Your House or Mine?. Cynthia Thomason

He rattled the chains still dangling from his shoulder. “Amazing, isn’t it? This thing’s as good as new.”

      Meg handed him a bandage and pointed to the nearest window. “Truly amazing, Jerry. Just this afternoon I was wondering how we were going to bring in our oxen from the south forty along Colonial Boulevard in downtown Orlando. Looks like that problem’s solved.”

      He scowled at her. “Go ahead and make fun, but this is a real antique. And the guy I bought it from…”

      The hackles stood up on Meg’s neck. “You actually paid money for this?”

      “For something this rare? Of course. A hundred and twenty-five bucks—a bargain.”

      Somehow Meg managed to keep the scream in her head from erupting into what her brother would call another hissy fit. She’d long ago accepted that she was the sensible, mature one, and Jerry, five years her junior, was the charming, unpredictable one—the one she’d helped out of too many jams to remember. Now he was the one who was adored by everybody who came to the auction while she was the one they mostly tolerated. But never was this personality difference more difficult to accept than when money was concerned.

      She drummed her fingers on the desktop and spoke calmly. “Jerry, do you remember me telling you this morning that I didn’t know how we were going to pay next month’s rent? Much less the Yellow Pages ad, workman’s comp insurance and a host of other bills.”

      “Sure I remember, but I think the doubletree will bring at least three hundred at the next auction.”

      Suddenly Meg had a splitting headache. She could practically feel the veins tightening behind her eyes. And worse, the phone rang for the hundredth time. She tried but couldn’t find her professional voice. “Colonial Auction,” she half barked into the phone.

      The voice that responded was competent and controlled. “Is this Margaret Hamilton?”

      “Yes.”

      “This is Nadine Harkwell, administrator of the Shady Grove Convalescent Center in Mount Esther, Florida.”

      “Convalescent Center?” Meg repeated. “Is this about my aunt?”

      “I’m afraid it is.”

      Meg’s stomach plummeted. Her great-aunt Amelia was elderly, ninety-two on her last birthday. And while her mortality was something everyone in the family would have to face, Meg had never wanted to think about it. Aunt Amelia was a treasure. And she’d seemed in good health and great spirits when she’d traveled by bus to Orlando to spend Christmas with the family. That had only been six months ago.

      “What’s wrong with my aunt?” she asked. “She’s not…?”

      “No, Ms. Hamilton,” Nadine Harkwell said. “Amelia hasn’t passed away. But she fell in her home on Sunday. Broke her hip and bruised some ribs.”

      She fell four days ago? “Why didn’t anyone call me before this?” Meg asked.

      “Amelia didn’t want us to call until now. I should tell you, though, that she’s confused and disoriented. It’s no secret to those of us in town,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mrs. Ashford has been suffering from dementia that has worsened considerably in the last few months. I’m afraid that because of this fall, she’ll never be herself again.”

      Meg talked to her aunt at least every other week. She hadn’t noticed the woman’s mental capacity slipping. But maybe she should have been listening more closely. “What can I do?” she asked. “Can I talk to her?”

      “That wouldn’t be practical. Amelia probably wouldn’t even recognize your voice. But in one of her lucid moments today she asked for you. She wants you to come to Mount Esther. Something about settling her affairs. I can give you more details when you arrive assuming you are able to come.”

      “Of course I’ll come. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

      Something near panic was etched on Jerry’s features. Tomorrow? he mouthed, having heard only her part of the conversation. You can’t go tomorrow.

      Meg silenced him with a warning look. Leaving the auction in Jerry’s hands was just one of the problems she would have to address before leaving for Mount Esther. A minor one really when compared to the welfare of her ten-year-old son who still had a week left in the school year before he’d be out for the summer. What was she going to do about Spencer? Still, she reconfirmed the plans with Nadine. “Tell Aunt Amelia I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. And tell her I love her.”

      Meg hadn’t even hung up the phone when Jerry asked in a voice high-pitched with tension, “You’re leaving? How long will you be gone? A day? Two?”

      The last thing Meg needed right now was her brother’s attempt to make her feel guilty. He would just have to manage the auction without her.

      “How nice of you to ask about our aunt, Jerry,” she said, using sarcasm to switch the burden of guilt to him. “She fell in her house, suffered a broken hip and other injuries, and isn’t coping well mentally.” She stood up and removed her purse from the desk drawer. “I’ll be sure and tell her you send your regards.”

      “Oh, fine. I guess it makes you feel better to make me look like the bad guy. I’m not the one leaving town. And of course I care about the old girl, but it’s no secret that you were always her favorite.”

      Meg couldn’t argue. Her unflagging sense of responsibility had earned her the title of “favorite” with most of their extended family. Jerry was the one who made everybody laugh. Meg was the one they depended upon.

      She walked out of the office and into the section of the auction house where the customers sat. “I have to go home and pack. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Hopefully I’ll just miss the Saturday auction, but I’ll call tomorrow and give you an update. Aunt Amelia wants me to handle her affairs, but at this point I don’t know exactly what that means or if I can accomplish anything with the weekend coming up.”

      “You can’t stay away too long,” Jerry pointed out. “Spencer’s got school, doesn’t he?”

      Meg had already come up with a plan for her son. “I’m not taking him. I’ll leave him with Mom.”

      Jerry shook his head. “Not unless you think your ten-year-old kid wants to jump on board a geriatric Greyhound bound for Biloxi for a week of playing the slots.” He smiled. “Mom’s Golden-Agers are on the move again, this time with pockets full of quarters.”

      Meg dropped into the nearest chair. “Darn. I forgot.”

      “No problem. I’ll keep the sprout.”

      Meg gasped. “You?”

      Jerry pretended to be offended, maybe actually was a little. “Meg, we’re talking about my favorite nephew here. You know I’ll take good care of him. Besides, I am an adult.”

      “I’m not sure twenty-seven going on fourteen qualifies.” Meg regretted her words the moment they’d slipped out of her mouth. How could Jerry ever live up to her expectations if she didn’t expect more from him? “Anyway,” she said, trying to cover her blunder, “I’m counting on you to run the business.”

      His previous doubts about taking charge seemed to have faded, and he gave her a smug look. “You manage the whiz kid and the auction, so why shouldn’t I? I’ll get a couple of my friends to help out temporarily. Look, sis, do you have any other ideas?” Jerry added when she hesitated to trust him with her son. “I’ve got one big advantage over anyone else you might think of to babysit. I’m here, and I’m offering.”

      It was a convincing argument. And on short notice, Meg had no other choice. She sighed. “Okay, but you’ll stay at my house, so Spence has all his stuff and he’s near the school. And you’ll drive him there every morning by 7:45 and pick him up at the neighbor’s every afternoon?”

      Jerry nodded. “Yes, yes, and yes.