“You think it’s worth two hundred though?” she asks.
“Everything’s negotiable. Offer them one-fifty and see what they say.”
Monica carries the scarf to the woman behind the next table, and I browse a rack of vintage designer sunglasses, trying on some oversized 3203s by Nina Ricci. I check my reflection in the lens of another pair, giggling when I see how ridiculous I look. Unfortunately I’m no Jackie Kennedy Onassis. I’m more of a bleach-blonde, free-spirited, hopelessly romantic Lee Radziwill. I put them back and try some vintage Ray-Ban aviators next.
“Got it,” Monica says when she returns. She folds the beautiful silk piece into fourths and tucks it into her bag. “Did you still want to hit up that jewelry stand on the end?”
“Yes,” I say, returning the sunglasses to their stand. “And then can we grab brunch? I’m dying for some buttermilk pancakes from Becky’s Diner.”
I check my watch. If we get there in the next twenty minutes, we should be able to snag a table without a huge wait.
Ambling down the cobblestone streets, we pass a booth selling gigantic cinnamon rolls and coffee, another one shilling freshly cut flowers, and a third offering aura readings.
“Have you ever done that?” I nudge Monica’s arm and point to the aura booth. “I wonder what color my aura is.”
“Yours is probably yellow or orange. Like sunshine. Maybe some pink too, for love,” she says. “What do you think mine would be?”
“Blue,” I say. “Because you’re loyal and true. Should we try it?”
Monica shakes her head, her lips bunched. “I can think of a hundred other things I could do with that fifty bucks.”
“You have a point.” I glance down at my toenails in desperate need of a pedicure. Several weeks in the throes of a book deadline has made them an afterthought. I make a mental note to get them done later today.
“Oh, hey, can we hit up the jam stand super quick?” Monica points across the way. “This place has the best marionberry jelly, and Chauncy loves their apple butter.”
We cut across to the other side of the street, weaving through pockets of Saturday morning browsers, young families pushing strollers packed with flowers and flea market finds, and locals walking their dogs. Maybe I should have brought Domino, but he doesn’t seem to want to do much of anything lately. I can hardly get him off his bed half the time.
I’ve been FaceTiming with Ida throughout the week, and he wags his tail when he hears her voice, but he still barely eats. I think he took three whole bites of the steak I made for him last night. I saved the rest of it for later, in case he changes his mind about starving himself. Ida assured me that as long as he’s eating something he’ll be fine, but I still feel awful.
I browse a selection of artisanal jams and jellies while Monica buys her jelly and apple butter. At the last minute, I decide to buy a jar of raw wildflower honey. At twenty bucks, it’s no drop in the bucket, but it’s better use of my money than the aura reading I was considering a minute ago.
We zag back across the street, making a beeline for the jewelry stand I was eyeing on our way here.
“What is it about shiny pretty things that makes me feel like a kid again?” I slide an oval-shaped mood ring over my left index finger, and the stone gradually changes from deep, dark indigo to a vibrant violet, which is supposed to mean happy or excited. “Did you ever have one of these?”
“I had a million of them,” she says. “And my sister lost each and every one. Or so she claims. I’m pretty sure she was just giving them away to her friends …”
I place the ring back and inspect a pair of lotus flower earrings.
“Some cultures believe the lotus signifies strength, resilience, and rebirth,” the jewelry maker says from behind her table. “In Buddhism, it stands for fresh starts and new beginnings.”
“These are certainly beautiful.” I hold them up to my ear and check my reflection in a nearby mirror.
“The silver really brings out the blue in your eyes,” the woman says.
“I agree,” Monica chimes in. “You should get them. Have to admit, the meaning behind them is pretty spot on for you. Maybe it’s a sign …”
“All right, fine,” I say, handing them to the woman. “They’re too perfect to pass up.”
“Twenty-five dollars even,” she says. “And for an extra five, I’ll throw in that mood ring.”
“Sold,” I say, digging my debit card from my bag. I hand the ring to Monica. “Don’t let your sister steal this one.”
She slides it over her right ring finger before placing her palm over her heart. “I love it, thank you. And I won’t let her anywhere near it.”