Antiques to Die for
“I was glad for the temporary reprieve from the numbingly cold and long New Hampshire winter.Paige came downstairs just as I was finishing mixing the batter for blueberry pancakes.“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”She shrugged. “Okay.”Her eyes were puffy and sort of red and her skin was pasty white. My heart cracked a little. I poured two glasses of orange juice and walked through the slanting yellow sunlight that spilled across the floor to the table and sat down.I patted the chair next to me, and said, “Come and join me. Have some juice.”“Okay.”“I don’t know about you, but I hate Sundays.”“You do?” she asked, surprised.I shrugged. “Without family, it’s hard.”Paige nodded and turned away, looking out toward the meadow, and sipped some juice. “Rosalie and I always spent Sundays together.”She began crying, tears spilling over and running down her cheeks.“I’m so sorry, Paige,” I whispered, and got her some tissues.As I rubbed her shoulder, I stared out the window.
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