Tarnished and Torn Read Online Free Page B

yards and yards of wet fabric to develop a little upper body strength. Last wash day Maya had suggested we produce a workout DVD: “Launder your way to toned biceps.”
    Still, though I was sure I could make it out to the car with my burden, I didn’t feel like carrying it around the Gem Faire while I shopped. I considered asking Griselda if I could leave it with her, but her attention had already been diverted by a group of older women who were poking through her collection of antique school rings.
    Our sale complete, she had no more use for me.
    I glanced at my antique Tinker Bell watch; I was supposed to meet Bronwyn and Maya at the refreshment stand in fifteen minutes. Might as well go grab a cup of coffee and take a gander at the contents of my mystery box. As likely as not, it was a bunch of plastic junk not worth five bucks, much less thirty-seven. But one never knew. I slipped the medallion around my neck, gazed into the bright depths of the blue-green opals, and figured I’d made a good enough deal.
    As I started down the aisle, I could hear Griselda saying to her new customers:
    “Those there are gen-u-ine sweetheart rings, all of ’em given to their girlies when the boys went off to war. . . .”
    Dollars to doughnuts Griselda had a romantic tale to tell about every piece of jewelry in her possession. What a character.

Chapter 2
    Standing at a tall orange café table, I savored the aroma of a cup of dark French roast coffee and anticipated the energy boost from the caffeine as I looked out over the crowd.
    I was already plumb worn out from shopping. How did women
do
this?
    I enjoyed shopping under certain circumstances, such as open-air markets in North Africa and beach stands in Mexico. I had once spent an enthralling afternoon—and experienced sensory overload—at a
parfumerie
in Paris. But in general, I quickly grew weary of the crowds, the noise, and the competition for the best deals. Most of my acquisitions for Aunt Cora’s Closet came from thrift stores, garage sales, and one-on-one exchanges—low-key, low-pressure bargain hunting.
    Several small groups of women were taking coffee breaks, sipping drinks, and oohing and aahing over one another’s purchases. A pimply teenage boy looked uncomfortable and out of place accompanying his fiftysomething mom, and I wondered what his story was. A couple of gray-haired women sporting neon yellow vendor badges were filling cardboard boxes with multiple cups of coffee, adding cream and sugar.
    I noticed Griselda’s assistant, Johannes, take a place in the refreshment line next to Shawnelle, who had apparently ditched her tiara-shopping friend to chat him up. She ordered a Diet Coke while Johannes bought three hot dogs, which he proceeded to smother with onions, relish, and great gobs of ketchup, all the while nodding at whatever Shawnelle was saying. I smiled, wondering if he spoke enough English to understand her, or whether her beautiful green eyes said all he needed to hear. They didn’t notice me as they passed by with their refreshments.
    “Mmm
-mmm-mmm
.”
    A man was leaning on the high café table next to mine, sipping a bright red slushy through a striped straw. He gazed into his cup with a frown of concentration, as though lost in the experience. “
Mmmm
. Boy, that’s . . . yummy.”
    He looked up, and our gazes met.
    “Good?” I asked.
    “
So
good,” he answered with a self-conscious smile, his lips stained pink from the slush.
    He wore an expensive-looking double-breasted suit, a silk tie, and polished wingtips. His dark hair, receding from his forehead, was slicked into place.
East Coast,
I decided. I didn’t see many movies, but I was pretty sure this guy fit the bill for Central Casting’s call for a Jersey-based mafioso. He was handsome in a sort of middle-aged, slightly thuggish way, but he looked wildly out of place in San Francisco, where people tended to dress casually, especially for occasions such as the Gem Faire. Still,