They said goodbye and hung up. Alice stared at her phone and wondered what that was all about.
* * *
The auction was packed. Women in glittering jewelry and men using canes nodded to one another in polite fashion. The town was a small one, but this auction was known statewide. Some of the most influential families in the nation sent representatives to bid on items for their country mansions and Manhattan apartments.
Alice picked up on a few rivalries in the room. They would say hello and then curse the other’s back when they thought no one was looking. It was kind of funny. She wished Russ could be here. He’d get a major kick out of the undercurrent of distrust and intrigue, not to mention a deluge of ideas for the setting of a play.
She settled into a high-backed chair, her paddle in her lap. Steepling her fingers, she imagined herself bidding on lot twenty-two as if she were a lady in an Elizabethan gown and white gloves. What a thrilling image it made. And why not? What did these people have that she didn’t have?
Okay, money. Money was something she could earn if she wanted to. She looked at the faces of those around her. None of them lifted their cheeks or crinkled their eyes with smiles. Most were determined, and a few were bored. Theirs wasn’t an existence to envy; though money would make some things much easier, it wouldn’t bring her friends.
Nor would it bring her love.
The auctioneer began; his tone rising and falling like a kite caught in the winds of adventure, and Alice was swept away along with the rest of the attendees. He swooped them up by calling numbers faster and faster, as the bidding became heated. The crowd would lift with him, their eyebrows reaching for their widows’ peaks and their bottoms coming out of the chairs until the gavel struck the podium, and they all tumbled back onto their padded seats.
Keeping to herself, Alice used a lull to study her program. When lot twenty-two came up, she schooled her features. No sense acting too interested.
“This original copy of C.S. Lewis’sThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobeis in excellent condition, and …” Pause for dramatic effect. “… is signed by the author.”
Heads went together as patrons whispered their shock. The autograph hadn’t been mentioned in the ad, and Alice suspected the price just increased. She pressed her shoulders against the chair.
“Let’s start the bidding at twelve thousand dollars.”
Alice dropped her paddle. The plastic handle clattered to the hardwood floor and drew scornful looks from those around her.
Twelve thousand! Forget mercy; I need a respirator.
Squishing her eyes shut, Alice saw her chance at making the library board flit away like a naughty sprite. Hopeless and helplessly embarrassed, Alice scrambled for the exit as the bidding escalated to seventeen thousand dollars and showed no sign of slowing.
Slamming her car door shut, she laid her head on the steering wheel. Lillian asked the impossible. Russ was off with some television bombshell. She was never going to make the library board—and she’d been naive enough to believe a new shirt would help.
Nothing could make life worse.
Chapter Fourteen
Alice had gone to bed with a storm cloud of emotions and woken up with a damp pillow and a headache.
Stacy liked to sleep in on Sunday mornings, so Alice crept to the front door and snatched theTimesoff the stoop. She’d mull over the town news and nurse her first cup of hot chocolate for the season before going off to her parents’ for the long-overdue birthday breakfast. After that, she’d meditate, go to church, and eat some white bean chili at the potluck. Just like she had every Sunday before she’d met Russ.
The front page of the paper was dedicated to the Fall Festival, including pictures from last year’s children’s day and the craft show. Some of her favorite vendors were on the schedule. She turned the page, and Russ’s handsome face grinned up at her. She stared at the caption, not allowing it to sink in.
“Local Playwright Moving to Hollywood.”
“What?” she shrieked, running into Stacy’s room and landing on her bed. “Stacy, wake up!”
Stacy rolled over with a groan. “Time iz it?”
“I don’t know.” Alice pulled the blanket back, revealing an unruly mop of pink and major mascara issues. “Listen to this. ‘Local playwright Russ Phillips has announced his intentions to leave the theater and write screenplays.’”
“Wait, wha—?” Stacy sat up and pulled the paper onto her lap to read the next paragraph. “‘I’m tired of sleepy towns. I need to be where life happens twenty-four seven.’” She looked up, her raccoon eyes incredulous. “Did he really say that?”
“I don’t know.” Alice picked up where Stacy left off. “‘Phillips continued to say that he’s found a new agent and will be listing his small cottage home this week.’”
Stacy shoved the paper aside. “Did he tell you any of this?”
“No—not a word. I thought he loved it here. He’s always on White Top Mountain, he can’t get enough of the café’s pie, and he just remodeled his guest bath.”
“Plus, he’s on the library board.”
