The Wedding Dress(4)

Twenty bucks. The trunk didn’t look like it was worth more than that. Charlotte peeked around to see who she thought might be willing to shell out money for a dull, battered, and scarred box of wood with frayed and cracked leather straps.

The auctioneer was a man with nothing distinguishable about him. Average height and weight. Hair that might have once been brown but was now . . . gray? Ash?

Yet he wore a brilliant purple shirt tucked into charcoal gray trousers that he held up with leather suspenders. He bounced on the risers with his very clean and white Nike runners.

Charlotte grinned. She liked him, though when he looked at her, the blue blaze of his eyes made her spirit churn. She took a step back but remained hemmed in on all sides.

“This is lot number zero,” the auctioneer said, and his bass voice sank through Charlotte like a warm pearl.

Lot number zero? She fanned the pages of her catalog. There wasn’t a lot number zero. She cross-referenced with the itemized listing in the back. But no trunk, or chest, or luggage, or steamer was listed.

“This item was rescued from a house just minutes before it was torn down. The trunk was made in 1912.” He leaned over the crowd. “It was made for a bride.”

His gaze landed on Charlotte and she jerked back with a gasp. Why was he looking at her? She tucked her ring hand behind her back.

“It’s one hundred years old. A century. The hardware and leather are original and the entire piece is in good but thirsty condition.”

“What happened to the lock?” The man on Charlotte’s left pointed with his rolled-up catalog at the gnarled brass locking the lid in place.

“Well, that’s a tale in and of itself. It got welded shut, you see.” The auctioneer leaned farther toward his audience. Again, his roaming, fiery blue eyes stopped on Charlotte. He wiggled his bushy gray eyebrows. “By a gal with a broken heart.”

The women in the group “Ooh’d” and angled for a better look at the trunk while Charlotte took another step back. Why was he directing his attention toward her? She pressed her hand against the heat crackling between her ribs.

“But to the one willing, there’s great treasure inside.”

He scanned the crowd that seemed to grow thicker and winked. Laughter peppered the air and the auctioneer seemed satisfied he’d drawn everyone in.

Okay, Charlotte got it. There wasn’t really a great treasure inside. He just wanted them to believe there could be. He was quite the salesman. Kudos.

“Let’s start the bidding at five,” he said.

Several from the crowd peeled away, releasing the pressure Charlotte felt to stay penned in. The swirl of cool air around her legs felt good.

“Do I have five?” he said again.

Charlotte checked the faces of those who remained. Come on, someone, bid five dollars. Now that the trunk had a price and had endured laughter, her sympathies were aroused. Hearing a bit of its story changed its dismal appearance.

Everyone, everything, needed love.

Another few seconds ticked by. Bid someone, please. “I’ll bid five.” Charlotte raised her rolled catalog. She could donate the trunk to the children’s ministry at church. They were always looking for items to store toys or to pack with mission trip necessities.

“I have five hundred.” The auctioneer held up his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Do I have five-fifty?”

“Five hundred?” She balked. “No, no, I bid five dollars.”

“But the price was five hundred.” The auctioneer nodded at her. “Always consider the cost, little lady. Now you know the price. Do I have five-fifty?”

Please, someone, bid five-fifty. How could she have been so stupid? The innocent-old-man routine fooled her.

The man next to Charlotte raised his catalog. “I’ll go five-fifty.”

Charlotte exhaled, pressing her hand to her chest. Thank you, kind sir. She flipped through the catalog pages again, searching for a description, some information, anything on the trunk. But it was flat not listed.

“Five-fifty, do I have six? Six hundred dollars.” The auctioneer’s eyes were animated, speaking, and his cheeks glistened red even though the mountain air under the tent was cool for April.

The woman next to Charlotte raised her hand. “Six.”

Three more bidders peeled away. Charlotte regarded the trunk through narrow slits, thinking she should just take this time to be on her way too. She’d experienced enough of the bidding process.

Besides, she wanted to grab a bite of lunch before her appointment. By the time she left the salon, she’d have just time enough to go home and change before Tim picked her up at six.

“Six, do I have six-fifty?” The auctioneer’s voice bobbed with each syllable.

“Six-fifty.” The man on her left. “I can use it for replacement parts on a steamer I’m restoring.”

“Seven hundred,” Charlotte said, the words bursting from her lips. She cleared her throat and faced the auctioneer. Used for parts? Never. Something inside her rebelled at the thought of tearing the trunk apart. “This trunk deserves its own tender, loving care.”

“That it does, young lady. I rescued it myself. And what I rescue is never destroyed.” The auctioneer’s eyes radiated blue with each word and sent a burning chill through Charlotte. “Do I have seven-fifty?”