Divine by Mistake. P.C. Cast

      “One hundred.” The Matron raised her fat hand.

      “One-ten.” I tried not to shout.

      “One…ten.” There was no mistaking the patronizing tone to His Majesty’s voice. “I have a bid of one hundred and ten dollars. Do I hear one twenty-five?”

      “One hundred and fifty dollars, please.” It was the Brit. Figures.

      “The gentleman bids one hundred and fifty dollars.” Now his voice was ingratiating. What a little weasel. “One hundred and fifty, do I hear two hundred?”

      “Two hundred,” I said through clenched teeth.

      “Ah, the lady bids two hundred dollars.” Back in his good graces. “Do I hear two twenty-five?”

      Silence—I was holding my breath.

      “The last bid is two hundred dollars.” Expectant pause. I wanted to throttle him. Say “once, twice, sold,” my mind was screaming. “Do I hear two hundred and twenty-five dollars?”

      “Two-fifty.” The Matron again. Before I could raise my hand to spend more than my budget allowed, the Brit, in a flutter of long white fingers, softly raised the bid to two seventy-five.

      Above the pounding in my ears I could make out the bidding war between the Matron and the Brit. It culminated at three hundred and fifty dollars. Beyond my budget—way beyond my budget. I backed away slowly as the crowd moved on to the next set of lots, and found myself sitting on the edge of the rotting fountain. I watched as the auction assistants began boxing up the pottery. The Brit and the frizzy-haired blonde were hanging around, obviously done bidding—they probably owned shops that specialized in works d’art. They were laughing and talking with the good-natured camaraderie of peers.

      The pot wasn’t going home with me. It looked like me. It made me feel neurotic, but it was going home with the Brit. My sigh came straight from my confused heart. I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but I felt, as I’m sure the Brit would say, buggered and bloody awful.

      In Oklahoma we’d just say I felt like shit.

      Maybe I should ask the Brit for his card, and save up enough money to…what? Put the damn thing in layaway? Maybe I could pick up a summer-school class and…

      I noticed the Brit lifting my—I mean, his pot. He was examining it with a proprietor’s smile as he waited for the assistant to pack the waiting box with enough tissue to keep it from breaking. Suddenly, his smile changed to an angry, distraught expression. Hmm—I stood up and moved closer.

      “My God! What the bloody hell is this?” He was holding the pot up above his head, looking intently into the interior.

      “Sir, is there a problem?” The assistant was as confused as I.

      “I should say so! This pot is cracked! It is totally useless to me.” He set it carelessly back on the table, and it rolled around on its bottom edge, coming precariously close to tipping over.

      “Sir, let me take a look.” The assistant grabbed the pot and held it up to the light, mimicking the Brit’s actions. His expression blanched.

      “Sir, you are correct. Please accept my apologies for this damaged merchandise. Your bill will be corrected immediately.” As he spoke, another minion rushed off to the accounts payable tent.

      “Excuse me…” I tried to sound nonchalant. “What will happen to the pot now?”

      All three turned to stare at me.

      “It will be reauctioned, as is, of course.” And he handed the pot to yet another assistant, who hastened toward the auctioneer area. I followed on rubbery legs, feeling suddenly like the proverbial moth to a flame—or more appropriately Okielike, the mosquito to the heavy-duty two-acre bug zapper.

      “Oh, my. It seems we have an error in need of correcting.” The auctioneer’s voice was annoyed. “Before we continue to Lot #31, we need to reauction Lot #25. The reproduction pottery evidently has a hairline crack running the width of the base. Quite unfortunate.”

      I pushed my way through the crowd as he held up the pot, open end to the audience, so that we could all peer into its imperfect depths. I squinted and looked…and the opening of the pot seemed to ripple, like the surface of a black lake. I felt dizzy and blinked hard several times, trying to clear my vision.

      The auctioneer looked into the opening and shook his head, contorting his face into a grimace of disdain for such abominably damaged merchandise. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Do I have an opening bid of twenty-five dollars?”

      Silence.

      I couldn’t believe it—I wanted to shout, but contained my exuberance as he surveyed the mum crowd and quickly revised the bid downward. “Fifteen dollars? Do I hear fifteen dollars?”

      Silence. Just ten minutes before, the bidding war had been on, and it had brought three hundred and fifty dollars. Now it wasn’t perfect, and the guy couldn’t get fifteen bucks. Fate whispered in my ear.

      “Three dollars and fifty cents.” I couldn’t help myself. It was some kind of quirky justice.

      “Sold! For three dollars and fifty cents. Madam, please give your number to my assistant.” He grimaced. “You may collect your pot immediately.”

      4

      “My number is 074. I’m here to settle my account.” The accounts payable person appeared to be an hourly employee…she moved very slowly. I tried not to fidget. I want my pot I want my pot I want my pot. I was turning into a psycho.

      “The total is $3.78…that’s with tax.” She even blinked slowly, reminding me of a calf.

      “Here ya go. Keep the change.” I handed her a five-dollar bill. She grinned at me like I was Santa.

      “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll have your merchandise brought right out.” Over her shoulder, “Zack, bring out number 74’s stuff.”

      Zack emerged from behind the building bearing a box like those I had observed the other pots being packed into. The lid was open and he held it so that I could see that it was my pot. But I didn’t need to actually see it, that now-familiar yucky feeling was back in my stomach.

      “Thank you, I’ll take it from here.” Before I could chicken out, I grabbed the box, slammed the lid shut and headed for my car. “I’m getting the hell outta Dodge.”

      Talking to myself kept my nerves at bay. Well, almost.

      I double clicked the passenger’s door unlocked, and gently set the box in the seat. On second thought, I decided I had better seat belt the thing in; I didn’t want it flopping over, falling out and making me grab at it while I was driving. Gulp.

      The air conditioner began its magic as soon as the engine rumbled to life. Trying not to peek sideways at my passenger, I threw the Mustang into gear and retraced my path out.

      “What now!”

      Children of the Corn’s daddy, aka Lurch, was back at his post, again waving the orange wand in my direction. I rolled to a pause and tapped the window open—halfway.

      “I see Fate was faithful.” His eyes skittered back and forth from the closed lid of the box to me. God, his breath was awful.

      “Yeah, there was a crack in the bottom of it, so I got a great deal.” Letting up on the clutch I started to roll forward. Couldn’t he take a hint?

      “Yes, miss, you have no idea what an extraordinary deal you have purchased for so little.” His eyes pierced me, then he glanced up at the sky. “The weather is changing. You be sure to drive—” pause “—carefully.” (What the hell was he implying?) “I’d hate to think of you having—” pause “—an accident.”

      “Not a problem. I’m