“Who cares?”
“Who cares?” I repeat. “I care. You should care. Our bank account cares.”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes without looking away from the coconut-sized hunk of glass.
“You sound just like your father,” she accuses. “And I used cash.”
“That’s right, cash isn’t money,” I snip.
“Can you relax? It’s just one thing, Rue.”
“Just one thing?” I’ve turned into a parrot. “What about all your otherone things?”
I pin her with a look that I hope reminds her of how many there have been—especially in the last few months. Starting with the topaz rings she bought thatpossiblybelonged to a Russian czar, a bottle of wine thatmighthave been the first bottled in the Yadkin Valley, and the creepiest doll I’ve ever seen thatmayhave been made by Bridget Bishop, one of the many women hanged during the Salem witch trials.
Every singleone purchaseI had to audibly talk my body out of having a stroke. Her ideas have always erred on the side of unpredictable, but it’s as if she’s dialed it up a notch, acting on every desire without thought.
“Did you do any research on how much we can sell it for?”
Her mouth snaps shut. She did not.
“Is there even a market for crystal balls?”
She folds her arms over her chest, eyes in an annoyed squint behind the lenses of her red, cat-eyed glasses, today’s obnoxious frame of choice. “Are you finished with your inquisition onmyantique store, daughter dearest?”
I almost laugh; it might be her name on the legal documents, but we both know that I’m the one who runs the place.
“I’m done.” My nostrils flare, and so do hers. We are bulls in a showdown. “For now.”
“It belonged to Jeane Dixon.” Her tone implies I should give a damn about this information or know who the hell Jeane Dixon is. “Jeane Dixon,” she repeats louder, like my hearingis the issue. “She predicted Kennedy’s assassination, Rue. A pending war with China.” Her eyebrows lift. “A devout Catholic.”
She does the sign of the cross, and I roll my eyes. My mother hasn’t been to Mass since my dad died.
I blow my bangs out of my eyes only for them to fall right back. “How much?”
She makes a noncommittal hum, using her index finger to wipe invisible dust from the back of the cash register, wordlessly telling me it was a lot. Wordlessly telling me we didn’t have an eight-hundred-dollar day.
I grip the straps of my overalls to the point the buckles dig into my palms.
“How. Much?”
“Why does it matter?”
I make an incredulous sound. “Gee, Mom, I don’t know.” I tap a mocking finger on my chin. “Oh, that’s right—because we’re on the brink of broke.”
“Brink of broke.” She scoffs. “You’re so dramatic.”
I find something to focus on other than my desire to strangle her, landing on an ornately designed German Hones cuckoo clock with intricately carved oak leaves surrounding a large rack of deer antlers. I mentally recite what I know: It’s handcrafted, from the 1960s, and came from an estate sale I combed through last November.
I take one calming breath.
Then another.
“Mom,” I say slowly, “who did you buy this from?”
“What?”
I might as well be arguing with a child. “Dammit, Mom, the crystal ball. Where did you get it? I’m guessing the woman who predicted Kennedy’s assassination isn’t just hanging out on the streets of Fontain, sipping a glass of chardonnay and waiting to sell her props to the next sucker who strolls up.”
