Over the next week, we found a kind of rhythm, dragging, clearing, and cleaning. I took pictures of whiskey barrels and gateleg tables, oil lamps and curio cabinets for eBay and Facebook Marketplace.
“I don’t know anything about selling online,” Phee said.
“I do,” I said.
At night, after I finished reviewing orders and checking inventory for Baggage, I looked up the items online, trying to determine their value. Keep or sell? Sell or donate?
During the day, Alec and I emptied jammed shelves and jumbled drawers, rescued Polly from behind bed frames and stacked canvases, and held up random items for Phee’s inspection. Crumbling dried flowers (Toss) in a beautiful Revere bowl (Keep). A silver epergne from the 1890s.Sell. Mildewed magazines, broken cups and saucers.Toss. Old vinyl records from the 1960s.
“I’ll go through those,” Phee said.
“What about this?” Alec asked, holding up a gray mechanical box.
“Keep.”
“Toss,” I said at the same time.
Phee glared. “That canasta shuffler belonged to my mother.”
“Aunt Phee, you don’t even play canasta.”
“What’s canasta?” Alec asked.
“It’s a card game,” I said. “That nobody plays.”
Phee sniffed. “Fine.”Toss.
One of the students from the restaurant, a pink-haired teen a year or two older than Alec, crossed the driveway carrying a plastic pitcher and a stack of red cups, the kind used at church picnics and fraternity parties.
Alec straightened. “Hey, Nan.”
“Hey, yourself.” She set the pitcher on a tiger oak washstand. “Chef thought you all might be thirsty.”
“Thank you, dear,” Phee said.
Alec watched the girl saunter back to the house. “Why aren’t youworking for your dad this summer?” I asked him after the screen door closed behind her.
“Slaving away in the kitchen of the ol’ plantation house?” He smiled and shook his head.
I blotted my hot face. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”
“It’s your father’s kitchen now,” Phee said. “He’s creating something very special here with his school and restaurant. You should be proud of him.”
“I am. He’s a great chef. And a great dad. But I don’t want to cook. And when we’re in the kitchen—the restaurant kitchen—everything has to be done his way.”
I put a coaster under the pitcher. “Oh, like working for Aunt Phee is any better.”
“Maybe not.” He glanced at Phee. Grinned. “She pays better, though.”
“The laborer is worthy of his wages,” Phee said.
“Remember that the next time I talk to you about my loan,” I said.
Polly yapped, trapped beneath a rolltop desk. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I dropped on hands and knees to retrieve her. “Ouch. Your dust mop bit me,” I complained, handing the dog to Phee.
“Poor thing.”
“Thank you.”
