Deeply, Desperately by Heather Webber Page A

talking."
    "It could have been from the table," I said, wandering back to it, drawn like a moth to flame.
    An old woman, stick thin, appeared next to me as I crouched down to eye the detail on the table's edge.
    "You have an excellent eye. It's an Austrian piece," she said, her voice warbling, as some voices did as they aged.
    "It's lovely. Truly lovely." I'd been looking forever for the perfect table for my small dining room. This one appeared to have been custom made for me. I flipped the dangling price tag, and tried not to suck in a deep breath. Three thousand dollars. "But a little beyond my budget."
    Creased eyes took me in. Wrinkles, like rings on a tree, lined her face. Short curly white hair hinted that this woman, eighty if a day, had decided to live lifeto its fullest. She wore a black track suit, sneakers, and a fifties-era apron around her waist. "How far?"
    "Unfortunately, miles. But it is lovely."
    Preston snorted. "Budget? You?"
    "Guess you don't know me as well as you think."
    Confusion swept across her face as the cowbell rang as the other customers headed back into the cold.
    "Are you looking for something in particular?" the old woman asked.
    It pained me, but I forced myself away from the table. "Buttons."
    "You were right about miles," she said with a small crackly laugh. "Over here."
    Preston and I followed. The woman had a long stride for being such a petite little thing. "Can I ask a question?"
    "Indeed!"
    "How do you collect your inventory?" I picked up a jar of buttons, poked around them. Preston's eyes were wide as they watched my fingers sort.
    "Estate sales, auctions, consignments, off-the-street sales."
    "Would you happen to remember where you would have gotten a jar like this?" I picked up the Mason jar that held Leo Epperson's ring hidden among the many buttons.
    She flipped the tag tied round the mouth of the jar. "Estate sale."
    "Do you happen to know whose?" Preston asked, jumping in.
    I glared.
    She ignored it.
    "For provenance?" the woman asked.
    I shoved the jar of buttons into Preston's hands to occupy her. "Something like that."
    She pulled a leather-bound log from behind the counter. Her blinding white eyebrows rose. "That lot came in eighteen months ago. The David Winston estate."
    Preston gasped and nearly dropped the buttons. Her amazed gaze met mine for a second before she said, "Sorry, too much caffeine this morning."
    My adrenaline surged. David Winston was the name of Joanne's son. Somehow Leo's ring had ended up in a jar of buttons sold at his estate sale.
    Though it was terrible Joanne had lost her son, it might help me find her. All I needed to do was search for David's obituary in the newspaper archives at the local library to see if she was listed as a survivor, and if so, if a current location (at that time) had been printed.
    The door opened, letting in four chattering shoppers, talking loudly about Christmas presents and what to buy for whom.
    Christmas.
    It was less than two weeks away, and I'd barely made a dent in my shopping. My family was nearly impossible to buy for because they already owned everything their hearts desired. And Sean. I had no idea what to get him. A bottle of cologne wouldn't cut it.
    "Thank you," I told the woman. "We're just going to take a look around."
    "We are?" Preston asked, clutching the jar of buttons as we wandered deep into the shop. It wasirresistible, filled stem to stern with pottery, books, linens, furniture, and everything in between.
    "Take your time," she called after us.
    "What did you mean earlier?" Preston asked. "About a budget?"
    There was really no use keeping it secret. "I gave up my trust fund when I turned eighteen."
    "You did what? Are you crazy?"
    "A little."
    "Why?"
    I couldn't explain to her how I didn't feel worthy of the money because of my inability to read auras. "Young. Prideful. I wanted to make it on my own."
    "And now that you're working for daddy dearest?"
    Dad would have a fit at the nickname. "The fund is