One Woman's Junk Read online

  The sisters’ heads swiveled in unison toward the woman who’d spoken.

  Piper Woodruff, owner of the PerC Up Coffee Shop, which the sisters were standing in front of, waited expectantly for an answer. She crossed her arms over her flowered chintz print apron, which made her look like a grandmother instead of a woman about to tumble over the precipice of turning thirty. As though she knew the effect of the apron, she rebelled by wearing her hair in two perky pigtails, which looked equally ridiculous on a woman her age.

  “We were just trying to figure out the best way to get Beatrice inside,” Amanda lied smoothly, shielding her eyes to get a better look at Piper.

  The strip mall was not the easiest place to maneuver a wheelchair since it required climbing three steps to enter most of the establishments.

  Piper stared pointedly at the ramp at the far end of the row of shops before saying, “I’m putting cookies out now.”

  With that, she turned, apron flapping, and went back into her store.

  Wordlessly, Winnie again offered the wheelchair to Bea.

  This time, with Amanda’s assistance, Beatrice hopped over to it. The dog jumped off, Beatrice half-sat, half-fell, into the seat, and they were off toward the ramp. While Beatrice and Winnie went the long way, Amanda climbed the stairs and unlocked the door of their godmother’s beloved business, the dog at her heels.

  Beatrice fingered the silver-set moss agate ring, admiring the way the Florida sunlight bounced off it as Winnie pushed the rented wheelchair, navigating around the largest puddles leftover from the storm the night before.

  She tried to take some calming breaths. It had been a tough few weeks between her accident, Letty’s death, and dealing with her sisters. They’d all been on their best behavior when they’d first arrived in town, but after the cremation and memorial service, the spreading of ashes had been too much and their tenuous bonds were starting to unravel.

  She swallowed a lump in her throat, imagining how unhappy that would have made Letty. She wondered what would happen to the Concordia sisters now that the force that had united them and forced them to play nice was gone.

  The door to the Golden Hanger, the last store in the row, swung open just as they started up the ramp.

  “Whoops,” the dry cleaning delivery guy muttered as he rushed past them, plastic bags flapping and emitting the odor of chemicals.

  They rumbled past the office of the certified public accountant and the Sea, Sand and Psychics store, which none of the sisters had ventured in but it always smelled like an incense factory. Spruce it Up, the furniture repair business, had its door open, and as they rolled past a man called out, “Good morning.”

  Lost in her thoughts about the fragile state of her fraying family, Beatrice would have preferred to just keep going, but Winnie stopped and replied, “Morning.”

  Beatrice peered into the shop that smelled like sawdust and varnish. There were furniture pieces and lengths of wood and shop tools she couldn’t identify, all organized very neatly.

  The man emerged wearing jeans, a faded Bruce Springsteen “The Rising” tour t-shirt, and a couple of days’ worth of beard. He studied them for a long moment.

  Bea imagined what he saw, what everyone commented on, when they saw any combination of the Concordia sisters. They all had naturally dark hair, deep-set eyes, and dusky skin. Kids at school had teased them about being gypsies. Adults usually labeled them as ‘exotic looking’.

  “You’re Letty’s girls?” he asked.

  Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat at the label. All of her life, her sisters and she had been referred to as the Concordia kids, labeled so by the reporter who covered the story on their parents’ death. No one had ever called them Letty’s girls. She liked the sound of it.

  She liked a lot about the guy, from his warm brown eyes to the hint of bicep that peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Yes,” her sister answered. “I’m Winnie and this is Bea.”

  “Ash Costin.” He wiped his hands on his hips and extended a hand to Winnie. “I was out of town when… it happened. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Winnie murmured as they shook.

  He offered his palm to Bea and his searching gaze hit her in the solar plexus. Or, at least, that’s what it felt like to her. “If there’s anything you need help with…”

  With the middle finger of her right hand in a brace, the exchange could have been awkward, but his grip was firm, his skin warm and work-worn. It was a good handshake, one that made her feel anchored despite the maelstrom of emotions that had been threatening to drown her.

  “Thank you,” Winnie replied when Beatrice didn’t say anything.

  Releasing Beatrice’s hand, he kept his gaze on her as he asked, “Will you be staying in town long?”

  Feeling emotionally unmoored again the moment their contact ended, she shrugged, not trusting herself to speak.

  “We haven’t decided,” Winnie replied for Beatrice when the silence went on a beat too long. “Right now, we’re staying in the apartment above the shop.”

  “Well, like I said,” he reached into a back pocket and pulled out a business card, “I’m happy to help out. Anytime. That’s my cell number and I live on site, so I’m only a phone call away.”

  “Appreciate that,” Winnie murmured.

  With a wink, he handed the card to Beatrice and headed back into his store, throwing over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you.”

  Beatrice clutched the card as Winnie restarted their journey.

  “Cat got your tongue, little sister?” Winnie teased.

  Beatrice didn’t answer, focusing instead on the warmth that flowed from the card into her fingers. She barely noticed as they trundled past the florist, PerC Up, and a bakery.

  She only became aware of her surroundings again as Winnie wheeled her up to One Woman’s Junk. As her sister struggled with the door, the faint scent of orange and cinnamon tickled Beatrice’s nose.

  “I need coffee,” Amanda announced, striding out of the shop past them.

  “Excellent idea,” Winnie seconded, expertly spinning Beatrice back around and heading toward the coffee shop. “And cookies.”

  Amanda hurried ahead of them so she could open the door painted with a huge espresso cup.

  The shop was already fairly full with a mix of locals tapping away at their computers and tourists having breakfast.

  Her two older sisters left Beatrice at a corner table, really the only good parking spot for a wheelchair in the crowded shop. They took their place at the end of the line to place their orders without even asking Beatrice what she wanted.

  Beatrice scowled as she took in the décor. It looked like it had all been bought from the household section of Letty’s shop. Nothing matched, and the theme seemed to be a mismatch of beachside memorabilia and coffee-themed kitsch.

  Glancing over at her sisters, she saw they were in deep discussion while they waited their turn in line. Winnie, the tallest of the sisters, had placed her hand on Amanda’s shoulder so that she could whisper in her ear.

  “Yo, Bea,” the creature in her pocket called out. “How about giving me some air?”

  “Not now,” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t need her sisters seeing she had a beaten up child’s toy and asking where she’d gotten it.

  It was bad enough that they were going to have “the talk”, she didn’t need another lecture about her klepto tendencies on top of that.

  Beatrice mentally braced herself for what she knew was coming. The talk they’d been avoiding for days. The argument that none of them could win.

  She gripped the corner of the wooden table in front of her, taking some comfort from its steadiness. The décor might be cheap looking, but the tables were well constructed. For some reason, that made her feel better.

  Her sisters returned to the table bearing plates and napkins. They put the cookies down and took their respective seats.

  “Coffee will be ju
st a couple of minutes,” Amanda said.

  Beatrice would have preferred to have a cup of caffeine to bolster her resolve, but Winnie wasn’t about to wait.

  “What are we going to do about the shop?” the middle Concordia kid asked.

  3

  Rather than risk an answer, Beatrice reached for the nearest cookie. She’d barely picked it up when the room began to spin. She blinked to focus as she felt herself list to the side.

  Grabbing her good arm to prop her up, Amanda said worriedly, “Are you okay?”

  Beatrice looked for her sister, but all she could see was an image of an undulating skull and crossbones.

  “Maybe she hit her head.” It sounded like Amanda’s voice was coming from far away.

  Beatrice could hear Winnie say, “Maybe she’s dehydrated. I’ll get her some water.”

  “Hold on, baby sister,” Amanda urged. “It’ll be okay. I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”

  Beatrice didn’t feel okay. She felt like she was going to die, or at the very least, be incredibly ill.

  “Here you go.” Winnie pulled the cookie from Beatrice’s grasp and pressed a cool plastic bottle into her hand.

  The room stopped spinning, the skull and crossbones faded away, and her worried sisters came into view.

  “Drink,” Winnie urged, helping Beatrice lift the bottle to her mouth.

  Beatrice sipped carefully. The icy water was refreshing. She cleared her throat and croaked out, “Thanks.”

  “Feel better now?” Amanda asked, carefully easing her support off Beatrice’s arm.

  The throbbing in her head had intensified, but she didn’t want to worry her sisters. “Sorry. Don’t know what happened.”

  “It’s this southern heat,” Piper opined, arriving to deliver their drinks. “The humidity sucks the life right out of you.” She placed steaming cups in front of Amanda and Winnie and a tall frosted bottle in front of Beatrice.

  Once she and her rustling apron had walked away, Winnie murmured, “That’s one way to avoid having a conversation.”

  “Let her recover,” Amanda chastised. She smiled encouragingly at her younger sister.

  Beatrice managed a weak grin in response and lifted the cold drink to her lips. She hoped that this didn’t mean Amanda was going into mothering mode. The ten-year age difference between them meant her older sister had never treated her as a peer, seeing her always as a responsibility to be cared for. Winnie, on the other hand, only five years older than her, had always treated Beatrice as an annoyance. She was doing that now, staring at her impatiently, clearly frustrated that her little sister was thwarting her plan for the big talk.

  Beatrice straightened in her seat. “Let’s talk.”

  “We have to sell the shop,” Winnie said.

  “For once, we are in agreement,” Beatrice told her.

  They both turned and looked at Amanda. She was fiddling with her napkin, folding it into some exquisite origami-like thing.

  “Amanda?” Winnie prompted impatiently.

  “I don’t think we should sell.” She said the words so quietly that both of her sisters instinctively leaned forward to make sure that they’d heard right.

  “Say again?” Beatrice asked.

  “I don’t think we should sell it,” Amanda said with agitation. “This was Letty’s dream, and now we’re just going to erase it like it never existed?”

  Beatrice leaned back in her seat. Amanda had a point. Sure, up until recently she hadn’t seen the value in putting down roots and hadn’t ever allowed herself to believe in long-term dreams, but Letty had.

  “I looked at the books,” Winnie said. “The place is barely turning a profit.”

  “Maybe she didn’t need much more of a profit,” Amanda challenged. “You know Letty. If she can find a bargain somewhere, you know that she’s going to—” She stopped, realizing she was still referring to her godmother in the present.

  Tears filled her eyes, and she looked away.

  Everyone shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

  “There’s nobody to run the place,” Winnie said gently.

  “I could,” Amanda said, lifting her chin.

  Beatrice heard the doubt in her voice, but she also heard some determination. She and Winnie shared a worried look.

  “What do you mean you could run it?” Winnie asked.

  “It can’t be that hard, and there is already an employee, so it’s not like I’d be starting from scratch.”

  Winnie held up a hand to silence her. “You can’t run a consignment shop in Sarasota, Florida from New York State.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then what are you talking about? It’s not even a possibility,” Winnie argued.

  “Maybe I want a change,” Amanda said defensively. “Bea’s gotten to see the world. Maybe I want the chance to spend some time in the Sunshine State.”

  Winnie opened her mouth to argue, but Beatrice, remembering her conversation with Letty about Amanda’s broken heart, and noticing the dark circles under her eyes, said, “What does the Will say about it?”

  Winnie scowled at her coffee cup. “I don’t know.”

  Bea knew she was lying. Winnie was the person who obsessively crossed T’s and dotted I’s, there was no way she didn’t know what their godmother’s Will stipulated about the sale of her shop. She’d been the one who’d insisted on doling out the jewelry they wore before their ill-fated trip to scatter the ashes.

  Bea knew she was lying, and from the look Amanda was giving their middle sister, Bea knew she knew it, too, but neither one of them wanted to challenge Winnie on it.

  “I’ll read it,” Amanda offered.

  Winnie looked up, the corners of her mouth turning down. “Fine. It says the place can’t be sold for a minimum of eighteen months after her death.”

  “So why are we even having this conversation?” Beatrice asked.

  Winnie sighed. “The faster we can get things in motion regarding liquidating it, the faster we can get out from under this.”

  “What do you mean out from under it?” Amanda asked. “You just said it was turning a small profit. It’s not like we’re going to have to pour money into it.”

  Winnie looked from one of her sisters to the other. “No, but it’s going to mean we’re going to have to keep having these uncomfortable conversations.”

  Amanda chuckled. “Is it such a hardship to have to talk to your sisters?”

  “It depends on your mood,” Winnie snapped.

  Beatrice reached for another cookie, thinking it would be better to chew on that than to open her mouth and get into the middle of this conversation. As the youngest, she’d never intervened in her sisters’ arguments. After all, when Amanda had been fifteen and Winnie had been ten, she’d been five and a five-year-old had nothing of value to contribute, according to her siblings, who were in the double digits. She’d maintained the habit of staying out of it as an adult and it had always served her well.

  Once again, the world spun, and all she could see was the skull and crossbones. Trembling, she dropped the cookie and reached for the bottle of water.

  Amanda gently pushed it into her hand. “You need some rest.”

  “We all could use some after last night’s adventure,” Winnie agreed. “You take her back, and I’ll get this stuff packed up to go.”

  “No.” Beatrice pushed the wheelchair away from the table, trying not to wince at the pounding headache that hammered at the back of her skull. “I’ll take myself back. Give me the key.” She held out her hand, palm up, to Amanda.

  Her sister hesitated. “It’s no trouble.”

  “I can do it myself.”

  Something flickered in Amanda’s gaze at Beatrice’s tone, and she tilted her head a little before dropping the key into Beatrice’s palm.

  “Thank you.” Grabbing her bottle of water off the table, Beatrice stuck it between her legs. Tossing the key in her lap, she maneuvered herself away from the table.

>   Piper moved quickly to open the door so she could get out.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice murmured.

  Piper bent slightly and whispered, “You look like you need to escape.”

  Beatrice nodded. But the question was from what. At the moment, with the image of the skull and crossbones still lingering in her mind, it felt like she needed to get away from her sisters, but maybe she was just running away from making a decision about what to do with the rest of her life.

  4

  The sunlight temporarily blinded Bea as she pushed her wheelchair outdoors. Blinking against the assault of the Florida sun, she paused for a moment.

  “It’s as hot as Hades,” the voice of the purloined sheep complained from her dress pocket, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric.

  Beatrice ignored him.

  She could hear the faint strains of Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” coming from not too far away. She assumed that it was from the carpenter’s place. A half smile tugged at her lips as she remembered Ash Costin.

  As she soaked in the heat, she decided to push herself to One Woman’s Junk. It wasn’t that far, just past the bakery, with its closed doors.

  Even though it was closed to the public, the enticing scent of sweet cinnamon and warm sugar wafted out. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she still hadn’t had anything to eat.

  She pushed further, going a little crooked every time she used her injured right hand, until she reached the door of the consignment shop. When she lifted the key toward the lock, she realized she couldn’t reach it while she was sitting. Sighing with frustration, she engaged the lock on the wheelchair wheels and tried to lift herself higher out of the seat and insert the key. The task was made more challenging because it hurt her injured hand when she used it to try to lift herself slightly out of the seat. Wincing, she wobbled wildly.

  Forgetting she had the water bottle stuck between her legs, she ended up spilling it all over herself.

  “Nice, Bea,” she muttered, looking down and realizing it looked like she’d wet herself.