I buy farmhouse tables people will use; she buys Jeane Dixon’s crystal ball.
I plan for the future; she asks someone to predict it.
I make decisions that will lead to safe and secure outcomes; she throws caution to the damn wind.
And she can say what she wants, but it’s my shrewd thinking that helped get us this far. She and my dad bought the store when I was a teenager after he declared it a good deal and something to keep Mom busy after years of being a stay-at-home mom. She had gotten stir crazy—the walls were seemingly changing colors weekly—and needed something to do.
Old Vines fit the bill.
My mother is smart and well read, she always has been, but she had no idea how to run a business and knew nothing about antiques. At sixteen, and with the help of my financially savvy dad, she and I figured it out together. My younger sisters weren’t interested in any of it, but I loved it. I put systems in place, learned the antique world, and found myself intrigued by the oddities we filled the shelves with. I loved it so much I’d spend evenings watchingAntiques Roadshowover going out with friends for the sake of learning as much as I could.
Then we all grew up.
Reese went to Chicago to become a big shot at a private equity firm.
Remy is an elementary school librarian in Winston-Salem with two kids and a husband.
I never left the antique store or Fontain—I never wanted to.
“God, Rue, there’s no passion in anything you do.” My mother’s voice pulls me back to the present and makes me laugh—literally laugh.
“We practically had a family motto tonotact on passion,” I remind her. “‘A pounding heart is a bad decision maker,’ ring a bell, Mom? It was only Dad’s favorite quote.”
“Bah.” She flicks an annoyed wrist. “Ed knew numbers, not living.”
Instead of screaming like I long to do, I aggressively smooth a quilt on the back of a scuffed-up 1800s Bentwood rocking chair. “Then I guess you should have thought about that before letting him indoctrinate us all with common sense.”
“You’re impossible,” she says, like she’s not the one being an absolute pain. “And you act like you know everything about me.”
That hangs between us and makes me pause. I do know everything about her. I’m around her more than any other human.
I know when she doesn’t drink enough water, she gets headaches. I know when she takes Bennie for the night, they’ll be baking cinnamon buns for breakfast. I know the schedule of her ridiculous hobbies. I know the tone of voice she uses when she’s bought something that’s going to lose money just as much as I know at the end of a hard day when we don’t make as many sales as I wish we would have, sitting with her on her front porch with a glass of wine will make me feel better. I know if she’s quiet, that means something is wrong. I know she’s absentminded and can’t remember a name to save her life. I know she goes for more doctor checkups than any normal person because she secretly has the hots for the doctor. She loves to dance.
I. Know. Her.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she says, “when is the last time you ran into someone’s arms because you couldn’t not or had sex that left you delirious?”
“That’s not even an answer to what I asked you, and who even runs into someone’s arms?” I don’t give her time to answer.“And I’m not talking to you about my sex life.” I give her a plastic smile. “Plus, I do have fun.” She’s on my heels as I mindlessly tidy the shelves. “Jonathan and I went to a wine tasting last weekend and there were new cheeses from a Virginia dairy farm.” When I realize my story proves her point, I add, “And there was an acoustic singer we booked for our wedding.”
“How wild.” Her voice drips with sarcasm at the mention of my fiancé and pending nuptials. “Bet that perfect man made you floss after you were done.”
“He is perfect, thank you very much, and we did have a wild time.” Jonathan is a lot of great things, including a dentist, a wonderful man, and completely pragmatic, but wild is not one of them—which I appreciate. “We didn’t even brush our teeth that night.”
That is a flat-out lie—Jonathan would never.Ever.
She rolls her eyes, but before either of us can drag the argument out, the door’s bell chimes through the air.
Bennie barrels in with her contagious seven-year-old grin and freckle-smattered cheeks. The sight of her defuses the situation instantly.
“Gypsy!” Bennie calls my mom’s zany title first with a big smile on her face.
“There’s my stickybeak,” my mom coos, making Bennie giggle at her hard-earned nickname from being the nosiest person we both know. “Tell me what you snooped out today.”
Bennie beams. “Mrs. Wilcox thinks her husband has a girlfriend.” My jaw drops but my mother is all ears as Bennie launches into the story she overheard while “waiting” outside the teachers’ lounge to ask a question. Her nosiness knows no bounds. I’ve talked to her about it, but it’s like the kid was born to be a PI; she won’t quit.
My daughter shifts her hug to me, her skin ruddy and covered in a layer of sweat. “Hi, Mom.”
