Page 9 of Dirty Diana
Inside the tents, the smell is strong, a mixture of cow poop and sharp, floral perfume. Other than finding a one-eyed senior cat a new home, nothing makes L’Wren happier than scoring a bargain. It’s easy to get caught up in her joy. As a threesome, we wander the booths, sipping white wine from plastic cups, looking at beautiful things, feeling more and more buzzed and floaty as we go, even if most of the stuff is indistinguishable from all the other stuff and totally out of our price range.
L’Wren stops at a dealer selling nothing but farm tables. “For the kitchen? What do you think, Diana?”
“You told me not to let you buy anything bigger than a breadbox.”
“But look at this one! Where is it from?” she asks the dealer.
“France,” he says, looking bored.
L’Wren eyes the price tag and I take the chance to head to theother side of the show, where the deeper bargains live. Even the food is cheaper—corndogs and slushies instead of kale Caesars with overcooked chicken. I buy myself a funnel cake and eat it slowly. I run my hand across what Oliver has taught me is a Heywood Wakefield rocking chair. “How much?” I ask the harried young woman who is still unloading her truck.
“Sorry, I got a late start.” She wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her work glove. “I’ll take fifty bucks for it.”
I peek under the cushion and find the Heywood label, which means the chair could easily fetch a thousand dollars, maybe more. I sit in the chair and rock gently, hoping for a minute that it’ll share its stories—the books read in it at bedtime, the gossip shared over sweet tea on a wraparound porch.
“The chair is worth much more,” I tell the woman.
“Really? I bought it at an estate sale. It was surrounded by junk.”
“Ask for at least a thousand. You’ll probably get it.”
I stop to buy a pair of onyx and gold candlesticks for the dining room and a vintage Kantha quilt for Emmy’s bed. I’m heading back to find L’Wren and Jenna when I see a picture that takes my breath away.
It’s a black-and-white photograph of a tiny ski resort town in the summer. It’s a ghost town, totally devoid of tourists and the locals who keep it running. In the foreground, there’s a horse—a young dappled palomino, tied up outside an empty café. Something about the mood feels clandestine, like the secret beauty of this town happens when no one else is around.
“Excuse me.” My mouth goes completely dry. “Hi…excuse me.”
The dealer, a red-faced gentleman sweating through a plaid shirt, turns. “Can I help you?”
“That photograph. Could you tell me who the photographer is?” But I already know.
“You have a good eye. It’s…” He stalls for time so he can remember the name. “A New Mexico kid, a real cowboy of a guy.”
I smile. Jasper would love to hear himself referred to as a cowboy,I’m sure. The dealer flips his reading glasses from the top of his head to the tip of his nose to make out the signature. “Jasper…” He can’t make out the last name so he just mumbles something beginning with aG. “Do you know his work?”
“I do.” My voice shakes. “Yes.”
“It’s signed,” the dealer says. “Incredible opportunity, really.”
“How much?”
He stares at me. “Six hundred,” he says. “No charge for the frame.”
It’s more money than I planned to spend today but the photo is worth much more than he’s asking. I pull out my wallet and when he hands me the picture, I’m surprised how heavy the frame is. I unpack the quilt I’ve bought, wrap it around the frame, and fit everything back into one bag.
I wander the booths aimlessly. I can’t focus on anything but the piece of Jasper that I’m carrying. The tents are getting more crowded and hot and suddenly I feel woozy. A woman selling chandeliers pulls out a plastic folding chair. “You all right?”
“Thanks,” I say, dropping my head between my knees. “I forgot to eat breakfast.”
It was a mistake to buy this photograph. I’ve worked so hard to stop thinking about Jasper and now a piece of him is back.
After some deep breaths, I thank the woman and then find a stand selling bottles of water. I’m next in line when I hear L’Wren let out a high-pitched squeal. “Jenna!Jenna!”
Still holding the heavy bag, I push through the crowd in front of a row of booths. Jenna is doubled over laughing, holding two plastic cups and splashing wine everywhere.
“Help!” L’Wren calls. She has one leg straight in front of her and is using her heel to drag herself forward. Her other leg is stuck behind her, up to the buckle in mud. Jenna puts a cup in her mouth and tries to pull with her free hand.
“Diana!” L’Wren cries with relief when she sees me. “I’m stuck in the mud!”
