As soon as Celeste pulled the truck into the nearby town of Wellfleet, Gemma knew she’d made the right choice in accompanying her to the estate sale. The narrow streets and small shops selling ice cream and crafts gave her a feeling of tranquility. A wooden sign in the center of town pointed arrows in different directions, directing people to Provincetown or Wellfleet Harbor. A teenage girl sat at a table selling shells painted with the words “Wellfleet Summer.” A line had formed in front of her.
“People are really into shells around here,” Gemma said.
“They’re not buying shells,” said Celeste. “They’re buying memories.”
Gemma nodded. She knew exactly what Celeste meant. It was the whole idea behind her brand: Build a necklace from charms that reflect your memories, your experiences.
She glanced at Celeste from her passenger seat, wondering if her aunt resembled what her mother would have looked like if she’d reached her fifties. Paulina was frozen in Gemma’s memory as an eternally young woman. Would her hair still be blond? Aunt Celeste’s was still faintly gold, an ash-blond with streaks of silver. She didn’t wear makeup, and her crow’s feet and laugh lines were deep—the byproduct of sun-drenched summers. And she dressed like a hippie, always in flowing caftans and sandals. But her eyes; it was like looking directly into her mother’s.
They arrived at their destination, a classic three-quarter Cape framed by a white picket fence. Near the trim board of the front of the house, a metal plaque declared the home part of the National Register of Historic Places circa 1800.
“Sometimes these old houses themselves are more interesting than anything that’s for sale. They have all these quirky features, like beehive ovens beside brick fireplaces,” Celeste said.
She’d explained to her that each sale was slightly different. Some were as loosely organized as a yard sale, with people browsing inside and out freely and sometimes aimlessly. Others featured attendants offering a guided tour like a museum visit. Most fell somewhere in between, with a sales crew around to monitor the room and answer questions.
“I’m mainly looking for porcelain and cut glass,” Celeste said on their way inside. “They sell like hotcakes in the summer because people are staying at friends’ homes and they need host gifts.”
She led Gemma through a room filled with Federal-style furniture and asked an attendant where to find housewares. They were directed upstairs, where Celeste gravitated to an alcove stuffed with vases and chandeliers.
Gemma drifted into the next room, where tables were covered end-to-end with trays of costume jewelry. She picked up a sterling silver and rhinestone owl, and a small brass stamped cat with green stones set as the eyes. She found an elaborate collar that looked like French poured glass, with cut and carved glass beads shaped like leaves with oval beads at the end. It resembled the work done by Gripoix for Chanel, but she knew it probably wasn’t.
Gemma snapped a photo, adjusted the contrast, and posted it to Instagram with the caption Treasure hunting.
She walked back across the hall to find Celeste.
“This stuff is cool,” she said, showing her the rhinestone owl. “And this pin . . . amazing.” It was a painted enamel flower with pavé set rhinestones.
“I don’t sell jewelry at the shop,” Celeste said quickly.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. But why not?”
“That was my family’s business—not mine.”
Okay.
Gemma returned to the jewelry tables and couldn’t resist other trinkets: an emerald-cut piece of white glass set in silver, a blue cabochon glass bead that looked like turquoise but wasn’t, a two-inch gold egg decorated with swirls of color, a beaded necklace that looked like jade but was probably just glass. All of them would make great charms. She’d just need to create some bezels and hooks.
And then she saw a piece that froze her hand midair: a metal butterfly brooch. It was an earthy coral color, probably copper.
A copper butterfly, she said to herself, incredulous at the find. Her mother’s favorite creature was the copper butterfly, a species so common in the Northeast that the Pavlin Hamptons house had been overrun with them during her mother’s childhood summers. Her mother loved all animals and animal imagery. She used to have little figurines on her bedroom dresser, some crystal, some silver, some carved wood. A butterfly represented transformation.
She felt like it was a sign. Maybe she’d been too quick to turn down her aunt’s offer to stay a little longer. What if she spent a week or two scouring local antiques shops and estate sales while she figured out her next move?
Besides, she still hadn’t given up on finding a clue about her mother’s engagement ring. As long as Elodie was still in town, she shouldn’t be in such a rush to leave.
Maybe Elodie should see that she wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of. Not this time.