My phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out to see my sister’s contact photo (one she hates of her around age six with her face all contorted by Scotch tape) on my screen.
I accept the call and say, “Yellllllow?”
“Did you make it to Harold’s?”
“UncleHarold’s, Bridge. Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we stop respecting our elders,” I say because I know it will annoy her.
“Ugh, you sound like Mom,” she responds, just as I predicted. “UncleHarold’s, then. You made it?”
“Yep. On my way to the antique store now.”
“Isn’t it weird that Har—UncleHarold decided to up and leave the country for a month with almost no warning? Are we sure he’s not actually, like, on the lam?”
“Nah, he’s just in love. It’s called being a romantic.”
“Any chance he’s gotten her in trouble?” Bridget asks. “You know,hadto marry her?”
“ ‘Gotten her in trouble’?” I echo. “Nowyousound like Mom.”
“Well?”
“She’s, like, sixty-something, Bridge! If yours is considered an old lady pregnancy at thirty-five—”
“It’s called ageriatricpregnancy,” she corrects. “And my OB says it’s just an insurance coverage thing and that I’m actually a totally normal age for a first-time mom. But maybe you’re right.”
“About you being elderly?”
“About Harold,” she says. “Maybe it is love. Though I haven’t ruled out it being a cover for international art crime.”
I roll my eyes as I reach the bottom of the stairs. Which way is 36th Street…? “Hold on,” I say, “I need to look at a map to know where I’m going.”
“You are so bad with directions, I don’t know how you—” I hear her complaining as I pull the phone away from my ear and type in the store’s address. Okay, left, two blocks up to the main drag, and then left again for a block. I can probably manage that.
“It’s hard to pay attention to where I need to turn and in which direction when my brain is just looping the same line of a song over and over again,” I say, moving the phone back to my ear.
“ ‘Good Morning, Baltimore’?” she guesses.
“I hate that you know me so well,” I say. “I wish we were estranged.”
“That would be nice.” She sighs dreamily, as if imagining it. Then: “So this will be your first time meeting that Callahan guy, right? What are you wearing? Something slutty?”
“Fishnet bodysuit,” I say. “With two holes cut out in the front for my tits.”
“And two holes cut out in the back for your butt cheeks.”
We both laugh. “Yeah, exactly,” I say. “Gotta make a good impression on my future husband.”
“Seriously, though,” Bridget says. “What are you wearing for your first day of work?”
I look down to make sure I’m remembering my outfit, as if I didn’t meticulously plan it out before I packed it and again last night when I laid it out. “Teal blue twill swing dress. Yellow suede heels.”
“All thrifted, I assume,” she says with a note of judgment. My older sister’s vibe has always been full-on preppy, increasingly so since she married a tennis pro. I think she’s still resentful that I used to steal her little pleated miniskirts as a teen and she never liked any of my stuff enough to swipe in return.
“Don’t know why it’s such a problem that my clothes have a bit of character and preferably cost less than twenty dollars a piece.”
“They also sometimes smell like cat piss.”
“That was one beret, twelve years ago. And I wound up throwing it out,” I say. Then add, “Eventually.” I come to a stop beneath a black awning with white lettering:Virtu Antiques & Collectibles. The display window at the front of the store looks half finished, three chairs of differing styles, evenly spaced, facing out toward the street. Perhaps that’s what we’ll be working on today—zhuzhing up the shop’s presentation. I hope so, because I’mgreatat zhuzhing. And I do want to make a good impression on Callahan Leitner, even if he almost definitely isn’t going to be my future husband.
