Free Antiques Flee Market by Barbara Allan

expensive cosmetics, not because they are exceptionally better than the drugstore variety, but because you will feel prettier when you apply your Chanel Rouge Allure in “Romantic.” That sounds like an opinion, but I swear it’s a fact.
    3) Work on improving your personality; as beauty fades, a woman can’t get away with as much nonsense.
    I had just purchased the mascara (brown—a tip from Bette Davis) when I spotted my old pal Pudgy—the book scout from the flea market encounter—in the adjacent fine jewelry department, where an attractive, young black woman in a clingy gray dress was in the process of showing him a watch at the David Yurman counter.
    I sauntered over and pretended to look at the other pricey pieces in the glass display case next to him.
    Pudgy, wearing the same silly plaid topcoat as the other night, was saying, “What about that one….” He tapped the glass with a fat finger.
    The saleswoman opened the back of the glass case and withdrew another watch, which she placed on a square piece of white velvet to show off the diamonds better—as if.
    “You certainly have a tasteful eye, sir.” She smiled.
    Which didn’t explain his coat.
    “How much?” the book scout asked.
    “Forty-nine hundred.”
    Pudgy didn’t blink; but I sure did. That was a lot of cabbage to wrap around your wrist.
    Without a pause, the man said, “I’ll take it.”
    Now the saleslady blinked—not at the high-end purchase, but the wad of hundred-dollar bills Pudgy was producing from his wallet.
    “It is a beautiful watch,” she said, recovering, “Mister, uh…?”
    “Potthoff, Harry Potthoff.”
    Not exactly Bond, James Bond.
    “Well, Mr. Potthoff,” the saleswoman cooed, “you’re certainly going to make some woman very happy.”
    “I assume you will wrap it at no extra charge.” It was a statement, not a question.
    Now, I happen to know that wrapping wasn’t free at Ingram’s—even for a five-grand watch—and you could expect to stand in a long line back in customer service.
    But the saleslady, sensing a deal-breaker (and the loss of a hefty commission), only said sweetly, “Why, of course, Mr. Potthoff!” She called another clerk over to take her place at the counter, then ran off to handle the wrapping, personally.
    Tina, looking as hot-in-her-coat and tired as I felt, and laden with heavy shopping bags, trundled toward me. “I’ve been looking all over for you! We were supposed to meet at the front door!”
    “Well, you were late so I came over here,” I whined.
    “ I was right on time,” she snapped. “ You were early….”
    (FYI: Tina and I are often crabby by the end of our shopping sprees.)
    The cold outside air, however, cooled our tempers, and by the time we loaded up my car, all was forgiven.
    Even though it was only five o’clock, the sky was dark when I dropped Tina off at her house. I let the car idle in the driveway while we sorted the various packages in the backseat, making sure we each had our own booty.
    Then Tina said sweetly, “Thanks, Brandy, I had a really nice time.”
    “Me, too,” I smiled. “Let’s do it again…for the after -Christmas sales.”
    I waited in the car while Tina made it to her front door, where Kevin—after giving me a wave—helped her in with the packages.
    I sat for another minute in the drive. I could see them through the front window as they stood in the living room, Tina with her arms around Kevin, head on his shoulder, and he stroking her hair.
    Then an impulse hit me, and I would be darned if I’d let this opportunity pass me by like the one with Peggy Sue had. I shut off the engine, hopped out of the car, hurried up the sidewalk, banged on the door.
    Tina answered. She was smiling, but her eyes were red. “Did you forget something?” she asked. “Or did I?”
    I stepped inside. “No, I forgot something…. Something important I want to tell you and Kevin.”
    Hearing this, Kevin joined us in the foyer. He put an arm around his