, bath oils, powder, body lotion, shampoo, room spray—the works.
I picked up the business card tucked under one corner of the bag. A note on the back read, “Thanks for letting me participate in the yard sale—RN.” And the card now read Rose Noire. I had to look close to see that the final “e” was inked in, so carefully had it been done.
“Good grief,” I said. “I hope Mother didn’t traumatize her too badly.”
Okay, Rose Noire didn’t surrender unconditionally. Nestled at the very bottom was a small brown bottle marked: “Eau de Meg. Ingredients: cinnamon, cloves, and just a hint of very, very light musk.”
I wondered briefly if Rose Noire had been shopping at Ginnie’s booth, or just borrowed a bag. Not something I needed to know. I grabbed the bag—I needed both hands to lift it—and took it with me to the second floor, where for the next hour I proceeded to set a terrible example as a hostess by hogging the bathroom and using up a good portion of the available hot water.