Your House or Mine?

She didn’t even try to hide her fatigue and frustration when she said, “If I have to answer that phone one more time…”

Of course it rang.

“Get that, will you, Meggie?” Jerry said. “I want to bring something from the truck to show you.”

She groaned once, picked up the phone, and immediately switched to her professional voice. She politely explained to the caller that a ten-year-old sofa which had coexisted with eight cats probably would not sell at Colonial Auction. She’d just ended the call when Jerry clanked and rattled back into the building.

Meg gaped at the rough-hewn piece of lumber in his right hand. It was about ten inches in diameter and nearly as long as he was tall. In his left hand he held an assortment of chains and hooks and other metal fittings she couldn’t identify.

Jerry dragged the contraption to the desk and stood grinning down at her. “Isn’t it great?”

“It might have been once,” she admitted. “But now, maybe a hundred years later, I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”

“You’re wrong about the age. It’s more than a hundred years old.” Jerry stood the end of his worn log on the office carpet and gave the antique a look of reverence. “This probably went west with the pioneers a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Jerry imagined potential heirlooms in every cast-off piece of flotsam sticking out of a garbage can. And he was usually wrong. Meg liked old things too, pretty ones whose value could be verified in a collector’s catalogue.

She scrunched up her nose at the worm-eaten log. “You still haven’t told me its use,” she said. “If, indeed it has, or had one.”

“It’s a doubletree,” he announced, draping the chains over his shoulder and running his palm halfway down the length of the lumber. “See how it’s arched in two places…” He jerked his hand away and pulled a splinter out of his little finger with his teeth.

Meg automatically opened a drawer to get the antiseptic ointment and tin of bandages she always kept handy.

“That’s so the farmer or wagon driver could fit it over the necks of his team of oxen,” Jerry explained. “Then, of course the chains and hooks enabled him to attach the yoke to the tongue of the wagon.” He rattled the chains still dangling from his shoulder. “Amazing, isn’t it? This thing’s as good as new.”

Meg handed him a bandage and pointed to the nearest window. “Truly amazing, Jerry. Just this afternoon I was wondering how we were going to bring in our oxen from the south forty along Colonial Boulevard in downtown Orlando. Looks like that problem’s solved.”

He scowled at her. “Go ahead and make fun, but this is a real antique. And the guy I bought it from…”

The hackles stood up on Meg’s neck. “You actually paid money for this?”

“For something this rare? Of course. A hundred and twenty-five bucks—a bargain.”

Somehow Meg managed to keep the scream in her head from erupting into what her brother would call another hissy fit. She’d long ago accepted that she was the sensible, mature one, and Jerry, five years her junior, was the charming, unpredictable one—the one she’d helped out of too many jams to remember. Now he was the one who was adored by everybody who came to the auction while she was the one they mostly tolerated. But never was this personality difference more difficult to accept than when money was concerned.

She drummed her fingers on the desktop and spoke calmly. “Jerry, do you remember me telling you this morning that I didn’t know how we were going to pay next month’s rent? Much less the Yellow Pages ad, workman’s comp insurance and a host of other bills.”

“Sure I remember, but I think the doubletree will bring at least three hundred at the next auction.”

Suddenly Meg had a splitting headache. She could practically feel the veins tightening behind her eyes. And worse, the phone rang for the hundredth time. She tried but couldn’t find her professional voice. “Colonial Auction,” she half barked into the phone.

The voice that responded was competent and controlled. “Is this Margaret Hamilton?”

“Yes.”

“This is Nadine Harkwell, administrator of the Shady Grove Convalescent Center in Mount Esther, Florida.”

“Convalescent Center?” Meg repeated. “Is this about my aunt?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

Meg’s stomach plummeted. Her great-aunt Amelia was elderly, ninety-two on her last birthday. And while her mortality was something everyone in the family would have to face, Meg had never wanted to think about it. Aunt Amelia was a treasure. And she’d seemed in good health and great spirits when she’d traveled by bus to Orlando to spend Christmas with the family. That had only been six months ago.

“What’s wrong with my aunt?” she asked. “She’s not…?”

“No, Ms. Hamilton,” Nadine Harkwell said. “Amelia hasn’t passed away. But she fell in her home on Sunday. Broke her hip and bruised some ribs.”

She fell four days ago? “Why didn’t anyone call me before this?” Meg asked.

“Amelia didn’t want us to call until now. I should tell you, though, that she’s confused and disoriented. It’s no secret to those of us in town,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mrs. Ashford has been suffering from dementia that has worsened considerably in the last few months. I’m afraid that because of this fall, she’ll never be herself again.”

Meg talked to her aunt at least every other week. She hadn’t noticed the woman’s mental capacity slipping. But maybe she should have been listening more closely. “What can I do?” she asked. “Can I talk to her?”

“That wouldn’t be practical. Amelia probably wouldn’t even recognize your voice. But in one of her lucid moments today she asked for you. She wants you to come to Mount Esther. Something about settling her affairs. I can give you more details when you arrive assuming you are able to come.”

“Of course I’ll come. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Something near panic was etched on Jerry’s features. Tomorrow? he mouthed, having heard only her part of the conversation. You can’t go tomorrow.

Meg silenced him with a warning look. Leaving the auction in Jerry’s hands was just one of the problems she would have to address before leaving for Mount Esther. A minor one really when compared to the welfare of her ten-year-old son who still had a week left in the school year before he’d be out for the summer. What was she going to do about Spencer? Still, she reconfirmed the plans with Nadine. “Tell Aunt Amelia I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. And tell her I love her.”

Meg hadn’t even hung up the phone when Jerry asked in a voice high-pitched with tension, “You’re leaving? How long will you be gone? A day? Two?”

The last thing Meg needed right now was her brother’s attempt to make her feel guilty. He would just have to manage the auction without her.

“How nice of you to ask about our aunt, Jerry,” she said, using sarcasm to switch the burden of guilt to him. “She fell in her house, suffered a broken hip and other injuries, and isn’t coping well mentally.” She stood up and removed her purse from the desk drawer. “I’ll be sure and tell her you send your regards.”

“Oh, fine. I guess it makes you feel better to make me look like the bad guy. I’m not the one leaving town. And of course I care about the old girl, but it’s no secret that you were always her favorite.”

Meg couldn’t argue. Her unflagging sense of responsibility had earned her the title of “favorite” with most of their extended family. Jerry was the one who made everybody laugh. Meg was the one they depended upon.

She walked out of the office and into the section of the auction house where the customers sat. “I have to go home and pack. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Hopefully I’ll just miss the Saturday auction, but I’ll call tomorrow and give you an update. Aunt Amelia wants me to handle her affairs, but at this point I don’t know exactly what that means or if I can accomplish anything with the weekend coming up.”

“You can’t stay away too long,” Jerry pointed out. “Spencer’s got school, doesn’t he?”

Meg had already come up with a plan for her son. “I’m not taking him. I’ll leave him with Mom.”

Jerry shook his head. “Not unless you think your ten-year-old kid wants to jump on board a geriatric Greyhound bound for Biloxi for a week of playing the slots.” He smiled. “Mom’s Golden-Agers are on the move again, this time with pockets full of quarters.”

Meg dropped into the nearest chair. “Darn. I forgot.”

“No problem. I’ll keep the sprout.”

Meg gasped. “You?”

Jerry pretended to be offended, maybe actually was a little. “Meg, we’re talking about my favorite nephew here. You know I’ll take good care of him. Besides, I am an adult.”

“I’m not sure twenty-seven going on fourteen qualifies.” Meg regretted her words the moment they’d slipped out of her mouth. How could Jerry ever live up to her expectations if she didn’t expect more from him? “Anyway,” she said, trying to cover her blunder, “I’m counting on you to run the business.”