Antiques Swap Read Online Free PDF Page A

to retrieve our Caddy.
    Our San Diego day had disappeared, replaced by we-have-a-problem Houston: hot and humid. Which only added to my butter-churning discomfort. And at the next plastic-lined trash receptacle, I made an undignified deposit, by way of saying adieu to the fried confection.
    â€œI wonder, dear,” Mother said, with a minimum of I told you so in her tone, “if you’ll remember this unfortunate aftermath the next time we encounter a fried butter stand?”
    Having cleared the immediate vicinity of shoppers, I straightened in embarrassed relief. “I wonder, too,” I admitted.
    The car show was winding down, the crowd having thinned due to the sudden heat. But one hardy person was hovering around our convertible, a middle-aged man with obviously dyed brown hair, his shirt and jeans too tight, as he tried with scant success to hold on to his youth.
    â€œThis baby yours?” he asked.
    â€œYes, indeedy,” Mother said, smiling proudly. “Isn’t she a beaut?”
    â€œCertainly is. Classic lines. Would you consider an offer?”
    Mother and I answered at the same time: “Yes!” (me), “No!” (her).
    â€œWell, I’m having trouble sorting through those mixed signals,” he said. “Which is it, girls?”
    â€œNo,” Mother said emphatically.
    I touched her arm. “Now, wait a second—let’s at least hear what the gentleman is offering.”
    â€œWell,” Mother replied, doubtfully, “I imagine that couldn’t hurt. . . .”
    He gave the car a careful look, walking around it, head cocked this way and that, rubbing his chin, then finally returned to say, “Five thousand.”
    â€œPish-posh!” Mother pish-poshed. “She’s worth three times that, anyway!”
    The man shrugged, reached into a pants pocket and withdrew a business card, then handed it to Mother.
    â€œOffer stands, should you change your mind . . . unless I find a comparable one elsewhere, that is.... Ladies.”
    And with a little salute, he walked away.
    I turned to Mother. “You know we can’t keep the car. Between high insurance and terrible mileage, it’s costing us a small fortune.”
    She frowned. “Dear, I don’t entirely disagree. But I’m not going to give it away— especially to a complete stranger. If I ever sell, I have to know that person will love her as much as I do.”
    â€œWe are talking about a car, right? He wasn’t offering to take me off your hands.”
    Mother pursed her lips. “It’s not just any car . . . but a gift from . . .” She lowered her voice. “. . . a very special admirer.”
    A very special admirer who happened to be the semiretired godfather of New Jersey, in return for a favor she’d done him. Yes, that kind of godfather ( Antiques Con ).
    I sighed. “All right, Mother. I give up . . . for now. But that buggy burns gas like, like . . .”
    â€œLike someone who eats fried butter?”
    I knew better than to try topping that one.
    We began piling the packages in back, with me getting behind the wheel to drive us back to the shop . . .
    . . . where a police car was parked out front.
    â€œOh, dear,” Mother said, fingertips to her lips. “We really shouldn’t have dawdled. Appears Joe has gotten himself in a fix.”
    How could he have managed that? We hadn’t been gone long, and business would be slow the afternoon of the swap meet....
    I parked behind the squad car, hopped out, and hurried up the sidewalk and into the house, half-expecting to find Joe handcuffed by the police, summoned by some hysterical customer who had been ordered to attention or about-face or something.
    But my friend stood casually behind the cash register, trading military lingo with a uniformed police officer on the other side of the counter.
    Patrolman Tony Cassato was saying, “Heard he’ll be retiring to Camp Living