“Like?” I push.
Agnes hesitates. “She quit her job at Whittamore’s last week, with no warning. And she’s been hanging around with a couple kids that I’d rather she didn’t.”
“Sounds like teenager stuff,” I say in agreement. Unfortunately, I’m not sure that Agnes has the demeanor to parent a kid through the rebellious stage, especially alone. “When are you guys coming to visit?” It’s been more than a month since we moved here.
“Maybe in a few weeks? George said he was flying that way. We’ll see. But I should let you go. Howard is wavin’ me down. Have fun upcycling.”
“Talk soon.” I end the call and head toward the cash register, intent on paying for my finds and negotiating with the lady to keep them here until I can pick them up.
A low table in a corner catches my attention, stopping me dead in my tracks. I bend over to trace my finger along the edge of raw wood to confirm it’s what I think it is, before moving the box of porcelain trinkets and lanterns cluttering its surface. Beneath is a beautiful, lacquered slab of wood, the rich markings in the grain mesmerizing. There are a few scratches on the surface, but I would think nothing that can’t be buffed or sanded out. It’s as fine a piece of furniture as the ones I was eying online, and it’s being used as nothing more than a place to hold a dusty collection of trash.
“Is this for sale?” I call out, a thrill coursing through me.
The woman working at the counter ambles around, a hobble in her step as if her hip is giving problems—to ease up beside me. “Which one?” She reaches for a rusted lantern.
“No, not those. The coffee table.”
“The table?” She peers over her reading glasses at it. “I mean, I guess I could sell it. Fit these things on a shelf somewhere else …” Her voice trails as she looks around. The little thrift shop is crammed.
I’m wishing I hadn’t insisted that Jonah take Phil’s side tables to the dump. I could have offered them to her. But now’s not the time for regret. My stomach stirs with excitement at the prospect of getting my hands on this piece. “How much do you want for it?”
“I dunno.” She frowns, waffling with indecision—on price or parting with it, I can’t tell. “How much you willin’ to pay?”
Probably a hell of a lot more than she suspects. “Forty bucks?” I throw out and hold my breath.
Her lips twist in thought. “How ’bout fifty?”
“Done!” I blurt. Too fast, because the woman is peering at the table again, her eyes narrowed in thought. Probably wondering if she has something more valuable than she realizes.
“Well, I don’t know. It is pretty handy to have around here for—”
“My mother had one just like it,” I lie, schooling my expression as I think fast. “She’s going to be so happy when I give this to her. For her birthday.”
The woman studies me shrewdly. “What happened to hers?”
“House fire?” I nod somberly, even as my answer sounds doubtful. I can’t believe I’ve resorted to making up a horrific tragedy. I’m going to hell, all in the name of a coffee table.
After another long pause of consideration, the woman turns and wobbles back to the counter. “You’ll need to carry it out. I can’t manage it with my hip actin’ up and Kent is out.”
“No problem.” I press my lips together to contain my delight—I would have forked over ten times that amount—and dig the cash out of my wallet. Lifting the heavy, awkward table, I scurry out the door like a lucky thief.
Until I get outside.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, as I eye the old snow machine sitting in the parking lot.
I was so overjoyed, I momentarily forgot how I got here.
I spend five minutes cursing Jonah for being at work and the moose for stepping into the path of my truck during my road test while trying to maneuver the table onto my lap in a way that will allow me to steer. I finally accept that I have no way of getting this thing home without risking either getting pulled over by the cops or crashing.
I consider taking it back inside and asking the old woman to hold it for me but quickly dismiss that idea, afraid she’ll wise up and change her mind. I would deserve it, given I lied to her.
Jonah won’t be home for hours.
I call the only other person I know in Trapper’s Crossing.
* * *
Toby’s burgundy pickup pulls into the thrift shop parking lot fifteen minutes after I texted him. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, since I brought the second Ski-Doo in for maintenance.