Priced to Move

As wacky as it is, she does have a point. The whole scheme has a certain appeal to it. But the on-TV part? That sure doesn’t give me the feel-good cozies. Nuh-uh. That part makes my teeth itch.

“I can’t go on TV. I don’t know what to do, what to say.”

“Whoo-ee!” Aunt Weeby gives Miss Mona a thumbs-up. “See? She’s not run halfway back to New York like you said she would. I know my girl. She’s gonna be great—the best. You’ll see.”

Miss Mona holds out her right hand. “I won’t take no for an answer, you know. So let’s shake on it, and get to getting. There’s a whole world of things you have to learn.”

Lord? I know I prayed for a change of pace. But this? What is this?

F-16s dive-bomb in my gut. I stare at Miss Mona’s perfectly manicured hand. Tympani bong-bong- ba-bong-bong in my temples. I did want out of the New York rat race. I still need a job. And Miss Mona says she needs a gemologist just when this one has fled her wormy corner of the Big Apple.

Do I shake? Do I run?

Do I dare?

I swallow hard against my inner wimp and take Miss Mona’s hand. “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you! See how the Lord answers prayers?” she cries. “I’ll take my chances, dear. And it sure seems the Father’s gone and given me a natural instinct for this kind of thing. He hasn’t let me fail yet.”

Swell. Talk about pressure. “I sure hope I’m not your first one then. Failure, that is.”

“Pshaw! You couldn’t be a failure if you tried.”

I am so not going there. Besides, I’d been glooming and dooming about my shaky earning prospects not even a half hour ago. It looks like God has a sense of humor, after all. Did you ever imagine he’d answer like this?

I didn’t.

“Well, I still hope I don’t let you down.”

That’s when it all hits me. Like a ton of bricks, it hits me. I am home. Really and truly. In Louisville—well, the outskirts, but a whole world closer than New York City, that’s for sure.

New York . . . Louisville. New York . . . Louisville. Oh, geez! Al and his pal and the truck with my stuff. Knock, knock! Reality calling.

“Ladies, ladies! I gotta go. The movers are at the house, Aunt Weeby. They called while I was in the waiting room. Something about some papers they want me to sign.”

“Everything’s ready for you at the house,” Miss Mona says. “I was so excited, and just couldn’t wait till you came home, and since Livvy couldn’t do a thing, I had me the best time shopping and doing for you. I hope you like what I prepared.”

What can I say? They’re wacky ones, but they’re my wacky ones. I love them to death.

After hugs and kisses—the real kind, not those oh-so-chic air deals—I make my way to the parking garage, drive home, watch Al and his pal do their thing, sign papers, go inside, drink a tall glass of Miss Mona’s killer sweet iced tea, and then collapse on the parlor sofa.

If you ask me how I did any of it, I can’t tell you, it all happened so fast, like a blur.

And blurring out’s scary. Almost as scary as . . . the other thing.

The TV thing.

Did I really agree to work for Miss Mona? Did I really agree to hawk jewelry and gemstones on TV?

Do I need a frontal lobotomy?

I’ve never had a problem with Wednesday mornings. I do now.

Let me draw you a mental picture: Aunt Weeby . . . her metal contraptions . . . the trip home . . . helped by Miss

Mona. How’s that for scary? That’s what I’m facing today. I’ll take a blue Monday any day.

Oh yeah. I’m ready to pull my hair out over these two. But before I get to my new do, I have to help Erin talk Aunt Weeby into the required wheelchair ride to the parking garage, where Miss Mona is waiting in the Shop-Til-U- Drop Network’s limo. Aunt Weeby’s comfort on the ride home is assured.

Just not her cooperation.

She frowns from head to toe. “What good’s this cute little cast they gave me if I have to ride down to the car in that dumb ol’ thing?”

Erin pushes the chair closer. “Weeby, it’s hospital policy. Remember? We have lots of those around here, and I can’t break the rules. I like my job. What if someone’s spilled water, and you slip on it? How about grease in the garage? The cast won’t keep you from breaking something else if you fall. You want to keep this super-luxurious suite awhile longer?”

Aunt Weeby crosses her arms. “I’m done with being sick. And I can walk outta here just fine too, thank you very much.”

There’s my cue. “Aunt Weeby? D’you want to go home?” “Why, sugarplum, you know I do.”

“Well, then. Piece of cake. Sit in the chair.”

“But—”