Never Trust A Lady

which one to bid on…”

Honestly. Sometimes she just had to laugh at Lynn and Tracy’s efforts to set her up with male companionship- like worried mamas with a spinster daughter on their hands. But the truth was, she’d accepted long ago that she would likely spend the rest of her life without a partner. She’d accepted it when she’d made the decision, at nearly forty, to end her marriage of twenty-one years. The idea seemed to distress the girls when she pointed it out to them, but Jane knew that the odds were against her finding anyone, given her age and a lifestyle that included mostly other women, retirees and college students. And especially given that she had no intention whatsoever of going out and looking.

Not that she hadn’t thought about it…having a man in her life again. Not that she didn’t miss some aspects of male companionship. She missed sex, of course. She really did. It made her very sad, sometimes, to think that she was never going to feel that particular tingle again, never going to feel a man’s hands touching her in intimate places, never feel the weight of a man’s body, the smell of him…the warmth… Oh, dear. Okay, she missed it a lot.

But the rest-the companionship and the sharing, reaching out to take someone’s hand walking down a rainy street, reading aloud from the paper over breakfast coffee, laughing over some silly private joke, finding each other’s eyes across a crowded mom-those were things she’d never known, even when she was married. She couldn’t very well miss something she’d never had.

Could she? And if not, what was this misty, achy feeling all of a sudden? Bother.

She was normally a positive, optimistic and upbeat person. She wasn’t sure what had made her thoughts take off in such unexpected directions, unless it had something to do with Lynn going off to Europe in a couple of months and Tracy choosing a college clear out in California.

She was glad when Connie returned with her arms full of catalogs and a combative gleam in her eyes. The last person ahead of Jane in the registration line was just moving aside. Thrusting the stapled pages of auction listings at Jane, Connie snatched two information cards and moved quickly to an adjoining table.

“Here, dear, fill out one of these and get your number so we can go inside. They’re opening the doors-do hurry, I’m eager to see what’s on today.” Her voice was breathy with excitement; it was a side to the usually genteel antiques dealer that Jane had never seen before.

“Do I really need this?” Jane asked a few moments later as she struggled through the crowd in Connie’s wake, juggling her purse, catalog and a stiff white card with a large black number 133 on it. She was frowning at the latter. “I hadn’t planned on buying anything.”

Connie shot her an exasperated look “Not buy anything? Then why on earth did you come along?”

“Because I’ve never been to an auction before,” said Jane with a shrug. “I wanted to see what it was like. Oh my goodness…” The crowd that had been carrying her along like a bit of flotsam had suddenly surged through a pair of double doors and into a vast room, where it spread out and dissipated among the treasures displayed there like a flash flood on a desert floor. Jane was left behind in a quiet eddy near the doors, stunned and gawking.

Connie gave her another look, this one both knowing and amused. “Yes, as you can see, there is something for everyone. Best keep the card, dear, in case you find yourself caught up in the excitement of it all. If you did find something you wanted to bid on, then where would you be?”

But Jane was already wandering ahead through a marvelous maze of inlaid sideboards and clawfooted settees, porcelain jars and Tiffany lamps, hideous brasses and glowing Oriental rugs. It was the kind of thing she could do quite happily for hours, just looking, letting her imagination fly unfettered to times long past and places she would never see. Ancient China…the London of Dickens and Victoria…Paris in any age…a tall ship under full sail… And memories. Images from her own past, her grandmother’s house, her childhood…

Her cry of delighted recognition drew Connie to her side. “Find something, dear?”

“Look-an honest-to-goodness Roy Rogers cap pistol!” She held it out, draped across her palms like a ceremonial sword. “I don’t believe it-it has the holster, and everything. My brother had one just like this when we were kids. I wonder-oh, Connie, it does-it even still has a box of caps! That smell…” She ducked her head, sniffed and was instantly awash in a memory. Sitting on the back steps at Gramma’s on a hot summer day, hitting caps with a hammer…

She gazed down at the toy pistoi, suddenly aching with that same blend of joy and sadness that had assailed her earlier, in the foyer. “You know, I used to envy my brother. He had the real six-shooter, and all I could do was point my finger and yell, Pow-pow!’”

About then it occurred to her that her companion was looking at her with something akin to alarm. She laughed and hastened to explain, though she had an idea it wasn’t something someone as sophisticated as Connie could ever understand. “You know, the game, Cowboys and Indians? Well, actually, my parents were liberals-we weren’t allowed to shoot at Indians, even imaginary ones. I think the game was more like Good Guys and Bad Guys.”

“Let me guess,” said Connie, looking amused. “You were the good guy.”

“Well, no, my brother was, actually. He had the Roy Rogers pistol. But since I was the bad guy, at least I always got to die. That was fun.” But she sighed as she stared down at the small silver-colored pistol in its decorated leather holster. “I always wanted one of these things. I asked, every Christmas and every birthday, but no one ever paid any attention to me.”

“Strange request for a young gel,” Connie remarked, then cocked her head and added, “Though it does seem a bit unfair, your brother having one, and not you.”

“Oh, but you see, in those days girls were expected to be girls, and boys, well, you know.” Jane shrugged. “Hey-I wanted a catcher’s mitt, and nobody paid any attention to that request, either.”

And suddenly she found herself wondering whether things might have been different if just once someone had bothered to listen, or pay any heed at all to what she’d wanted.

But as quickly as it came to her, she shrugged away the thought. She was happy. She had a good, full life. A home of her own, no money worries, an okay job, two terrific kids, good friends. Her life had no room in it for regrets.

But… her hands lingered as she was replacing the toy gun on the display table. She asked Connie very casually, “How much do you think this would go for?”

Connie peered at the pistol without enthusiasm. “Oh, I don’t know, dear, it’s so difficult to say with these nostalgia collectibles. It rather depends on who’s here, if you know what I mean. If there happens to be someone else in the crowd who’s terribly keen on a Roy Rogers cap pistol, the price could go quite high. Or, you might be lucky and get a bargain. Why don’t you note it down in your catalog, if you’re interested? Give it a whirl.”

“Maybe I will.” Jane was surprised to discover that her heart was suddenly beating faster. “I could give it to my brother.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, a voice inside her whispered. Jane knew that voice. It was the voice of a nine-year-old tomboy who’d once dearly coveted her brother’s Roy Rogers cap pistol. “For Christmas,” she added, breathless with suppressed desire. “Where do I-how do I find it in here?”

“This little sticker right here, do you see? It has the lot number.” Connie showed her how to find the listing in the catalog, loaned her a little jeweled pen and waited patiently while she circled the number, then took her by the arm, saying firmly, “Now then. Jane, do come have a look at these oil paintings. I know you are fond of the Impressionist style-these aren’t terribly good ones, I’m afraid. But one or two are actually quite… There now-what do you think?”

Connie had halted before a temporary wall of pegboard on which an assortment of paintings, prints and mirrors had been hung for display. More paintings occupied a Victorian settee nearby. Still others sat on the bare floor, propped against armoires and table legs. Jane scanned them quickty-some contemporary limited-edition signed prints that she knew from experience would be out of her price range, a few Victorians, either gloomy and dim or hopelessly sentimental, the usual florals-before p ausing at the one Connie was purposefully tapping with the frames of her glasses. She tilted her head and regarded the painting doubtfully. “I don’t know…the colors…it’s kind of murky, don’t you think?”

And then suddenly her gaze shifted. She felt herself begin to smile. “Oh,” she murmured. “Now this I like.”

It was an oil, not large, more or less in the style of Renoir, a pair of dancers against the backdrop of a crowded ballroom floor. To Jane, it was as if the artist had looked into her mind and painted her daydream. She could almost feel the graceful movements of the dancers, hear the lilting strains of the Viennese waltz, feel the softness of the spring evening, even catch the sweet scent of lilacs drifting through the open windows. The faces of the dancers had only been suggested, but somehow Jane knew that they were not just casual partners, but lovers.

Oh, yes, she thought. This was for her. Like the magnificently carved baby grand, the little painting touched