“That’s so sweet,” Kerry said. “But I couldn’t let you give up a Saturday working here with me.”
“I want to!” Austin exclaimed. “Murphy lets me help, doesn’t he, Dad?”
Patrick shrugged. “But Murphy’s not here right now, bud.”
“He worked pretty late last night. But if you’re really serious, I actually could use some help,” Kerry said.
“Name it,” Patrick said.
“I’ve got a customer who needs a custom wreath by tomorrow morning, but I’m out of supplies and the wholesale flower mart closes at noon. If you guys wouldn’t mind manning the stand, I’ll cab over there, get what I need, then come right back.”
“Cool!” Austin said.
Kerry scribbled her cell phone number on the top of the receipt book. “Call me if you have any problems or questions. Okay?”
Kerry hustled through the market, turning a blind eye to buckets of gorgeous blooming blossoms, instead concentrating on what she needed for wreaths. She chose dried white and purple statice, milky-colored wax berries, more sprigs of mistletoe, tiny pinecones, and sprays of seeded eucalyptus. In the ribbon aisle she found a roll of wide amethyst-colored ribbon.
After paying for her purchases she walked out to the sidewalk and for the first time, noticed a small pop-up vintage market in a vacant parking lot across the street. She still hadn’t solved her wardrobe dilemma for tonight’s party.
She hesitated, then darted across the street. Patrick would call if there were any problems, right? What difference would another fifteen minutes make?
An older woman with a short silvery bob, dressed in a moth-eaten leopard-print fur jacket, black leather miniskirt, fishnet hose, and platform ankle boots sat at a high-top table at the entrance to a booth called Frock of Ages.
“Looking for anything in particular?” she asked.
“Something to wear to a party tonight. Holiday festive,” Kerry said.
The woman pointed a long crimson-polished finger at a rack of dresses. “Start there.”
The dresses were crammed in tightly and formed a rainbow of eclectic styles and decades; chiffon and taffeta ’50s prom dresses, eye-popping psychedelic prints from the ’60s, and poofy ’80s bridesmaids’ dresses. Kerry checked the tag on a cranberry satin jumpsuit and gasped. It was one hundred and fifty dollars.
She was on her way out of the booth when she spied a dark green velvet sleeve poking out of a box of clothing. It was a men’s Ralph Lauren jacket, but in a small size. She removed her barn jacket andslipped the blazer on. It was big in the shoulders, and smelled like it had been in someone’s basement, and there was no price tag, but this, she decided, was as good as it was going to get.
Her phone rang as she was starting to dig through the rest of the box’s contents.
The call was from what she recognized as a New York City area code.
“Kerry?” It was Patrick.
“Everything okay?”
“Uh, well, there’s a cop here, and he says your trailer’s parked illegally.”
“What? Where’s Murphy?”
“He woke up a little while ago and went to deliver a tree. It’s just Austin and me, and uh, I’m kind of concerned cuz the cop just called for a tow truck.”
“Did you call Murphy?”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Oh God.” Kerry tucked the velvet jacket under her arm and race-walked toward the shopkeeper. “I’m headed back now. Just don’t let them tow Spammy away. Please!”
“I’ll do what I can,” Patrick said.
The shopkeeper was chatting on the phone in a language Kerry didn’t recognize when she approached.
“Price?”
