you were.” I wouldn’t share my find of the antique bookcase until Elle had had time to peruse the insurance documents.
Cole put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. I raised my fist to punch him just as a wolf bounded in our direction—a wolf with three legs. It jumped up and pressed a lone front paw onto my throat.
“Tripod, get down!”
“It’s okay. He seems harmless.” The dog was huge, like the spawn of a golden retriever and a St. Bernard. I became his personal lollipop as he lapped at my cheek.
Cole almost smiled then threw me a quick nod of dismissal. “You be careful. Come on, Tripod.”
Be careful. Careful of what? Bad seafood, cheating exes—him?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I took a detour west and entered the village of Bridgehampton. I was dying to check out the antique shop Barb had mentioned Cole’s ex-sweetheart, and my competition at yard sales, owned.
Bridgehampton was set up much like her big sister, East Hampton, only there was a slightly higher ratio of art galleries and antique shops and a lower ratio of clothing and jewelry stores. The prices were still the same—outrageous. But I wasn’t complaining. Occasionally when I came across a precious find at a sale, I would sell it to one of the Bridgehampton store owners and they in turn would sell it to a wealthy customer. I even have a celebrity client (I’m not naming names) who collects antique holy water bottles. Hard to find, but I’m rewarded handsomely. And he’s a sweetheart. Nothing like his bad-boy Hamptons rep.
Champagne and Caviar Antiques was situated in the middle of town. The shop was a small New England saltbox set back from Main Street. A red door separated twodisplay windows, and in each window was a chandelier with hundreds of hanging prisms. Too much eye candy. A sign gave the store hours: BY CHANCE OR APPOINTMENT . I turned the knob and guessed it was chance.
I walked into one large room. Tara was in the back, pandering to an elderly client and his young trophy wife. All three held champagne flutes. Tara seemed the ever-perfect
Town & Country
poster girl in her Chanel suit and gold-and-diamond-encrusted jewelry. Unlike Adam’s mother’s, Tara’s Chanel was this season’s and her jewelry the real thing. She barely glanced my way as I toured the store.
Everything in the shop was gaudy to the third degree. Tara must’ve taken a tube of Grecian Gold Rub’nBuff from the craft store and smeared it on every available surface. Ivory tags attached to grosgrain ribbons were strategically turned facedown to hide their astronomical prices.
“You’vegottabekiddingme-achoo!” I said into my hand when I saw
$600
written in gold on an obviously 1960s tea table—antique, it wasn’t.
Tara and the couple in the back turned my way.
I tossed them a wave. “Sorry, trying to hold back a sneeze.” They backed off as if I’d said,
Sorry, tiny case of tuberculosis
.
A director’s spotlight focused on a mahogany tall clock set upon a rectangular platform. No price tag hung from a ribbon. I walked over and admired the carved detail and ran my hand over the smooth wood. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was an exceptional piece of furniture, and didn’t belong with the overpriced junk that surrounded it. I got out my cell phone and snapped a quick photo. I didn’t have to worry about a flash because my cell didn’t have one.
Next to the tall clock was an alcove with a curtain. While Tara was busy serving a tray of caviar canapés to Mr. andMrs. Gullible, I inched closer to the curtain and stuck my head in. A room the size of a broom closet held a single bed, a microwave on a TV tray, and a portable rack crammed with women’s clothing. It seemed Tara’s overpriced antique shop was also her home sweet home. Barb’s gossip must be true: Tara hadn’t fared too well in her last divorce settlement.
Aww.
A cold stream of air from the front door feathered its way around my ankles. I swiped the curtain closed and turned to face
Cole put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. I raised my fist to punch him just as a wolf bounded in our direction—a wolf with three legs. It jumped up and pressed a lone front paw onto my throat.
“Tripod, get down!”
“It’s okay. He seems harmless.” The dog was huge, like the spawn of a golden retriever and a St. Bernard. I became his personal lollipop as he lapped at my cheek.
Cole almost smiled then threw me a quick nod of dismissal. “You be careful. Come on, Tripod.”
Be careful. Careful of what? Bad seafood, cheating exes—him?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I took a detour west and entered the village of Bridgehampton. I was dying to check out the antique shop Barb had mentioned Cole’s ex-sweetheart, and my competition at yard sales, owned.
Bridgehampton was set up much like her big sister, East Hampton, only there was a slightly higher ratio of art galleries and antique shops and a lower ratio of clothing and jewelry stores. The prices were still the same—outrageous. But I wasn’t complaining. Occasionally when I came across a precious find at a sale, I would sell it to one of the Bridgehampton store owners and they in turn would sell it to a wealthy customer. I even have a celebrity client (I’m not naming names) who collects antique holy water bottles. Hard to find, but I’m rewarded handsomely. And he’s a sweetheart. Nothing like his bad-boy Hamptons rep.
Champagne and Caviar Antiques was situated in the middle of town. The shop was a small New England saltbox set back from Main Street. A red door separated twodisplay windows, and in each window was a chandelier with hundreds of hanging prisms. Too much eye candy. A sign gave the store hours: BY CHANCE OR APPOINTMENT . I turned the knob and guessed it was chance.
I walked into one large room. Tara was in the back, pandering to an elderly client and his young trophy wife. All three held champagne flutes. Tara seemed the ever-perfect
Town & Country
poster girl in her Chanel suit and gold-and-diamond-encrusted jewelry. Unlike Adam’s mother’s, Tara’s Chanel was this season’s and her jewelry the real thing. She barely glanced my way as I toured the store.
Everything in the shop was gaudy to the third degree. Tara must’ve taken a tube of Grecian Gold Rub’nBuff from the craft store and smeared it on every available surface. Ivory tags attached to grosgrain ribbons were strategically turned facedown to hide their astronomical prices.
“You’vegottabekiddingme-achoo!” I said into my hand when I saw
$600
written in gold on an obviously 1960s tea table—antique, it wasn’t.
Tara and the couple in the back turned my way.
I tossed them a wave. “Sorry, trying to hold back a sneeze.” They backed off as if I’d said,
Sorry, tiny case of tuberculosis
.
A director’s spotlight focused on a mahogany tall clock set upon a rectangular platform. No price tag hung from a ribbon. I walked over and admired the carved detail and ran my hand over the smooth wood. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was an exceptional piece of furniture, and didn’t belong with the overpriced junk that surrounded it. I got out my cell phone and snapped a quick photo. I didn’t have to worry about a flash because my cell didn’t have one.
Next to the tall clock was an alcove with a curtain. While Tara was busy serving a tray of caviar canapés to Mr. andMrs. Gullible, I inched closer to the curtain and stuck my head in. A room the size of a broom closet held a single bed, a microwave on a TV tray, and a portable rack crammed with women’s clothing. It seemed Tara’s overpriced antique shop was also her home sweet home. Barb’s gossip must be true: Tara hadn’t fared too well in her last divorce settlement.
Aww.
A cold stream of air from the front door feathered its way around my ankles. I swiped the curtain closed and turned to face
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