birds, flowers, and trees with bright red threads. Then, she had been a young girl with good eyes. That was before she had escaped from Russia; before she made it to America.
The embroidery was one of the few things she’d been able to take with her. She’d used it to wrap up the exquisite pieces of Fabergé.
The Fabergé. Pat had gotten seven thousand dollars for the brooch. That should hold for a while. It had to. With the crescent brooch gone, there was only one piece of Fabergé left.
Potted red begonias lined the windowsill, and Olga decided they needed to be watered. She went to the kitchenette sink, filled a glass with water, and shuffled slowly to the flowers. Olga tended her plants lovingly and she had gotten years of enjoyment from these particular begonias. Especially in the winter, in thegray, dark months, the flowers cheered her.
Olga lived carefully, frugally, and that was fine by her. It was all she had ever known, really. Life was hard, Olga knew that. But she was one of the lucky ones. America was her country. In Russia, she was scared all the time. In America she was free and she didn’t live in fear.
Except about the Fabergé.
Chapter 24
Grateful for the increased physical strength she’d developed since she’d been working out, Pat easily moved a walnut writing desk to a spot where it would be shown to greater advantage in the Consignment Depot living room, when a sudden blast of winter air from the opened front door signaled the arrival of Stacey Spinner. Stacey, the owner of Spun Gold Interiors, stopped at the Depot at least once a week, always on the prowl for anything new that came into the shop.
Pat knew that Stacey’s interior design business was thriving. Saddle River was only a few miles but a world apart from Westwood and the Consignment Depot. Spun Gold Interiors by Stacey Spinner catered to people who had too much money and too little time. Her clients often lacked the inclination or the confidence to decorate their multimillion-dollar homes. Stacey possessed both qualities in abundance. Pat knew that Stacey bought things at the Consignment Depot and then turned around and sold them to her wealthy clients for many times what she had paid. The clients oohed and aahed about Stacey’s “wonderful finds.” Pat supposed that Stacey’s business was a case study of capitalism in action. Hey, everyone has to make a living.
As usual, Stacey looked terrific. Though not reallya pretty woman, she was ever so highly maintained. Her ash-blond hair was expensively cut and blown dry, her makeup expertly applied, her nails freshly manicured. (Pat had always suspected reconstructive surgery.) Her snug-fitting jeans were carefully ironed and creased precisely down the front. She wore ostrich-skin cowboy boots and a sheepskin jacket the same oatmeal color as her boots.
Pat smoothed back her own hair, and tucked in the back of her dark blue turtleneck, which had come loose from her khakis as she’d moved the desk.
“Hello, Stacey. How are you?” Pat asked politely.
“Can’t complain, Pat. My business is amazing. How are things for you?”
“Well, spring fever and the urge to either clean up or perk up the home hasn’t begun yet, so it’s just a little slow. But we did get in a few interesting things this week. Take a look around.”
Pat watched as Stacey’s radar zeroed in immediately on the large china pot that had come in two days ago. Decorated with showy peonies in graduated shades from palest to brightest pinks, the pot was a Chinese export and dated from the late 1800s.
“Where did this come from?” Stacey asked, as if she had only a mild interest. But Pat knew from experience that the feigned lack of enthusiasm really meant Stacey would be taking out her Gucci-covered checkbook.
“A local family was cleaning out the estate of an elderly aunt.”
Stacey checked the price tag.
“Four hundred? Isn’t that a little steep?”
“It’s worth it, Stacey.”
The decorator
The embroidery was one of the few things she’d been able to take with her. She’d used it to wrap up the exquisite pieces of Fabergé.
The Fabergé. Pat had gotten seven thousand dollars for the brooch. That should hold for a while. It had to. With the crescent brooch gone, there was only one piece of Fabergé left.
Potted red begonias lined the windowsill, and Olga decided they needed to be watered. She went to the kitchenette sink, filled a glass with water, and shuffled slowly to the flowers. Olga tended her plants lovingly and she had gotten years of enjoyment from these particular begonias. Especially in the winter, in thegray, dark months, the flowers cheered her.
Olga lived carefully, frugally, and that was fine by her. It was all she had ever known, really. Life was hard, Olga knew that. But she was one of the lucky ones. America was her country. In Russia, she was scared all the time. In America she was free and she didn’t live in fear.
Except about the Fabergé.
Chapter 24
Grateful for the increased physical strength she’d developed since she’d been working out, Pat easily moved a walnut writing desk to a spot where it would be shown to greater advantage in the Consignment Depot living room, when a sudden blast of winter air from the opened front door signaled the arrival of Stacey Spinner. Stacey, the owner of Spun Gold Interiors, stopped at the Depot at least once a week, always on the prowl for anything new that came into the shop.
Pat knew that Stacey’s interior design business was thriving. Saddle River was only a few miles but a world apart from Westwood and the Consignment Depot. Spun Gold Interiors by Stacey Spinner catered to people who had too much money and too little time. Her clients often lacked the inclination or the confidence to decorate their multimillion-dollar homes. Stacey possessed both qualities in abundance. Pat knew that Stacey bought things at the Consignment Depot and then turned around and sold them to her wealthy clients for many times what she had paid. The clients oohed and aahed about Stacey’s “wonderful finds.” Pat supposed that Stacey’s business was a case study of capitalism in action. Hey, everyone has to make a living.
As usual, Stacey looked terrific. Though not reallya pretty woman, she was ever so highly maintained. Her ash-blond hair was expensively cut and blown dry, her makeup expertly applied, her nails freshly manicured. (Pat had always suspected reconstructive surgery.) Her snug-fitting jeans were carefully ironed and creased precisely down the front. She wore ostrich-skin cowboy boots and a sheepskin jacket the same oatmeal color as her boots.
Pat smoothed back her own hair, and tucked in the back of her dark blue turtleneck, which had come loose from her khakis as she’d moved the desk.
“Hello, Stacey. How are you?” Pat asked politely.
“Can’t complain, Pat. My business is amazing. How are things for you?”
“Well, spring fever and the urge to either clean up or perk up the home hasn’t begun yet, so it’s just a little slow. But we did get in a few interesting things this week. Take a look around.”
Pat watched as Stacey’s radar zeroed in immediately on the large china pot that had come in two days ago. Decorated with showy peonies in graduated shades from palest to brightest pinks, the pot was a Chinese export and dated from the late 1800s.
“Where did this come from?” Stacey asked, as if she had only a mild interest. But Pat knew from experience that the feigned lack of enthusiasm really meant Stacey would be taking out her Gucci-covered checkbook.
“A local family was cleaning out the estate of an elderly aunt.”
Stacey checked the price tag.
“Four hundred? Isn’t that a little steep?”
“It’s worth it, Stacey.”
The decorator
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