to be looking at your no-nail toenail.” Bex laughs.
“I bought a pair of Stuart Weitzman boots at a sample sale that were a half size too small. But they were such a great deal,” I say wistfully, then suddenly remembering Emily’s fringed boots and the photo of her with Francois.
“A great deal that only cost you a toenail.”
“So my toenail aside, you’re really going to go?” I say. “It’s a yes?”
“I don’t know. Liv, I know you have the best intentions and I love you for being here, but do you see now that it’s not so easy getting back out there? Saying yes doesn’t automatically find me Mr. Right. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the weekend and go to the Estate Sale tomorrow. I want to forget about guys and dating, at least for one day.”
In the guest bedroom, I mindlessly read the jar of anti-wrinkle cream as I slather it on. Gently sloughs away dead skin cells. Hmm, well, slough away, I think as my phone chimes. It’s a message from Ethan.
Darling, hope you’re having a delightful time in Provence.
The message is nice, but impersonal. It’s like our whole marriage has turned into a string of polite text messages. Sometimes I feel as single as Bex. I toss the phone onto the comforter, not even bothering to set an alarm for tomorrow morning, then flop back on to the pillow except I miss it. My head hits the headboard with a thud. I smile; serves me right.
Chapter Five
Treasure Hunt
BEX
The Pasadena Society Estate Sale is just a few weekends a year and, in the past, has been full of unique finds. Normally, I’d be pounding the pavement by eight a.m., but with Liv’s jet lag and my need to sleep off the nightmare called Chandace, we leave the house well after eleven.
I’m so close to finishing a project and need the antique gods to guide me to a leather statement piece to tie it all together. Although the process itself can be ugly, and most days my fingernails are darkened by stain or varnish, there’s nothing I love more than the hard work that goes into creating beauty from something that’s been neglected. There are a few antique markets around LA, but good pieces at a reasonable price are hard to find. Occasionally, I don’t mind buying something that’s already been restored, but if I find one more piece of old furniture that’s been painted white or, God forbid, glued with decorative tiles, I might just take an axe to it. As far as I’m concerned, shabby-chic is a curse, not a trend.
I scan the stalls, hoping to find a few overlooked pieces while also trying to keep up with Liv who’s flitting around like a drunk hummingbird.
“Liv! Wait up. What’d you find?” I shout out to Liv, who’s rifling through a cardboard box of scrap fabric with such focus that she doesn’t hear me. “Olivia!” I finally call out in exasperation.
With a smile, Liv pulls out a gorgeous lavender, yellow, and white cloth like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “Look at this fabric! This would be perfect to recover that Victorian desk chair in your office. Isn’t it great?”
“Shh.” Doesn’t she know anything about bargaining? I was wanting to cover the seat in an old suede, but it’s been impossible to find something I like.
I reach out and finger the fabric. It’s hand embroidered with wild flowers and birds on a thick wool backing, nicely discolored with age yet still sturdy enough to work with. My nose crinkles at the musty smell of dust, earth, and mothballs, like it’s been kept in a basement trunk for decades. Maybe this could actually work on the chair. It’s completely different than what I had in mind, but the colors would contrast so nicely with the cherry wood.
“You’re right. I have to have this. Do you see a price tag on it?” I whisper.
Liv flips the fabric over looking for a tag and I see a small piece of blue painter’s tape that reads $85. I cringe as reality seeps into my bones. This is slow season for my business, and I really shouldn’t be spending money on myself when I came here looking to buy a piece for a client. Most importantly though, I need to save so I have some fun money for going out with Liv this week. But Mama didn’t raise no fool.
I peel off the price tag, and stroll over to