reflected her new status in the world.
"Are you busy with a client right now?" Ollie asked.
Jane remembered her little lie to the house sale worker about being an interior designer.
"No, no, I'm not busy at all," Jane said, not sure why she was so thrilled to be hearing from the Shangri-La ladies. She got out a handfull of Cheerios and began feeding them to Rita, her adopted German shepherd, who had been sitting obediently waiting for some attention. Rita munched while putting one giant paw on Jane's lap, keeping her close. Out of habit, Jane, like any good commercial producer, picked up a pencil and began doodling, ready to take down numbers, notes, complaints, whatever seemed necessary.
"We were just over at Mary's new place, that is, me and Dot, and we told her all about the sale and meeting you and how you bought up all Bateman's Shangri-La stuff, and she was saying how she'd love to meet you… what, Dot? Oh yes, Mary's a little bored in the assisted-living apartment. It's a slower crowd than she's used to, you know? Anyway, we told her we had your number, and we'd try to get you to come over and see her, maybe tell her about the place you're designing that's going to have a little Shangri-La in it?"
Even though it was against all Jane's rules to meet an owner or seller, she agreed to meet Dot and Ollie in the lobby of the Grand Heritage at three so they could introduce her to Mary. She avoided sellers, but not for the reason that a dealer had given her while making small talk one Saturday morning standing in line at a huge estate sale.
"Relatives always want to charge you more. They think their parents' junk is worth a million, you know. They watch those bozos on the Roadshow and suddenly think that their daddy's old pencil sharpener— the one that sharpened the pencil of the nephew of the guy who ran against so and so for state comptroller— is worth a mint. So I want it 'cause it's got a Bakelite base and I can sell it for five or ten bucks, and they got a twenty-five-dollar price tag on it, you know?"
Jane knew. It was the same twenty-five-dollar price tag he'd put on it himself when he got it to his booth at the antique mall. Maybe he'd even charge thirty or thirty-five.
Jane didn't mind the relatives because of overpricing. She found that just as often, they were sad-faced and apologetic, asking a dollar or two for plates or vases that were clearly worth more to anyone who turned them over and read the markings for California Pottery. Jane had found two Griswold cast-iron baking pans in the basement at an estate sale. They were so heavy and bulky that the family member who checked Jane out wanted to just give her the "filthy old things." Jane had pressed a five-dollar bill into her hand and sped to her car like a thief. Miriam would price the pans at eighty-five dollars and probably accept seventy-five. That meant she'd give Jane thirty or maybe forty dollars each. She was generous to Jane, her protégée, and Jane was grateful. If she could only get over the guilt that the families didn't know what they were selling. The guilt was why she avoided the relatives.
"Look," Tim had lectured her, "you gave them five dollars more than they would have gotten if they had put them in the alley or, for that matter, if they had given them to anyone else. Another picker might have faked it a little, like, 'Oh, maybe I could use 'em for screws or something in the garage or give 'em to my grandkids for the sandbox' then strolled off to his truck cackling over his find. Finds, my dear Jane, depend on a good eye, which you have, patience to sift through rubbish and get dirty, which you also have, and luck."
"Which I have, too, don't I?" Jane asked, while Tim took a breath.
"Luck is a two-part invention. The first part is being at the right place at the right time. Figuring out the best sale to start with, being the early bird, and so forth. You've got that part down pretty well."
"And part two?"
"Acceptance," Tim
"Are you busy with a client right now?" Ollie asked.
Jane remembered her little lie to the house sale worker about being an interior designer.
"No, no, I'm not busy at all," Jane said, not sure why she was so thrilled to be hearing from the Shangri-La ladies. She got out a handfull of Cheerios and began feeding them to Rita, her adopted German shepherd, who had been sitting obediently waiting for some attention. Rita munched while putting one giant paw on Jane's lap, keeping her close. Out of habit, Jane, like any good commercial producer, picked up a pencil and began doodling, ready to take down numbers, notes, complaints, whatever seemed necessary.
"We were just over at Mary's new place, that is, me and Dot, and we told her all about the sale and meeting you and how you bought up all Bateman's Shangri-La stuff, and she was saying how she'd love to meet you… what, Dot? Oh yes, Mary's a little bored in the assisted-living apartment. It's a slower crowd than she's used to, you know? Anyway, we told her we had your number, and we'd try to get you to come over and see her, maybe tell her about the place you're designing that's going to have a little Shangri-La in it?"
Even though it was against all Jane's rules to meet an owner or seller, she agreed to meet Dot and Ollie in the lobby of the Grand Heritage at three so they could introduce her to Mary. She avoided sellers, but not for the reason that a dealer had given her while making small talk one Saturday morning standing in line at a huge estate sale.
"Relatives always want to charge you more. They think their parents' junk is worth a million, you know. They watch those bozos on the Roadshow and suddenly think that their daddy's old pencil sharpener— the one that sharpened the pencil of the nephew of the guy who ran against so and so for state comptroller— is worth a mint. So I want it 'cause it's got a Bakelite base and I can sell it for five or ten bucks, and they got a twenty-five-dollar price tag on it, you know?"
Jane knew. It was the same twenty-five-dollar price tag he'd put on it himself when he got it to his booth at the antique mall. Maybe he'd even charge thirty or thirty-five.
Jane didn't mind the relatives because of overpricing. She found that just as often, they were sad-faced and apologetic, asking a dollar or two for plates or vases that were clearly worth more to anyone who turned them over and read the markings for California Pottery. Jane had found two Griswold cast-iron baking pans in the basement at an estate sale. They were so heavy and bulky that the family member who checked Jane out wanted to just give her the "filthy old things." Jane had pressed a five-dollar bill into her hand and sped to her car like a thief. Miriam would price the pans at eighty-five dollars and probably accept seventy-five. That meant she'd give Jane thirty or maybe forty dollars each. She was generous to Jane, her protégée, and Jane was grateful. If she could only get over the guilt that the families didn't know what they were selling. The guilt was why she avoided the relatives.
"Look," Tim had lectured her, "you gave them five dollars more than they would have gotten if they had put them in the alley or, for that matter, if they had given them to anyone else. Another picker might have faked it a little, like, 'Oh, maybe I could use 'em for screws or something in the garage or give 'em to my grandkids for the sandbox' then strolled off to his truck cackling over his find. Finds, my dear Jane, depend on a good eye, which you have, patience to sift through rubbish and get dirty, which you also have, and luck."
"Which I have, too, don't I?" Jane asked, while Tim took a breath.
"Luck is a two-part invention. The first part is being at the right place at the right time. Figuring out the best sale to start with, being the early bird, and so forth. You've got that part down pretty well."
"And part two?"
"Acceptance," Tim
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