Antiques Roadkill Read Online Free

friends, but it was even worse.
    “Hello, Brandy,” the woman said. She held her ground by the door, and was clearly not here to pee.
    “Jennifer.” I threw the paper towel in the bin.
    She was slender and pretty and two years younger than me, with thick auburn hair, a porcelain, doll-like complexion, large green eyes unblinking in her pale face, her thin lips a red lipstick slash; she wore neither a red hat nor a purple dress—just a smart periwinkle suit.
    “I’m here with my mother,” I said.
    “I’m with mine. Spotted you talking to Peggy Sue.”
    “Ah.” That’s me, always ready with the smart comeback.
    “I just thought,” she began, clutching her black purse like an oversize fig leaf, “as long as you’re back in town …”
    Bad news travels fast.
    “… we’ll be running into each other …”
    Not necessarily. I wouldn’t be shopping the better boutiques.
    “… and we might as well get this over with.”
    She really was quite beautiful; why would her husband have cheated on a ten like her with a seven and three-quarter like me, I’ll never understand.
    Well, okay—the sex.
    And a guy at his high school class reunion, which his wife chose not to attend, who runs into his old steady, might make a sad mistake.
    So might the old steady.
    I noticed her hand shaking a little as she toyed with a button on the jacket of her suit.
    “I just wanted to say,” she continued, “that I don’t hold a grudge. What happened just … happened.”
    I had no words. None.
    “You just came along at a rough patch in our marriage—it could have been anybody.”
    Gee, thanks.
    “And, anyway, Brandy, Brad and I are doing fine now. I have no intention of causing a scene, here, today … anywhere, ever.”
    I nodded.
    “That doesn’t mean I forgive you, of course, for what you did.”
    Of course. But
Brad’s
forgiven.
    She raised her chin; was it trembling, just a little? And I’m happy to say that my marriage is stronger than ever.”
    Not “our” marriage—“my” marriage.
    I really could think of nothing to say, except, “Was it really key to your happiness, calling my husband and telling on me and ruining what
I
had?”
    Which of course I said only in my head.
    “Well,” Jennifer sighed with a half smile, “I’m so glad we had this little chat. Good luck on your new start. Sorry if you thought Brad might be a part of it.”
    She wheeled and left.
    I had to admit, what Jennifer did took guts. I felt about as cheap as my $49.99 cotton dress and Dutch Boy–painted red hat.
    As I returned to my table, all eyes were on me, looking for cat scratches, maybe. Thankfully the after-luncheon program was about to begin.
    Stepping to the center-front dais was Mrs. Lindel, evidentlyin charge of the day’s historic mother-daughter Red-Hat citywide event; she was a trim, energetic, perpetually cheerful woman in her sixties who, like Mother, had been active in community theater since I was in diapers. Her red hat was by far the most … What, you’re not interested? Okay, be that way.
    The upbeat Mrs. Lindel, however, was looking a little down in the dumps as she spoke into the microphone. “Ladies …” She had to repeat this several times before the crowd—eagerly anticipating the featured guest from the popular
Antiques Roadshow
program—quieted. The excitement was palpable, the suspense excruciating—which Keno twin could it be?
    “As you know, Mr. Keno is in our little corner of the world for a Des Moines taping of the
Roadshow,”
she said. “He was gracious to make time for us in his busy schedule, but unexpected production demands made it necessary for him to cancel at the last minute.”
    Oh. Neither Keno twin.
    “He sends his best and his apologies.”
    The latter half dozen or so words were barely audible over the moans and groans.
    Mother, who always projected well, said, “Well,
shit!”
    Laughter followed—everyone in town knew my mother (and most knew her favorite swear word), though a